NUMB - Judy Colella (good beach reads txt) 📗

he was going to make her suffer for lying to him about her daughter. That he could heal the damage that was causing the amnesia, but that Chara would never see her daughter again. He told her ‘Tarah was his, now, as was her…wow. Okay. Sorry. Give me a second on this part, will you?” He got up and went to the back door, opened it, and stared outside for a few minutes.

“Ajax?”

“Mom, wait. This is the worst part, and is something I have a horrible feeling you already know about.”

Behind him, his parents not only didn’t respond, they had stopped all movement and sound. He had his answer.

Somewhere between sorrow and outrage, he found the words. Returning to the counter, he didn’t sit, but kept as much emotion out of his voice as he could. “This monster said he wouldn’t touch ‘Tarah until after she had her baby. The way I see it, that gives us a maximum of five months in which to find her and get her away from him. It also gives Jett some extra time to recover. I don’t want to hear about him not getting involved in rescuing her, either. He’s been living in a version of hell that none of us can begin to comprehend, and deserves to either help get her back, or die trying.” He ignored the shock on their faces, finally letting them see the determination on his. “We’re going to get her back, with or without the help of police and other authorities. And neither of you is going to argue with me. That’s it. I’m done.” He started to leave the room but turned back for a moment. “I’ll open the email on his computer if you want to go upstairs and read it. I made sure to save it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Bluebird. Gotta check on Jett. And then I have some things to do. I may or may not be back some time tomorrow, but I will be back.” I hope.

 

*******

 

Things were not making sense. As she stared out the window of the small clinic, Issa wondered why she hadn’t been allowed to return to the Johanan’s. Dr. Kobienko had told her that Mrs. Johanan had, in fact, been furious that Issa had left without telling her, and had informed Kobienko when he called to give the woman her servant’s whereabouts, that Issa shouldn’t bother coming back.

That would be understandable, except that everything Issa had come to know about Kyria Johanan told her there would have at least been some kind of personal communication from her. To simply fire her like that without even a minor confrontation was not characteristic of the woman in the least. After all, her husband had nearly died of a neurological disorder. How could the woman not have so much as a shred of sympathy for Issa’s own condition? Furthermore, why weren’t her belongings forwarded to the clinic? The impulsive decision to leave immediately had perhaps been inconsiderate, but in no way incomprehensible.

No, it wasn’t making sense. Any of it. And then there was the matter of Issa’s accent. Why, if she was Greek, did she not only know English with such easy fluency, but more, how had she learned to speak it like an American? As far as she could recall, she’d never been to that country. The other situation – one she now recognized as undeniable fact – troubled her even more deeply. Who was the father of the child she carried? She may have gaps in her memory, but surely something like that would have some grip on a recollection here and there. But no, nothing.

And then there was Dr. Kobienko. He made her uncomfortable. Period. The way she would catch him looking at her, like an antiques dealer who had just acquired the signature piece for his collection. Yet nothing he ever said indicated he felt that way, felt like he owned her. He was more than kind, even when she asked a lot of questions she knew aggravated him to answer. Every once in a while he would casually talk about marriage – about the tragedy of his never having been able to find the right woman. He would then go on at length, listing all the amazing and wonderful things he would do for a woman who loved him back. He made it sound like he’d put her on a pedestal and treat her like a goddess. Yuck.

Finally, there had been the occasions when he thought she was asleep. He would sit on the side of her bed, not touching her, but whispering. And when he did, he’d call her by another name, one that sounded familiar and therefore bothersome. Why did he do that?

It was all upsetting in the extreme. He was obviously a brilliant doctor, and his treatments had already made her headaches stop. But her respect for him as a doctor was tempered by a deep mistrust. Of what, she couldn’t say. His motives, perhaps. Issa wasn’t stupid. All that talk about finding “the right woman” and marriage was a blatant ploy to manipulate her, and not subtle in the least. Unless he thought she was nothing more than a feather-headed female he was hoping to coax into his bed.

That thought made her want to vomit.

A car entered through the gates at the far end of the grounds and rolled slowly toward the building. A Mercedes. Not the doctor – I believe he’s still here. Besides, he drives a Bentley. How do I know how to recognize the difference?

When the vehicle stopped, the driver got out and opened the back door. A woman emerged wrapped in furs and wearing spiky-heeled shoes that looked like they’d catch in the cobbles if she wasn’t careful. Kobienko came outside a second later, arms extended in greeting. Issa stepped back from the window, not wanting to be seen.

From her third-floor vantage, she’d been unable to tell how old the woman was. Perhaps she was the doctor’s mother. Perhaps not. It hardly mattered. Ruffling her hair with one hand, Issa returned to her bed. She wasn’t supposed to spend too much time on her feet, but tended to grow restless after several hours of reading. That was all she was allowed to do.

And then the door opened.

“Here she is,” said Kobienko, stepping aside and sweeping one hand out toward the bed.

The woman in furs glided into the room, her movement graceful, her clothing impeccable and stylish, her hair like a blue-black cloud, her middle-aged face like stone. “Ah. Yes. Well! What a shock, then, Yvgenyi, eh? Where’s the ribbon?”

He chuckled, but it was nothing pleasant. “Er, Issa, this is Dr. Chevon from Paris. She specializes in cases like yours. I called her in to assist in your final operation and treatment.”

Issa was astounded. This woman was a doctor? She looked more like an over-the-hill, angry brothel Madam. And what on earth had she meant about a ribbon?

“Don’t you know how to speak, girl?” Dr. Chevon came closer to the bed, pushing a choke-inducing scent of cologne before her.

“I’m sorry,” said Issa, fighting a desire to cover her nose and giving a tiny cough. “How nice to meet you, doctor.” The woman’s accent was the same as Kobienko’s, which made Issa wonder why they were bothering to speak English. And why not Greek? Maybe the woman didn’t know that language. Her English was, without a doubt, better than Kobienko’s, but that didn’t explain why they were conversing in it.

“Yes, I expect it is. You need to gain a little weight before we operate, child.” She leaned over, causing the fur stole to separate and expose a plunging neckline that showed everything except her nipples. “Let me see. Look up. Ah, eyes nice and clear. Good.” She reached out and ran a finger down the side of Issa’s face. “Good complexion. Excellent.” Her finger continued downward, and then her hand brushed not very lightly over Issa’s breast. “Nice,” she murmured before straightening. “I think she’s healthy enough, Kobienko, as you promised.” Her gaze traveled downward. “And not showing yet, either.” Her smile was innately grotesque.

Suddenly, Issa wanted to leap off the bed, run downstairs and out the door, and keep running until she found someplace with normal human beings.

“Yes, well, Dr. Chevon, I think that’s enough exam for today, yes? Don’t forget my timetable.” The stare he gave her belied his smile, being too wide and bright.

“Your timetable. Yes, my beloved Puritan. Very well.” The woman backed away, turned, and went out.

Kobienko followed, not bothering to say anything to Issa, who listened to the progress of their footsteps along the hall and down the stairs. Kobienko had begun whispering to the woman, but all Issa could catch was what sounded like “fool.”

Which I would be to stay here! I don’t care if I never get my memory fixed! The only thing was, how could she get away without being stopped? That she could make it out of the clinic, she had little doubt. Her door had no lock, and she’d noticed only a few other people working there, none of whom looked like guards. Of course, she’d never been outside her room after everyone was asleep, and at an hour that might be great for an escape, there could well be guards, locks and even alarms.

Issa gave this dilemma her full attention, and for the next twenty minutes or so, became oblivious to all sounds and sights around her. She began by taking slow, deep breaths to calm herself, and then considered the possibilities. That she’d have to leave during daylight was a given. That she would be missed almost immediately was also a given. So how to make the two facts work to her advantage? It seemed clear that when she left, she’d have to hide somewhere nearby in order to get away successfully later when the darkness would keep her movements hidden.

Twice since coming to the clinic, Issa had been allowed out onto the grounds for exercise. She concentrated on what she’d seen during those outings, and after a while, remembered a ladder that looked like it went all the way to the roof. Of course, since she’d thought of it, so would someone else. No, hiding up there wouldn’t work.

There were wooded areas here and there within the brick walls surrounding the clinic; but no, she would be discovered almost immediately. Where else? Was there a basement window that was always left open, maybe? And how would she find out? Too complicated. Was there no solution? The way that woman had touched her, Issa no longer had any doubt that Kobienko’s motives were dark and horrible. That reference to the ribbon – it occurred to her that the ghoulish Dr. Chevon (if she really was a doctor) was planning to force herself on Issa in ways that made her feel sick. So the ribbon thing must have been the woman’s disgusting way of saying Issa was a gift, something that should have been wrapped in a ribbon.

Swallowing a sudden rise of bile, Issa got up and went to the dresser where a water decanter and glass had been placed. She could barely gulp the tepid liquid past the constriction in her throat. The idea of that woman, never mind the doctor, touching her even more intimately – she slammed the glass down, wanting to scream.

“Are you well, Miss?” One of the male nurses must have been nearby and heard the glass hit the dresser. He was standing politely in the open door, brows raised.

Issa forced a smile as she faced him, even managing to sound apologetic. “Yes, I am. I – I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention and the glass slipped as I picked it up. Thank goodness it didn’t tip over!”

“Oh. All right. Do you have enough water?”

“Yes. You’re very kind. By the way, I’ve finished reading my other book. Is there something else I could read?” It seemed that if she behaved like nothing