The Wife He Couldn't Forget
Even so, he couldn’t deny the niggling feeling that there was more to their separation than the brief explanation she’d given him yesterday. And then there was the matter of Rachelle and the fact she had a key to his apartment. Something really didn’t feel right about that, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He would, though. He felt so much better. Stronger both mentally and physically, except for these bloody headaches, he thought as he shifted a few more cartons, then squatted down to read the lettering on a box shoved to the back.
He recognized the writing—it was his own. The box was ignominiously labeled “Stuff.” He tugged it toward him and opened the flaps. In it were framed certificates and some old photo albums. A surge of excitement filled him. Maybe the contents would cast some light over his lost years. He pulled out the first album and absently thumbed through it. It dated back to his years in university, before he’d met Olivia. No, there was nothing there that he didn’t know well already.
He shoved the albums and certificates back in the box and pushed it back against the wall. With the digital age it was more than likely there were no physical albums of his more recent years. Maybe he needed to look harder at his computer files. See what was there that dated back from when he could last remember and up until now.
But before he could do that, he needed to find the Christmas decorations. Xander dug around a few more boxes but ended up with nothing more than a sneezing fit. He was just about to give up completely when he spotted two more boxes in a dark corner. Maybe this was what he’d been looking for.
He dragged the boxes under the remaining light. They weren’t labeled like all the others were. Neither looked like the long narrow carton he knew had always stored the tree, but maybe one held the decorations. There was definitely something familiar about them.
A weird sensation swept through him, making him feel a little dizzy again as he rocked back on his heels. He shrugged it off, thinking that he probably just needed some fresh air. The tiny ventilation holes in the eaves near the windows weren’t the most efficient. He’d been up there awhile already, and, with the sun beating down on the iron roof, it was getting pretty hot.
Xander tugged at the tape binding the first box with a grunt of determination. It came away with a satisfying sound. Once again that feeling of being off balance assailed him. Xander closed his eyes for a brief moment and waited for the sensation to pass. This one was worse than the last and left him sick to his stomach. He swallowed and forced his eyes open.
“Just this one,” he said aloud as he lifted the flaps. “Then I’m heading back downstairs. What the—?”
His voice trailed off into silence as he pulled out the first of the items inside. A child’s clothing, precisely folded in layers—a little boy’s things, to be more precise. Xander put them to one side and reached in again. Toys this time. A teddy, a few die-cast trains and cars.
His stomach lurched, and Xander fought back the bile that crept up his throat. He knew these things. These pieces of another life, another time. The frustrating sense of limbo he’d been living in since waking up in the hospital began to peel away from him, layer after layer. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on full alert, and an icy shiver traced down his spine.
Without another thought he tore open the second box. Cold sweat drenched his body. More clothes, more toys and, near the bottom, photo albums. He lifted them from the box. Even in the muted light of the attic he could see the dates on the albums. He picked up the oldest of them and slowly opened the cover. There on the first page was a grainy sonogram picture. He traced the edges of the tiny blur on the picture with the tip of one finger as a powerful wave of déjà vu swept over him. And with it, a memory. A sense of excitement and fear and love, all in one massive bundle of emotion. And then loss. Aching, wrenching, tearing loss.
Xander turned the page of the album to a photo of Olivia, a younger and more carefree Olivia than the one he’d seen off today. There was a series of photos of her, first with a big smile and flat tummy, all the way through to a photo of her with her belly swollen with pregnancy and a finger pointing to a date circled on the calendar.
The next page saw him staring at himself, proudly holding a squalling newborn infant.
His son.
Fourteen
A sob tore from Xander’s throat and his chest tightened, making every breath a struggle. He remembered. He remembered everything, all the way back to the day that Olivia told him she was pregnant—and the fight they’d had that night over her news.