July: Operation: Loose Threads
Aug. 18th, 2012 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lysistrategicOver the month of July, Joan's amnesia takes a toll on her and Arthur both. Warning: may trigger for sensitivity to Alzheimer's and dementia.
The sun streams through the window behind Joan, falling on her shoulders and over them to grace the pages of a small notebook filled with notes written in her hand. Her fingers curl around an earthenware mug, still warm, filled with the coffee Arthur made and brought to her which the book notes he has been doing for the last week and a half. According to the notebook, it's July on an island called Tabula Rasa by its inhabitants and this beautiful but primitive hut is her home; it's Tuesday and she has a painting class in several hours. For her, it's a rare Sunday when both she and Arthur are home and there are no crises, nothing to call them from the second honeymoon they've been sharing since she invited him back to bed and he gave her the beautiful ring she can't stop looking at.
The notebook says the island itself is causing this to happen, and she's seen enough science fiction to understand the trope. But as hard as she tries, she can't remember the Victorian woman, Emily, or her boyfriend, Matt, or any of the other people she calls friend. Jack the Ripper, of all people. How can that have happened with her being who she is? The book cajoles her to keep her own counsel, to consult the laptop for more information, and for God's sake, Joan, don't change the password which happens to be the number from the house she grew up in, before everything happened with mom.
She's tense, shoulders tight with worry that this is all some sort of trick, but the notebook says this has happened before and she will remember again. It has dates and marks of progress, and it urges her to write down and enter the information from today, and put it in the computer too. She begins, but stops for a sip of coffee, and catches Arthur watching her from across the room. He should be somewhere, she thinks she remembers, but he hasn't gone. Add that to the coffee, and it means he's worried. Something's wrong with her and he knows. Fear slices through the clarity of her deductions and leaves her staring at the page, unsure of what to write and somehow unwilling. She needs him, but it's intolerable to scare him or to be so weak as to ask him to help her begin.
Arthur hated seeing Joan this way. It had absolutely nothing to do with her memory loss, if and when that ever came into their lives in reality, Arthur would manage. He hated seeing Joan not trust the one thing that she could always trust, herself and her instincts. He stood in the doorway watching her, concern etched on his features no matter how big of a mask he wore. He'd eventually come to the conclusion that it was the island and not someone slipping her drugs which was his first thought. He'd known that it wasn't early stages of Alzheimer's because of the sudden onset of them. That didn't just happen. It was just another reason to distrust this place. Ironic for a master manipulator in his career to hate the very thing he was good at when it was pointed to those he cared about.
He crossed the room to where she was, his voice calm and full of understanding, underneath it was the quiet strength of his love. "Joan, it will be all right. The island didn't keep us separated and it won't win this battle either." Of that he was certain. They were much too strong willed for the island to win, especially with something like this.
"Arthur," Joan huffs out, pretending to a peevishness she absolutely doesn't feel. She's frightened today of why she can't remember and what else she might lose, but more than anything, Joan realizes, she's angry. Angry that the enormous love she feels for him right now, the new (not new) ring on her finger, the slow ache between her thighs aren't the gift and pleasure they should be, because they're months and months old. Angry that the island, if that's what it is, has taken from her the one thing she could always be certain of. Her own mind. Angry that Arthur knows and he's been quietly taking care of her the way he should never have to.
The way he always does.
Sighing, she ducks her head away from his gaze and her hair slides across her shoulders to spill onto the notebook. "How long have you known?"
There's a part of Arthur that wants to hedge to spare Joan her feelings and her pride, but he wouldn't appreciate it the roles were reversed and he knows that Joan won't. "Not until I ruled out the other possibilities. 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'." Arthur had never known how often he would refer to that Arthur Conan Doyle quote since coming to the island. "It's been about a week."
Joan winces away from the pain that lances through her chest. A week, he's known that she's not herself but let her pretend anyway. "I'm not sure whether I'm furious with you or expect you to be furious with me," she says finally, drawing her mug to her for something to do with her hands. She still can't make herself look at him. "I'm sorry. I thought I was doing a better job at hiding it. I should have known."
"You did an excellent job of hiding it." Arthur assures her easily and truthfully. "Anyone that didn't know you as well as I do, wouldn't have seen the signs. You have nothing to be furious about and I'm certainly not furious with you." He wanted to reach out to her but didn't. "I've been guilty enough of hiding things from you so that you don't have any concerns or need to worry. We'll get through this together as we always do. We're stronger together."
She's frightened and Joan doesn't do frightened. She doesn't like the way she wants him now, the way the twitch of muscle in his forearm when he stops himself from reaching for her makes her want to reach for him instead. "I didn't want to worry you, since it seems to be something with the island." Even if her amnesia isn't the same. "I'm sure I'll be fine once whatever it is that's happening stops happening." If it ever did. She sips her coffee and tells herself it's too early in the day to ask him to pour her a drink.
Instead, because it will bring him to her side, she says, "Thank you for the ring, Arthur. I'm not sure if I ever said." More softly, "If I did, I don't remember."
Her comment did exactly that and Arthur gave in to his temptation to slide his arm along her shoulder and kiss her temple after he closed the distance between them. "You're welcome and I never get tired of hearing that you like it." He reaches out to slide a finger over the ring where it rests and glances down at her notebook. "Do you know what I love about you? Well, one of many but you were determined to not let the island get the better of you. You're a fighter and even though you felt as if your mind was betraying you, your instincts were sharp enough to realize something wasn't quite right and you took steps to correct it."
It's so unlike her, and if he were anyone else, she'd haul up ironclad will and stay strong and steely. But it's Arthur and in her mind she's been wearing this new ring twenty-four hours, most of which they spent in bed. Setting her coffee down, she sighs, and gives in to the need to feel him strong and solid, turning into his arms instead of fighting them. There's still a core of steel in her. She doesn't collapse weeping or hysterical into her husband, but she does step close and rest her cheek on his shoulder. "I still feel it, Arthur. My mind is telling me we spent the last twenty-fours making love like honeymooners. The rest of this feels completely surreal. It's maddening, among other things, that I can taste your mouth, but for all I know it's been days, even weeks, since the last time I kissed you."
Arthur's fingers slide through Joan's hair and down her back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture as they stand there. "I would never go days or even weeks without kissing you." His thumb made a caressing movement over her cheek next to her ear. "Twenty four hours is the longest we've gone without it since I arrived on the island." And even then that was stretching it, but he didn't say that. "Trust your instincts, they are the best that I've ever seen, don't overthink things or second guess them. Go with what's in the notebook and what your instincts tell you about any given situation that you're in."
I'm scared. Two words Joan Campbell is unlikely ever to say, even to the husband she loves more than breath, but he knows her and no matter how close they have been, she cannot believe he will not know her softness for what it is. She is not, uncharacteristically, entirely certain she cares. "Kiss me now, then, Arthur? I want what my mind is telling me to stop being unreal. Walk with me on the beach and bring me home and love me? Today, at least, I can have what seems real and maybe it will help." She gives him a weak but very Joan sort of smile. "It can't hurt, anyway."
On a good day, Arthur would never say no to that let alone on a day when Joan was vulnerable and her need for their connection strong. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "There is nothing that I would like to do more than to kiss my wife, take a romantic walk on the beach and make love to her." His lips curved into a smile as he raised his head but only for a brief moment before his free hand came up to tilt Joan's chin up and capture her lips in a soft, tender kiss.
This feels real. It feels right to feel the quick heat of her need for him - usually a little slower to fire unless they've been fighting, but recently (in her mind and according to the notebook) it only takes this, the sure sweetness of his mouth on hers to make her body heavy with the aching desire that had all but left their marriage months ago (year, now, according to the notebook). The press of her mouth back against his and the firm skim of her hands is matched with a quiet moan. "Maybe we should reverse that order, Arthur."
"Well, we'll have to reverse only two of those since I've already kissed my wife." The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile as he pulls away only far enough to speak, "but I think I can manage the reverse order." It certainly wasn't a hardship. It didn't matter how long he and Joan had been together, there was still very much heat in their relationship and likely would be for decades. Arthur slid his hands toward the small of her back, bringing their bodies more flush.
"You know," she murmurs, head tilting back to expose her neck for his mouth. "I think I remember this." In moments of crisis, Joan reflects, sometimes the only thing to do is make a joke.
****
Arthur was worried, not that Joan wouldn't come out of it, that was a given knowing how the island seemed to work, but he didn't like that Joan seemed to be regressing further back in her amnesia. It was normal in Alzheimer's patients to regress to another time, but it wasn't typical of amnesia patients and Joan seemed to be having classic signs of both. When he'd come back to their home, she wasn't there and while Arthur wasn't usually the type to go in search of his wife, these were extenuating circumstances. Which was why his blue eyes were scanning the horizon along the beach by their home. Hopefully she was shell gathering, or walking to clear her head, and not walking to find a way off the island. If he was very lucky, she'd be following protocol thinking she was on assignment.
It's a Friday night on Penn State campus and Joan's hanging off the arm of a guy she met at a fraternity party an hour and a half a go. She already can't remember his name and she knows she doesn't care. She'll ditch him any minute now, when she finds somewhere to--wait, hold on. She lifts her head from her arms and she is on a beach, sunbathing from the looks of it. Her skin looks like she's been sunbathing for twenty years and nothing makes any sense.
Is she in Cabo for Spring Break? Maybe she was dreaming the party? There's a bag next to her with a notebook in it that says 'Read me' on the front, as if she didn't feel enough like Alice already. Her mind's fuzzy and she can't remember yesterday or what she's doing here. What she does remember is that Spring Break has been rife with rohypnol trips this past year. Scared, she sits up and looks around. She's alone here, so she slips her fingers between her thighs against the bathing suit bottom and presses. Thank god she's not sore.
She opens the notebook and it's crazy. It makes no sense. She wants to ask for help, but there's no one around. No one except an attractive older man walking toward her. She drops the notebook back into her bag and scrambles to her feet. "Excuse me. Please, can you help me? I think I'm lost."
It was years of training that had Arthur's expression remain neutral when Joan spoke to him. She was obviously from before coming to the Farm, she would have done a different approach. He gave her his most charming smile with a flash of dimple. "Certainly. Where were you headed before you got turned around?" That question could have encompassed a lot of possibilities.
Now she looks lost, too. He could even be the reason she's out here alone. He doesn't look like a serial rapist, but then, who does? She's trained in self-defense, though, so if he's looking for trouble, she won't go down easy. For now, she smiles and tries to look harmless. "I'm not entirely sure. I was with some friends, but they're not answering my calls."
"The island doesn't have a good cell signal." He nodded easily and then pointed in the direction over his shoulder toward the compound. "There's a compound just over there, where most of the people gather, they're probably there. But if your friends are anything like mine they're probably at one of the bars here and those are over in that direction." Arthur had noticed the wariness in her eyes and there was a mixture of pride and pain that she didn't immediately trust a stranger but that her instincts didn't tell her that she could trust him.
"Definitely the bar," Joan says with a cheery false confidence. It's public anyway, right, and it's safer than being alone on the beach with him where there's no one to hear if she screams. He really doesn't seem dangerous and she's relaxed steadily since he appeared but who knows if that's what Andrea thought before she got raped last yer on Spring Break. "Which way are you headed?" Pin him down in a direction and if he comes a different one, she knows not to trust him.
Arthur couldn't very well tell her he was in search of her but he could stretch the truth a bit. "I was looking for my wife, but I think we got our signals crossed somewhere." He pointed in the direction of the Winchester. "I thought I'd check there first to see if she's there. If she's not, you might see me roaming the island looking for her." That would at least explain why their paths would cross multiple times, until he got in touch with one of their friends to keep an eye out for her.
Looking for a pet is a common tactic with sexual predators, Joan knows from her psych classes, even if she prefers economics and global history. Looking for a wife doesn't seem as threatening but it's sympathetic. She glances down at her hands and--frowns, lifting one up. She's wearing a ring. A wedding ring. A very expensive wedding ring. What? She takes a step away from him. "Is this some kind of a joke? Am I supposed to be your wife or something? Because I'm not that kind of a drinker. I would have remembered."
"I'd like to think marriage to me would be memorable." Arthur agreed easily. "Nor did I say you were her. No offense, but do I look like someone that would be married to someone that was on a college spring break?" He pointed out as he put his hands in his pockets. There was a part of him that was a little disappointed that there wasn't at least a small flash of recognition when she saw the ring. Not of him but of the ring itself. Though they had always been less of a material people, though they did like the finer things. Their connection had always been the simpler memories, like getting Manning for his football dream team.
There's something in how he says it, something in his eyes that tugs at her, but hands in pockets is a sign of a lie being told. She knows that, and she knows he's not telling her something. That scares her more than anything, the feeling of familiarity that's creeping over her. Why does it feel like she knows him? Why does it bother her that he's lying to her? Her jaw tenses and her shoulders with it. Her gaze narrows on him and that feels familiar too. "What did you say your name was?" She's well aware she hasn't asked, but her tone makes it a demand.
"Arthur Campbell." His name wouldn't mean anything to Joan if she was on spring break in her college years in her mind nor would he have lied about something that could easily have been derailed the moment someone said hello to him on the island within Joan's hearing. "From Washington DC before I came to the island. Would you like to see my driver's license?" There was just a hint of humor in his eyes but it was also pride that she was very hesitant with a stranger, albeit a familiar stranger.
"As if that would prove anything, Arthur," Joan says, sounding strangely suddenly a good deal more like herself but not realizing it. "Driver's licenses can be easily faked and I don't have the resources here to verify one." Her gaze narrows and something tugs at her, tugs her forward - why does he seem so familiar to her? "I'll have to take your word for it." Which didn't like doing, especially with the mystery of the, she glances down at it again, enormous rock on her finger and--
Everything comes rushing back, everything, and the memory of days and days of this, being in and out of the present moment and how's she's been treating him this last ten minutes-- "Oh, Arthur." Her eyes cloud again, but now with pain and regret. Her hand lifts to his jaw. "I'm sorry. I..." She hates this so desperately, everything in her aching as she steps in closer to him again, her husband. "I'm so sorry."
Arthur pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head as he held her. There was relief that his Joan was back but it also tore at him that she was going through this. "No, don't apologize. Are you kidding? I'm very proud that through it all you were smart in your distrust of a stranger." It also reaffirmed that if he, Annie, Auggie or anyone else couldn't watch over Joan she could still take care of herself no matter where in her timeline her memories took her.
"Arthur, please," Joan pleads, far more softly than is usual for her. "Who knows how much time we have when I'm myself. Don't use it reassuring me." It's a measure, she knows, of how worried she is about him that she hasn't laid into him for being patronizing. If he keeps it up, she will, because it's rubbing her raw, but in this moment she needs to be his wife and not his child. "I know you. I know what this has to be doing to you. At least...let me try to be what you need while I still can?" She knows that he insists this is the island, and she'll be back to herself again when it lets up, but Joan no longer believes it. She's angry and terrified and disconsolate by turns but she needs to be as normal as she can be, for a little while.
"Okay." Arthur understood what she was trying to say, he'd have the same need if the roles were reversed. "You're right, we need to grab these moments when they happen." His weight shifted so that he was looking down at her rather than just holding her. "I won't lie, it hurts seeing you like this and there was a part of me that hurts when I'm not recognized." That he could give her. "But deep down, even now when you thought you were on spring break, and rightfully didn't trust who you thought was a stranger, there was still a connection that you couldn't deny. I saw when you looked at the ring."
She hadn't felt it. That's what scares her. Sometimes she doesn't. If she loses that, she loses him, and she doesn't want that. It might be kinder to him, if/when this gets to where she can't remember at all, he doesn't feel that pull. If she were stronger, she'd send him away before then. Right now, she tips her head up, bright blue eyes searching his face. "You've been wonderful. If you've been impatient or cross or angry, you've never shown it. If not for you, I'm sure they'd be medicating me now. I can't thank you enough for how steady you've been." Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden, for how much this sounded like goodbye, but she needed to say it, in case she never got another lucid chance. "I love you. I know I'm terrible about saying it at the best of times, but I do. I love you."
Arthur cradled her face in his hands, his eyes searching her features before he leaned down and kissed her with a lingering kiss. When his head finally rose he said, "In sickness and in health, in good times and in bad. I meant them when I said that. There is no denying that it's a rough patch, or that I miss you very much when you aren't the Joan I remember. " There were times when he wanted to bang his head against the wall or go hit something. He would just spend an extra hour working out, to satisfy that need to alleviate the frustration. "I love you, Joan and I meant it when I said I wanted this marriage to work."
With his ex-wife, Arthur couldn't honestly have said that he'd would have made it through the frustrations. He would have liked to say that he would have made the transition as easily as possible, but he couldn't honestly say that he would have stayed by Geena's side.
Unable to form the words that there would be no marriage if she couldn't remember his name, Joan slides her arms around Arthur, nodded, and rests her cheek against his shoulder. "Til death do us part," she says instead, and hopes it won't come to that.
****
Joan's grown bored of the games her talking computer, Nittany, supplies for her. She knows from the face in the mirror, she is not a child, but her coordination and her memory, her abilities, are those of the child she is in her own mind. As precocious as she was then, Joan nevertheless cannot make her body move as it does normally, the age lines on her skin, the aches and pains of forty-something to a pre-teen mind, the knowledge that she's hurting or disappointing the adults--her friends, her husband (so totally weird)--around her have worn her down to edgy frustration.
There is no ice cream, no cereal, no macaroni and cheese, no anything she might feed herself to calm down. None of her friends are here. She's confused and scared, and frustration gives way to rage after Emily leaves. She leaves behind tea and cookies and when she has eaten one, the absence of chocolate is the last straw. She flings the basket at the door and collapses to the floor against the kitchen wall and cries. Only the fact she's too tall for it keeps her from crawling under the table or squeezing herself behind the couch like the way she used to hide from her sisters to read.
There were times since this began that Arthur wanted to bang his head against a wall, quite a few actually, but what always got him through it was his love for Joan as well as knowing that whatever he was going through it was ten times worse for her. This latest however, was hard, very hard to see his wife with the mind of a twelve year old. He could still see the flashes of the woman that she would become but it was the underneath scared young girl who was putting on a brave face with a stranger that tore at his heart. He had been tempted to stay away, to give her peace until she came back to herself or at the very least send someone that a twelve year old girl in the body of a mature woman would feel comfortable around. Annie would have been the likely candidate for that but he knew that Joan, his Joan wouldn't want to be the vulnerable with her. So that was why he came back to their place with a pizza or what passed for that on the island anyway.
The door opens and Joan cringes. Even when she was really twelve (if she's not now), she didn't like anyone to see her cry and the steps into the house are the heavier ones she associates with grown men. Emily hasn't come back, so that means it's probably Emily's boyfriend or her...or Arthur. There are tea cookies everywhere and shards of pottery and if she could hide in cupboard she would. Instead, she dashes at the tears in her eyes and pulls the ponytail holder out of her hair, slipping it around her wrist, pulls her feet under her and acts like she's crouched to pick up some of the mess. She starts doing that, because it's always been the best way to get by. Fake it until you make it, but when she looks up to see Arthur, all she wants to do is run and cry again, and the tears just won't stop falling. If she had to go back to being a kid, why did it have to be the year everything bad happened?
Arthur, like a typical male, was never good with female tears. He never knew what to do and always felt awkward. Add to that, it was his wife with the memories of a teenager and it was another layer of awkward. He'd normally take her in his arms but that wasn't an option now. So instead, he set the pizza down on the table and debated between not acknowledging the perceived weakness or doing his best to reassure Joan, all the while hoping he doesn't step in any minefields.
He went for neutral territory first. "I brought pizza or the island version of pizza if you'd like some."
"Thank you," she says stiffly, voice only a little unsteady despite the tears. "I'm not hungry." It seems like a terrible thing to say, worse even than 'go away' because she can tell he wants to help or do something to make her feel better and he can't. At least if she told him to go away he could do that and that would be something he could do.
But she doesn't want him to go, which is strange, because he's a stranger. Except the journal and Nittany and the nice woman Emily all said he's her husband and she's forgetting everything. There's a big diamond ring on her finger, so maybe he is if this isn't some kind of joke. If it is a joke, it's not very funny. "But I could sit with you while you eat. Maybe you could tell me something about you that would help me remember. I remembered Emily for a few minutes, when she said how we met, but it..." She shrugs and settles back over her heels. "Went away."
Joan's stubborn determination was something that Arthur both loved and hated about her but at the moment, it was definitely in the love category. "I can do that." Arthur agreed and moved to sit in one of the chairs, taking his tie off as he did. The island tried it's damnedest to loosen him up with a box full of loose shirts and Dockers, but if you dug down deep enough and stubbornly kept at it, you could find what made you comfortable. The silken material draped over the arm of the chair and he loosened the top two buttons of the shirt, all the while keeping it all very casual and non-threatening.
"Let's see, how about this, the first time we went to a Washington Nationals baseball game? It was something that you did because you knew how much I wanted to go." His dimple flashed at the memory. "You were mildly interested in the game until Brad Wilkerson came up to the plate to hit. He hit a grand slam and you were swept up in the moment and the excitement around you." He had a suspicion that the swept up in the moment had been mirroring his excitement at the action, seeing his joy more than Wilkerson's grand slam.
Joan gets to her feet, a little bit awkward with the taller, stronger body than her mind thinks she has. It's weaker in some ways too, but she manages to clean up the mess she's made and find glasses to pour -- she freezes. In her hands are two glasses for some kind of alcohol. She has no idea what she was thinking, or wasn't thinking, and almost drops the glasses for fear of her mother yelling at her. Good reflexes from volleyball save the moment and she trades one glass for a tumbler. There's iced tea for herself which she sets on the table and then goes to the liquor cabinet thing and hopes she'll be able to tell what he drinks from what's open.
When he's finished taking off his tie (how did she know that was what he was doing with her back turned?) and starts talking, Joan relaxes. She can almost see the grand slam he's talking about and he seems so happy that she finds she has a bottle (some kind of scotch) in her hand without thinking. It's a guess when she realizes it again, but pours it, stoppers it and takes the glass to the table and hands it to him before sitting down. Something nags at her about it, something about how their hands don't touch when she gives him his drink.
"I'm sorry I don't remember, Arthur--" That comes out automatically instead of the hesitant 'Mr. Campbell's' from earlier in the day. "It sounds like we had a good time though." She takes a seat next to him, not across, because that feels right and her gaze falls at the ring on her finger. "You gave me this?"
"I did." Arthur nodded. "The minute that I could put a ring on your finger I did." He wasn't about to tell her the whole story of their courtship. "We were co-workers and I fell in love with your strength, intelligence and caring heart." That much was true, Arthur would just slide passed the part where he'd been married at the time.
"The very minute," she says sounding entirely herself for a breath, and teasing on top of it. "Not even one extra minute?" Her eyes sparkle with life and wit and intelligence and then it fades again, not into stupidity but youth. "Oh--" As if she'd said none of it. "What am I like, when I'm...the me that you know? I can't figure it out from all of these notes and data. Even my friends are notes and numbers, or the people I say are my friends. Do I have friends?"
He wouldn't mention that it was as soon as the ink had been dried on the divorce papers. "Maybe a half a minute. It took time to take the ring out of the box." His own eyes sparkle with wit and intelligence and then sobers at her question. "You have quite a few friends, and some of them are your friends rather than our friends as a couple. Your notes on Auggie, you two are very close but who is not in your notes is Megan." At least Arthur didn't think so since he assumed Joan only wrote about the people on the island.
"Megan Morecock?" Joan wrinkled her nose in disbelief and then shook her head. "She's a complete bitch. A total waste of oxygen. Why would I be friends with her? Did she really change that much?" A horrifying thought struck her and her eyes went wide. "Or did I? Oh, god, I turned into one of the mean girls?"
Arthur felt a wave of sympathy for Megan Morecock and the teasing she had to endure growing with that name. No wonder she'd become a mean girl. "Her name is Megan Wilkons and I believe you didn't meet her until after college." He said with a hint of a smile and a flash of dimple. "I can certainly guarantee that you did not turn into one of the mean girls. We never would have got together, if you had."
For a flash of a second, Joan remembers. She remembers Meg as a real person, not just a journal notation, a friend unlike Lena, someone she trusted as much as she trusts...Arthur. There's just enough time for her to wrap her fingers around his hand and hold onto it before it's all gone again and she stares at their hands like twined snakes. Joan swallows a sound that might be a sob, gets up and starts back toward the other room, not the bedroom they share. "I'm... I'm sorry. I...don't remember," she whispers and then disappears behind the closed door.
Arthur watched her go, a twisting in his heart for the pain she was going through. The only bright side of it was that she didn't remember the emotional pain of each time she tried to grasp who she was and it flitted away. As if he needed another reason to hate what this place was doing to her. He also hated that it was a silent enemy that he couldn't destroy. Arthur knew that Joan would want to fight her own battles, but neither was he the type of person to sit on the sidelines while his wife was under attack.
*****
It begins like many other mornings recently. Joan knows who she is, but she's sleeping alone. She remembers waking up with Arthur with her preteen mind and why she'd insisted on sleeping alone after that. Her journal tells her that was four days ago. The details are hazy but she remembers those four days. Before she even gets up for coffee, she makes today's morning entry in the journal and uploads it to Nittany who has a built in scanner.
When she gets up, it's still early and Arthur's not out of the bedroom yet. As raw as she is, part of her wants to crawl into their bed, into his arms, but the thought of losing herself in the midst of making love and how much that would hurt him makes her retch. She hates what the dementia is doing to them and to him more than for what it does to her. So instead of going to him, she pulls two mugs down from the rack and sets the shell with his name on it in front of the second mug. In case she forgets before he comes out. At least she'll be able to figure out who the second cup is for.
It was the smell of coffee that brought Arthur out of his deep sleep. His hand automatically going to the space beside him, even before his memory kicks in and he knows why he's alone in the bed. There is a stillness and a soft sigh as he sits up and brushes his hair out of his eyes. The decision for separate rooms had been mutual, Arthur had no desire to scare a version of Joan that would have no idea who the strange man was in her bed. He rolled out and grabbed a t-shirt to wear over the pajama bottoms, not quite sure what he'll see or who he'll meet when he steps into the kitchen.
Joan still remembers when he rolls out of bed and she doesn't waste a second of the time that she might have with him today with pleasantries. Instead she goes to him and places both hands on his chest, leans up and kisses him while she still knows who he is, and then she bids him, "Good morning, Arthur," with a smile that's soft and frayed around the edges but no less real for it.
He had no idea that his muscles were tense until they relaxed a little with her kiss and her recognition. Arthur knows that it can be taken away in a literal blink of an eye, but he's just as determined as she is to hold on to and cherish the moments when they happen. He encircles her waist very loosely as he ducks his head and takes another kiss, this one quick and butterfly soft. "Good morning, Joan."
"I made coffee for us," she tells him, even though it's abundantly obvious from the scent of the brew in their little kitchen. She slides her hands down his arms, only stepping back far enough that she can see him. "But I'm finding I don't want to drink it right now. I've been wracking my brain to come up with something we can do that won't go pear-shaped if I suddenly forget who you are again, and I can't." Her words cut out around a choked back sound that sounds enough like a sob even she can't name it something else. "I'm so tired, Arthur. It's August 1. A new month. Do you think there's any chance this is going to stop now, that today I won't forget and it will last?" It's a clear sign of how desperate she is that she's admitting to needing to hear him say it.
"I think." Arthur began and gently runs the back of his knuckles over her cheek, "that a very good chance this is going to stop." He didn't say the now part because he wasn't going to lie to Joan. He has no idea if it will end this month or next but from the experience with everything else the island has done, it will be short termed. Or God help whoever is behind it. "If I was a betting man, which I am, I'd say that the odds are pretty good that the new month would be a new start." Or a re-start.
He smiles warmly at her, "and I can think of one thing that won't go too pear-shaped if you suddenly forget. How about a walk on the beach, shell combing?" If Joan reverts to any time when she doesn't know who he is, it would be easy for her to leave and won't feel trapped in a building with a stranger.
Joan's heart trips in her chest, flips and falls all over again. It does feel like falling in love with him all over again, every time they have a few minutes where she knows who she is. Her eyes close and she tips her cheek against his hand. "I've started remembering that I didn't remember, the next day, that is. It seems like a good development," she tells him, but the hope in her voice is thin. "I need it to be, love. Because every morning that I wake up alone, I remember how much I miss you."
She sighs and twines her arms around him, grateful for remembering, but raw from not knowing if it will stick. "A walk on the beach sounds like a good idea, but can we risk it just a little longer? I'm--" Not ready to let you go yet. What if this is the last time I know who you are? "Enjoying this."
The sun streams through the window behind Joan, falling on her shoulders and over them to grace the pages of a small notebook filled with notes written in her hand. Her fingers curl around an earthenware mug, still warm, filled with the coffee Arthur made and brought to her which the book notes he has been doing for the last week and a half. According to the notebook, it's July on an island called Tabula Rasa by its inhabitants and this beautiful but primitive hut is her home; it's Tuesday and she has a painting class in several hours. For her, it's a rare Sunday when both she and Arthur are home and there are no crises, nothing to call them from the second honeymoon they've been sharing since she invited him back to bed and he gave her the beautiful ring she can't stop looking at.
The notebook says the island itself is causing this to happen, and she's seen enough science fiction to understand the trope. But as hard as she tries, she can't remember the Victorian woman, Emily, or her boyfriend, Matt, or any of the other people she calls friend. Jack the Ripper, of all people. How can that have happened with her being who she is? The book cajoles her to keep her own counsel, to consult the laptop for more information, and for God's sake, Joan, don't change the password which happens to be the number from the house she grew up in, before everything happened with mom.
She's tense, shoulders tight with worry that this is all some sort of trick, but the notebook says this has happened before and she will remember again. It has dates and marks of progress, and it urges her to write down and enter the information from today, and put it in the computer too. She begins, but stops for a sip of coffee, and catches Arthur watching her from across the room. He should be somewhere, she thinks she remembers, but he hasn't gone. Add that to the coffee, and it means he's worried. Something's wrong with her and he knows. Fear slices through the clarity of her deductions and leaves her staring at the page, unsure of what to write and somehow unwilling. She needs him, but it's intolerable to scare him or to be so weak as to ask him to help her begin.
Arthur hated seeing Joan this way. It had absolutely nothing to do with her memory loss, if and when that ever came into their lives in reality, Arthur would manage. He hated seeing Joan not trust the one thing that she could always trust, herself and her instincts. He stood in the doorway watching her, concern etched on his features no matter how big of a mask he wore. He'd eventually come to the conclusion that it was the island and not someone slipping her drugs which was his first thought. He'd known that it wasn't early stages of Alzheimer's because of the sudden onset of them. That didn't just happen. It was just another reason to distrust this place. Ironic for a master manipulator in his career to hate the very thing he was good at when it was pointed to those he cared about.
He crossed the room to where she was, his voice calm and full of understanding, underneath it was the quiet strength of his love. "Joan, it will be all right. The island didn't keep us separated and it won't win this battle either." Of that he was certain. They were much too strong willed for the island to win, especially with something like this.
"Arthur," Joan huffs out, pretending to a peevishness she absolutely doesn't feel. She's frightened today of why she can't remember and what else she might lose, but more than anything, Joan realizes, she's angry. Angry that the enormous love she feels for him right now, the new (not new) ring on her finger, the slow ache between her thighs aren't the gift and pleasure they should be, because they're months and months old. Angry that the island, if that's what it is, has taken from her the one thing she could always be certain of. Her own mind. Angry that Arthur knows and he's been quietly taking care of her the way he should never have to.
The way he always does.
Sighing, she ducks her head away from his gaze and her hair slides across her shoulders to spill onto the notebook. "How long have you known?"
There's a part of Arthur that wants to hedge to spare Joan her feelings and her pride, but he wouldn't appreciate it the roles were reversed and he knows that Joan won't. "Not until I ruled out the other possibilities. 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'." Arthur had never known how often he would refer to that Arthur Conan Doyle quote since coming to the island. "It's been about a week."
Joan winces away from the pain that lances through her chest. A week, he's known that she's not herself but let her pretend anyway. "I'm not sure whether I'm furious with you or expect you to be furious with me," she says finally, drawing her mug to her for something to do with her hands. She still can't make herself look at him. "I'm sorry. I thought I was doing a better job at hiding it. I should have known."
"You did an excellent job of hiding it." Arthur assures her easily and truthfully. "Anyone that didn't know you as well as I do, wouldn't have seen the signs. You have nothing to be furious about and I'm certainly not furious with you." He wanted to reach out to her but didn't. "I've been guilty enough of hiding things from you so that you don't have any concerns or need to worry. We'll get through this together as we always do. We're stronger together."
She's frightened and Joan doesn't do frightened. She doesn't like the way she wants him now, the way the twitch of muscle in his forearm when he stops himself from reaching for her makes her want to reach for him instead. "I didn't want to worry you, since it seems to be something with the island." Even if her amnesia isn't the same. "I'm sure I'll be fine once whatever it is that's happening stops happening." If it ever did. She sips her coffee and tells herself it's too early in the day to ask him to pour her a drink.
Instead, because it will bring him to her side, she says, "Thank you for the ring, Arthur. I'm not sure if I ever said." More softly, "If I did, I don't remember."
Her comment did exactly that and Arthur gave in to his temptation to slide his arm along her shoulder and kiss her temple after he closed the distance between them. "You're welcome and I never get tired of hearing that you like it." He reaches out to slide a finger over the ring where it rests and glances down at her notebook. "Do you know what I love about you? Well, one of many but you were determined to not let the island get the better of you. You're a fighter and even though you felt as if your mind was betraying you, your instincts were sharp enough to realize something wasn't quite right and you took steps to correct it."
It's so unlike her, and if he were anyone else, she'd haul up ironclad will and stay strong and steely. But it's Arthur and in her mind she's been wearing this new ring twenty-four hours, most of which they spent in bed. Setting her coffee down, she sighs, and gives in to the need to feel him strong and solid, turning into his arms instead of fighting them. There's still a core of steel in her. She doesn't collapse weeping or hysterical into her husband, but she does step close and rest her cheek on his shoulder. "I still feel it, Arthur. My mind is telling me we spent the last twenty-fours making love like honeymooners. The rest of this feels completely surreal. It's maddening, among other things, that I can taste your mouth, but for all I know it's been days, even weeks, since the last time I kissed you."
Arthur's fingers slide through Joan's hair and down her back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture as they stand there. "I would never go days or even weeks without kissing you." His thumb made a caressing movement over her cheek next to her ear. "Twenty four hours is the longest we've gone without it since I arrived on the island." And even then that was stretching it, but he didn't say that. "Trust your instincts, they are the best that I've ever seen, don't overthink things or second guess them. Go with what's in the notebook and what your instincts tell you about any given situation that you're in."
I'm scared. Two words Joan Campbell is unlikely ever to say, even to the husband she loves more than breath, but he knows her and no matter how close they have been, she cannot believe he will not know her softness for what it is. She is not, uncharacteristically, entirely certain she cares. "Kiss me now, then, Arthur? I want what my mind is telling me to stop being unreal. Walk with me on the beach and bring me home and love me? Today, at least, I can have what seems real and maybe it will help." She gives him a weak but very Joan sort of smile. "It can't hurt, anyway."
On a good day, Arthur would never say no to that let alone on a day when Joan was vulnerable and her need for their connection strong. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "There is nothing that I would like to do more than to kiss my wife, take a romantic walk on the beach and make love to her." His lips curved into a smile as he raised his head but only for a brief moment before his free hand came up to tilt Joan's chin up and capture her lips in a soft, tender kiss.
This feels real. It feels right to feel the quick heat of her need for him - usually a little slower to fire unless they've been fighting, but recently (in her mind and according to the notebook) it only takes this, the sure sweetness of his mouth on hers to make her body heavy with the aching desire that had all but left their marriage months ago (year, now, according to the notebook). The press of her mouth back against his and the firm skim of her hands is matched with a quiet moan. "Maybe we should reverse that order, Arthur."
"Well, we'll have to reverse only two of those since I've already kissed my wife." The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile as he pulls away only far enough to speak, "but I think I can manage the reverse order." It certainly wasn't a hardship. It didn't matter how long he and Joan had been together, there was still very much heat in their relationship and likely would be for decades. Arthur slid his hands toward the small of her back, bringing their bodies more flush.
"You know," she murmurs, head tilting back to expose her neck for his mouth. "I think I remember this." In moments of crisis, Joan reflects, sometimes the only thing to do is make a joke.
****
Arthur was worried, not that Joan wouldn't come out of it, that was a given knowing how the island seemed to work, but he didn't like that Joan seemed to be regressing further back in her amnesia. It was normal in Alzheimer's patients to regress to another time, but it wasn't typical of amnesia patients and Joan seemed to be having classic signs of both. When he'd come back to their home, she wasn't there and while Arthur wasn't usually the type to go in search of his wife, these were extenuating circumstances. Which was why his blue eyes were scanning the horizon along the beach by their home. Hopefully she was shell gathering, or walking to clear her head, and not walking to find a way off the island. If he was very lucky, she'd be following protocol thinking she was on assignment.
It's a Friday night on Penn State campus and Joan's hanging off the arm of a guy she met at a fraternity party an hour and a half a go. She already can't remember his name and she knows she doesn't care. She'll ditch him any minute now, when she finds somewhere to--wait, hold on. She lifts her head from her arms and she is on a beach, sunbathing from the looks of it. Her skin looks like she's been sunbathing for twenty years and nothing makes any sense.
Is she in Cabo for Spring Break? Maybe she was dreaming the party? There's a bag next to her with a notebook in it that says 'Read me' on the front, as if she didn't feel enough like Alice already. Her mind's fuzzy and she can't remember yesterday or what she's doing here. What she does remember is that Spring Break has been rife with rohypnol trips this past year. Scared, she sits up and looks around. She's alone here, so she slips her fingers between her thighs against the bathing suit bottom and presses. Thank god she's not sore.
She opens the notebook and it's crazy. It makes no sense. She wants to ask for help, but there's no one around. No one except an attractive older man walking toward her. She drops the notebook back into her bag and scrambles to her feet. "Excuse me. Please, can you help me? I think I'm lost."
It was years of training that had Arthur's expression remain neutral when Joan spoke to him. She was obviously from before coming to the Farm, she would have done a different approach. He gave her his most charming smile with a flash of dimple. "Certainly. Where were you headed before you got turned around?" That question could have encompassed a lot of possibilities.
Now she looks lost, too. He could even be the reason she's out here alone. He doesn't look like a serial rapist, but then, who does? She's trained in self-defense, though, so if he's looking for trouble, she won't go down easy. For now, she smiles and tries to look harmless. "I'm not entirely sure. I was with some friends, but they're not answering my calls."
"The island doesn't have a good cell signal." He nodded easily and then pointed in the direction over his shoulder toward the compound. "There's a compound just over there, where most of the people gather, they're probably there. But if your friends are anything like mine they're probably at one of the bars here and those are over in that direction." Arthur had noticed the wariness in her eyes and there was a mixture of pride and pain that she didn't immediately trust a stranger but that her instincts didn't tell her that she could trust him.
"Definitely the bar," Joan says with a cheery false confidence. It's public anyway, right, and it's safer than being alone on the beach with him where there's no one to hear if she screams. He really doesn't seem dangerous and she's relaxed steadily since he appeared but who knows if that's what Andrea thought before she got raped last yer on Spring Break. "Which way are you headed?" Pin him down in a direction and if he comes a different one, she knows not to trust him.
Arthur couldn't very well tell her he was in search of her but he could stretch the truth a bit. "I was looking for my wife, but I think we got our signals crossed somewhere." He pointed in the direction of the Winchester. "I thought I'd check there first to see if she's there. If she's not, you might see me roaming the island looking for her." That would at least explain why their paths would cross multiple times, until he got in touch with one of their friends to keep an eye out for her.
Looking for a pet is a common tactic with sexual predators, Joan knows from her psych classes, even if she prefers economics and global history. Looking for a wife doesn't seem as threatening but it's sympathetic. She glances down at her hands and--frowns, lifting one up. She's wearing a ring. A wedding ring. A very expensive wedding ring. What? She takes a step away from him. "Is this some kind of a joke? Am I supposed to be your wife or something? Because I'm not that kind of a drinker. I would have remembered."
"I'd like to think marriage to me would be memorable." Arthur agreed easily. "Nor did I say you were her. No offense, but do I look like someone that would be married to someone that was on a college spring break?" He pointed out as he put his hands in his pockets. There was a part of him that was a little disappointed that there wasn't at least a small flash of recognition when she saw the ring. Not of him but of the ring itself. Though they had always been less of a material people, though they did like the finer things. Their connection had always been the simpler memories, like getting Manning for his football dream team.
There's something in how he says it, something in his eyes that tugs at her, but hands in pockets is a sign of a lie being told. She knows that, and she knows he's not telling her something. That scares her more than anything, the feeling of familiarity that's creeping over her. Why does it feel like she knows him? Why does it bother her that he's lying to her? Her jaw tenses and her shoulders with it. Her gaze narrows on him and that feels familiar too. "What did you say your name was?" She's well aware she hasn't asked, but her tone makes it a demand.
"Arthur Campbell." His name wouldn't mean anything to Joan if she was on spring break in her college years in her mind nor would he have lied about something that could easily have been derailed the moment someone said hello to him on the island within Joan's hearing. "From Washington DC before I came to the island. Would you like to see my driver's license?" There was just a hint of humor in his eyes but it was also pride that she was very hesitant with a stranger, albeit a familiar stranger.
"As if that would prove anything, Arthur," Joan says, sounding strangely suddenly a good deal more like herself but not realizing it. "Driver's licenses can be easily faked and I don't have the resources here to verify one." Her gaze narrows and something tugs at her, tugs her forward - why does he seem so familiar to her? "I'll have to take your word for it." Which didn't like doing, especially with the mystery of the, she glances down at it again, enormous rock on her finger and--
Everything comes rushing back, everything, and the memory of days and days of this, being in and out of the present moment and how's she's been treating him this last ten minutes-- "Oh, Arthur." Her eyes cloud again, but now with pain and regret. Her hand lifts to his jaw. "I'm sorry. I..." She hates this so desperately, everything in her aching as she steps in closer to him again, her husband. "I'm so sorry."
Arthur pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head as he held her. There was relief that his Joan was back but it also tore at him that she was going through this. "No, don't apologize. Are you kidding? I'm very proud that through it all you were smart in your distrust of a stranger." It also reaffirmed that if he, Annie, Auggie or anyone else couldn't watch over Joan she could still take care of herself no matter where in her timeline her memories took her.
"Arthur, please," Joan pleads, far more softly than is usual for her. "Who knows how much time we have when I'm myself. Don't use it reassuring me." It's a measure, she knows, of how worried she is about him that she hasn't laid into him for being patronizing. If he keeps it up, she will, because it's rubbing her raw, but in this moment she needs to be his wife and not his child. "I know you. I know what this has to be doing to you. At least...let me try to be what you need while I still can?" She knows that he insists this is the island, and she'll be back to herself again when it lets up, but Joan no longer believes it. She's angry and terrified and disconsolate by turns but she needs to be as normal as she can be, for a little while.
"Okay." Arthur understood what she was trying to say, he'd have the same need if the roles were reversed. "You're right, we need to grab these moments when they happen." His weight shifted so that he was looking down at her rather than just holding her. "I won't lie, it hurts seeing you like this and there was a part of me that hurts when I'm not recognized." That he could give her. "But deep down, even now when you thought you were on spring break, and rightfully didn't trust who you thought was a stranger, there was still a connection that you couldn't deny. I saw when you looked at the ring."
She hadn't felt it. That's what scares her. Sometimes she doesn't. If she loses that, she loses him, and she doesn't want that. It might be kinder to him, if/when this gets to where she can't remember at all, he doesn't feel that pull. If she were stronger, she'd send him away before then. Right now, she tips her head up, bright blue eyes searching his face. "You've been wonderful. If you've been impatient or cross or angry, you've never shown it. If not for you, I'm sure they'd be medicating me now. I can't thank you enough for how steady you've been." Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden, for how much this sounded like goodbye, but she needed to say it, in case she never got another lucid chance. "I love you. I know I'm terrible about saying it at the best of times, but I do. I love you."
Arthur cradled her face in his hands, his eyes searching her features before he leaned down and kissed her with a lingering kiss. When his head finally rose he said, "In sickness and in health, in good times and in bad. I meant them when I said that. There is no denying that it's a rough patch, or that I miss you very much when you aren't the Joan I remember. " There were times when he wanted to bang his head against the wall or go hit something. He would just spend an extra hour working out, to satisfy that need to alleviate the frustration. "I love you, Joan and I meant it when I said I wanted this marriage to work."
With his ex-wife, Arthur couldn't honestly have said that he'd would have made it through the frustrations. He would have liked to say that he would have made the transition as easily as possible, but he couldn't honestly say that he would have stayed by Geena's side.
Unable to form the words that there would be no marriage if she couldn't remember his name, Joan slides her arms around Arthur, nodded, and rests her cheek against his shoulder. "Til death do us part," she says instead, and hopes it won't come to that.
****
Joan's grown bored of the games her talking computer, Nittany, supplies for her. She knows from the face in the mirror, she is not a child, but her coordination and her memory, her abilities, are those of the child she is in her own mind. As precocious as she was then, Joan nevertheless cannot make her body move as it does normally, the age lines on her skin, the aches and pains of forty-something to a pre-teen mind, the knowledge that she's hurting or disappointing the adults--her friends, her husband (so totally weird)--around her have worn her down to edgy frustration.
There is no ice cream, no cereal, no macaroni and cheese, no anything she might feed herself to calm down. None of her friends are here. She's confused and scared, and frustration gives way to rage after Emily leaves. She leaves behind tea and cookies and when she has eaten one, the absence of chocolate is the last straw. She flings the basket at the door and collapses to the floor against the kitchen wall and cries. Only the fact she's too tall for it keeps her from crawling under the table or squeezing herself behind the couch like the way she used to hide from her sisters to read.
There were times since this began that Arthur wanted to bang his head against a wall, quite a few actually, but what always got him through it was his love for Joan as well as knowing that whatever he was going through it was ten times worse for her. This latest however, was hard, very hard to see his wife with the mind of a twelve year old. He could still see the flashes of the woman that she would become but it was the underneath scared young girl who was putting on a brave face with a stranger that tore at his heart. He had been tempted to stay away, to give her peace until she came back to herself or at the very least send someone that a twelve year old girl in the body of a mature woman would feel comfortable around. Annie would have been the likely candidate for that but he knew that Joan, his Joan wouldn't want to be the vulnerable with her. So that was why he came back to their place with a pizza or what passed for that on the island anyway.
The door opens and Joan cringes. Even when she was really twelve (if she's not now), she didn't like anyone to see her cry and the steps into the house are the heavier ones she associates with grown men. Emily hasn't come back, so that means it's probably Emily's boyfriend or her...or Arthur. There are tea cookies everywhere and shards of pottery and if she could hide in cupboard she would. Instead, she dashes at the tears in her eyes and pulls the ponytail holder out of her hair, slipping it around her wrist, pulls her feet under her and acts like she's crouched to pick up some of the mess. She starts doing that, because it's always been the best way to get by. Fake it until you make it, but when she looks up to see Arthur, all she wants to do is run and cry again, and the tears just won't stop falling. If she had to go back to being a kid, why did it have to be the year everything bad happened?
Arthur, like a typical male, was never good with female tears. He never knew what to do and always felt awkward. Add to that, it was his wife with the memories of a teenager and it was another layer of awkward. He'd normally take her in his arms but that wasn't an option now. So instead, he set the pizza down on the table and debated between not acknowledging the perceived weakness or doing his best to reassure Joan, all the while hoping he doesn't step in any minefields.
He went for neutral territory first. "I brought pizza or the island version of pizza if you'd like some."
"Thank you," she says stiffly, voice only a little unsteady despite the tears. "I'm not hungry." It seems like a terrible thing to say, worse even than 'go away' because she can tell he wants to help or do something to make her feel better and he can't. At least if she told him to go away he could do that and that would be something he could do.
But she doesn't want him to go, which is strange, because he's a stranger. Except the journal and Nittany and the nice woman Emily all said he's her husband and she's forgetting everything. There's a big diamond ring on her finger, so maybe he is if this isn't some kind of joke. If it is a joke, it's not very funny. "But I could sit with you while you eat. Maybe you could tell me something about you that would help me remember. I remembered Emily for a few minutes, when she said how we met, but it..." She shrugs and settles back over her heels. "Went away."
Joan's stubborn determination was something that Arthur both loved and hated about her but at the moment, it was definitely in the love category. "I can do that." Arthur agreed and moved to sit in one of the chairs, taking his tie off as he did. The island tried it's damnedest to loosen him up with a box full of loose shirts and Dockers, but if you dug down deep enough and stubbornly kept at it, you could find what made you comfortable. The silken material draped over the arm of the chair and he loosened the top two buttons of the shirt, all the while keeping it all very casual and non-threatening.
"Let's see, how about this, the first time we went to a Washington Nationals baseball game? It was something that you did because you knew how much I wanted to go." His dimple flashed at the memory. "You were mildly interested in the game until Brad Wilkerson came up to the plate to hit. He hit a grand slam and you were swept up in the moment and the excitement around you." He had a suspicion that the swept up in the moment had been mirroring his excitement at the action, seeing his joy more than Wilkerson's grand slam.
Joan gets to her feet, a little bit awkward with the taller, stronger body than her mind thinks she has. It's weaker in some ways too, but she manages to clean up the mess she's made and find glasses to pour -- she freezes. In her hands are two glasses for some kind of alcohol. She has no idea what she was thinking, or wasn't thinking, and almost drops the glasses for fear of her mother yelling at her. Good reflexes from volleyball save the moment and she trades one glass for a tumbler. There's iced tea for herself which she sets on the table and then goes to the liquor cabinet thing and hopes she'll be able to tell what he drinks from what's open.
When he's finished taking off his tie (how did she know that was what he was doing with her back turned?) and starts talking, Joan relaxes. She can almost see the grand slam he's talking about and he seems so happy that she finds she has a bottle (some kind of scotch) in her hand without thinking. It's a guess when she realizes it again, but pours it, stoppers it and takes the glass to the table and hands it to him before sitting down. Something nags at her about it, something about how their hands don't touch when she gives him his drink.
"I'm sorry I don't remember, Arthur--" That comes out automatically instead of the hesitant 'Mr. Campbell's' from earlier in the day. "It sounds like we had a good time though." She takes a seat next to him, not across, because that feels right and her gaze falls at the ring on her finger. "You gave me this?"
"I did." Arthur nodded. "The minute that I could put a ring on your finger I did." He wasn't about to tell her the whole story of their courtship. "We were co-workers and I fell in love with your strength, intelligence and caring heart." That much was true, Arthur would just slide passed the part where he'd been married at the time.
"The very minute," she says sounding entirely herself for a breath, and teasing on top of it. "Not even one extra minute?" Her eyes sparkle with life and wit and intelligence and then it fades again, not into stupidity but youth. "Oh--" As if she'd said none of it. "What am I like, when I'm...the me that you know? I can't figure it out from all of these notes and data. Even my friends are notes and numbers, or the people I say are my friends. Do I have friends?"
He wouldn't mention that it was as soon as the ink had been dried on the divorce papers. "Maybe a half a minute. It took time to take the ring out of the box." His own eyes sparkle with wit and intelligence and then sobers at her question. "You have quite a few friends, and some of them are your friends rather than our friends as a couple. Your notes on Auggie, you two are very close but who is not in your notes is Megan." At least Arthur didn't think so since he assumed Joan only wrote about the people on the island.
"Megan Morecock?" Joan wrinkled her nose in disbelief and then shook her head. "She's a complete bitch. A total waste of oxygen. Why would I be friends with her? Did she really change that much?" A horrifying thought struck her and her eyes went wide. "Or did I? Oh, god, I turned into one of the mean girls?"
Arthur felt a wave of sympathy for Megan Morecock and the teasing she had to endure growing with that name. No wonder she'd become a mean girl. "Her name is Megan Wilkons and I believe you didn't meet her until after college." He said with a hint of a smile and a flash of dimple. "I can certainly guarantee that you did not turn into one of the mean girls. We never would have got together, if you had."
For a flash of a second, Joan remembers. She remembers Meg as a real person, not just a journal notation, a friend unlike Lena, someone she trusted as much as she trusts...Arthur. There's just enough time for her to wrap her fingers around his hand and hold onto it before it's all gone again and she stares at their hands like twined snakes. Joan swallows a sound that might be a sob, gets up and starts back toward the other room, not the bedroom they share. "I'm... I'm sorry. I...don't remember," she whispers and then disappears behind the closed door.
Arthur watched her go, a twisting in his heart for the pain she was going through. The only bright side of it was that she didn't remember the emotional pain of each time she tried to grasp who she was and it flitted away. As if he needed another reason to hate what this place was doing to her. He also hated that it was a silent enemy that he couldn't destroy. Arthur knew that Joan would want to fight her own battles, but neither was he the type of person to sit on the sidelines while his wife was under attack.
*****
It begins like many other mornings recently. Joan knows who she is, but she's sleeping alone. She remembers waking up with Arthur with her preteen mind and why she'd insisted on sleeping alone after that. Her journal tells her that was four days ago. The details are hazy but she remembers those four days. Before she even gets up for coffee, she makes today's morning entry in the journal and uploads it to Nittany who has a built in scanner.
When she gets up, it's still early and Arthur's not out of the bedroom yet. As raw as she is, part of her wants to crawl into their bed, into his arms, but the thought of losing herself in the midst of making love and how much that would hurt him makes her retch. She hates what the dementia is doing to them and to him more than for what it does to her. So instead of going to him, she pulls two mugs down from the rack and sets the shell with his name on it in front of the second mug. In case she forgets before he comes out. At least she'll be able to figure out who the second cup is for.
It was the smell of coffee that brought Arthur out of his deep sleep. His hand automatically going to the space beside him, even before his memory kicks in and he knows why he's alone in the bed. There is a stillness and a soft sigh as he sits up and brushes his hair out of his eyes. The decision for separate rooms had been mutual, Arthur had no desire to scare a version of Joan that would have no idea who the strange man was in her bed. He rolled out and grabbed a t-shirt to wear over the pajama bottoms, not quite sure what he'll see or who he'll meet when he steps into the kitchen.
Joan still remembers when he rolls out of bed and she doesn't waste a second of the time that she might have with him today with pleasantries. Instead she goes to him and places both hands on his chest, leans up and kisses him while she still knows who he is, and then she bids him, "Good morning, Arthur," with a smile that's soft and frayed around the edges but no less real for it.
He had no idea that his muscles were tense until they relaxed a little with her kiss and her recognition. Arthur knows that it can be taken away in a literal blink of an eye, but he's just as determined as she is to hold on to and cherish the moments when they happen. He encircles her waist very loosely as he ducks his head and takes another kiss, this one quick and butterfly soft. "Good morning, Joan."
"I made coffee for us," she tells him, even though it's abundantly obvious from the scent of the brew in their little kitchen. She slides her hands down his arms, only stepping back far enough that she can see him. "But I'm finding I don't want to drink it right now. I've been wracking my brain to come up with something we can do that won't go pear-shaped if I suddenly forget who you are again, and I can't." Her words cut out around a choked back sound that sounds enough like a sob even she can't name it something else. "I'm so tired, Arthur. It's August 1. A new month. Do you think there's any chance this is going to stop now, that today I won't forget and it will last?" It's a clear sign of how desperate she is that she's admitting to needing to hear him say it.
"I think." Arthur began and gently runs the back of his knuckles over her cheek, "that a very good chance this is going to stop." He didn't say the now part because he wasn't going to lie to Joan. He has no idea if it will end this month or next but from the experience with everything else the island has done, it will be short termed. Or God help whoever is behind it. "If I was a betting man, which I am, I'd say that the odds are pretty good that the new month would be a new start." Or a re-start.
He smiles warmly at her, "and I can think of one thing that won't go too pear-shaped if you suddenly forget. How about a walk on the beach, shell combing?" If Joan reverts to any time when she doesn't know who he is, it would be easy for her to leave and won't feel trapped in a building with a stranger.
Joan's heart trips in her chest, flips and falls all over again. It does feel like falling in love with him all over again, every time they have a few minutes where she knows who she is. Her eyes close and she tips her cheek against his hand. "I've started remembering that I didn't remember, the next day, that is. It seems like a good development," she tells him, but the hope in her voice is thin. "I need it to be, love. Because every morning that I wake up alone, I remember how much I miss you."
She sighs and twines her arms around him, grateful for remembering, but raw from not knowing if it will stick. "A walk on the beach sounds like a good idea, but can we risk it just a little longer? I'm--" Not ready to let you go yet. What if this is the last time I know who you are? "Enjoying this."
