CHAPTER 30
CARLOS
Seven Months Ago
November 29
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
How can you trust anyone if you can’t trust yourself?
Carla’s question had been haunting me for two days.
When I first learned the truth about my condition, there was no doubt in my mind I’d always be Carlos. I’d already been in a fugue state for nineteen months when Aimee appeared. Truth was, I’d been in denial. The enormity of my situation hadn’t sunk in.
Days and months passed, and so did that belief, disappearing like mist over the ocean with the rising sun. With the headaches, the blackout, and Natalya’s discussion with Dr. Feinstein, it became apparent that my mind was in the process of healing. The question was no longer if I surfaced from the fugue state, but when, and how, and where.
This unknown scared me.
I trusted Natalya to care for my sons. She’d keep them safe and raise them far away from the Donato family should, God forbid, James—rather, I—not want the responsibility.
I trusted Julian to watch over his brother. And I trusted him in that rebellious, preteen way of his, to not only help guide me back to fatherhood but make me want to be a father. It was an enormous responsibility, but Julian had a strong spirit. He’d also have his aunt’s help.
Since the day I woke in the medical clinic more than six years ago, I’d had little faith in anything, except my art, or anyone, except my sons and Natalya.
You’re the same man, Natalya had told me time and time again. Same body, same heart . . . same soul.
My headaches didn’t respond to the medication like they used to. As Carla observed, they’d grown in frequency and intensity. So had my nightmares. They kept my stomach in knots and my heart palpitating long into the night.
It was time for me to take a gamble. It was time to put a little faith in myself. It was also time to trust that the man I was supposed to be would do the right thing.
I opened the metal lockbox I’d purchased online. Inside, I put my wedding certificate, Raquel’s death certificate, and the boys’ birth certificates. I added CDs of medical films and reports, keys, passwords to my laptop, computers at the gallery, and Cloud accounts, and a few thumb drives containing other important documents, as well as my journal entries up to that point. I included anything I could think of that would help me understand who I was, how I arrived in Mexico, how I lived, and who I loved. The latter of those items being summed up with one of my favorite photos, Natalya arm in arm with the boys, Playa Zicatela as the backdrop.
Finally, I wrote a letter and addressed it to James. I placed the unsealed envelope on top with Aimee’s engagement ring. Then, with a heavy heart and a prayer to the all-knowing, I closed the lid, set the code—Julian’s birth date—and went in search of my eldest son.
I had to tell him a story. I had to advise him of what to do when I forgot that I’m his father. And I had to teach him how to teach me to be a father again.
Natalya was waiting for me out back. Facing the ocean, she sat on the half wall, her chin upturned toward the night sky. Stars glittered in the inky canvas, extra bright with the new moon. The breeze coming off the water lifted her hair, a wild mane I wanted to get lost in. I drank in the sight of her, absorbed every curve so that I’d remember the details later when I wrote about the day. She still wore her bikini after an afternoon under the Mexican sun. The turquoise strings peeked from under the white linen cover-up, twisting around her neck like a lover’s embrace.
I thought about our future, wondering how many more times I’d gaze upon her with my eyes. Would I see her again? She was flying home tomorrow to wrap up year-end projects before the holidays.
A rush of emotion coaxed me to go to her. Sensing my presence, she turned to me and smiled. Her fingers twined through mine. “How’d it go?”
Wind chased up my back and ruffled her hair. I caught tendrils clinging to her moist lips and tucked them behind her ear, letting my fingers linger along the fine line of her neck. My gaze trailed them as they dipped into the crevice of her collarbone then skimmed over the swell of her breasts.
“He’s overwhelmed,” I answered. Julian had cried, I’d cried. I’d stayed with him until he fell into a fitful sleep.
“He’ll have questions when it all sinks in.” She parted her knees and I moved into the space she created.
“I’ll answer anything he asks.” I lightly kissed her forehead and her fingers pressed into my hips, holding me to her. “I love you, Nat.”
“I love you, too, Carlos. I’ll always love you, every side of you.”
The backs of my eyes burned. My face tightened as I reined in emotions still raw from the long talk with Julian. Holding her hand to my chest, I whispered against her lips—“Same heart”—and kissed her thoroughly. In between those kisses, with our breathing growing heavy, I told her about the items I put in the lockbox.
“I wrote myself two letters. I put one in the box and the other I mailed to you.”
“Me?”
“Don’t open it. Save it for James.”
Her breath snagged and she tensed under my roaming hands. “What does it say?”
I kissed her neck, tasted the salt of her skin, and prayed everything would work out for the two of us and my sons in the end.
“It says,” I started, untying her bikini straps, “‘Dear James . . .’”
Then I told her what I’d written in the letter as I made love to her for what I hoped wouldn’t be the last time.