For Thy Sweet Love Remembered
Joan StephensChapter One
"Father, I need you," Catherine’s voice rang out. Hovering outside, Father hurriedly limped into the dark cavern where Vincent had fled to continue his fight with the darkness that Paracelsus had let loose. Pascal, Mouse, and Jamie followed Father into the dark cave.
"What is it?" He took a quick look at the still body that Catherine cradled in her arms. "Is he . . . ?"
"He’s alive." She smiled faintly at him, her eyes swimming with anxious tears. "We were talking and he just slipped into a deep sleep. I can’t rouse him."
"Pascal, send a message for Matthew and Jonah to bring a stretcher here." Pascal left at a dead run.
Catherine looked up at Father with worried eyes. "He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?"
Leaning heavily on Mouse, Father eased into a kneeling position beside the prostrate body and felt Vincent’s forehead and took his pulse. "He seems to be in a deep sleep." He glanced at her and smiled, "He does this when he is healing. He’ll wake when he’s ready."
Relieved, she returned his smile. She really has a lovely smile, he thought, no wonder Vincent loves it. With Mouse’s aid and his cane, he climbed back to his feet, and they waited until the two men arrived with the stretcher. Matthew and Jonah were big, brawny men who were the nearest thing to a rescue squad the tunnels had, and they had been involved in more rescues than they cared to remember. Carefully and gently, they removed Vincent from Catherine’s reluctant arms. Knowing that Vincent was more at ease in his own chamber, Father directed them to carry him there. Slowly, he followed behind, Jamie and Catherine on either side of him.
*
When they arrived, Vincent was lying in the midst of his large bed, ready for Father’s ministrations. Everyone was waved out except Catherine. Hovering just behind Father, she had to look away as he inserted an IV needle into Vincent’s arm and attached a bag of saline. "He is dehydrated and in need of fluids," he explained. Noticing for the first time how exhausted she was, he ordered her to lie down. "Catherine, it will be some time before he awakens. Go and lie down in my chamber. I’ll let you know as soon as he is awake."
"But I don’t want to leave him," she protested. Still she looked so lost and worn that he insisted. Stopping at the entrance, she turned to look back at the man she loved. Father could see the inner struggle in her eyes as she bent them on the unconscious form. Quickly, he shooed her out of the chamber before she could change her mind.
She stumbled into Father’s bed chamber and reluctantly laid down in his bed, pulling a colorful heavy quilt over her. As she sank into a light, restless sleep, she thought, Be well, Vincent. I love you. She awoke to Father shaking her shoulder. Groggily, she rolled over struggling to come awake. "He’s awake; he needs me," she said, anxious to see him, and she hopped out of bed ready to go to him. Fear coursed through her and she stopped when she noticed Father’s grave expression. "What is it? What’s wrong? He isn’t . . . ?"
"No," Father swiftly cut in, "He’s all right. But there is a problem."
"What? Tell me," Catherine asked, impatiently.
"He’s awake, but he has lost all memory of the last three years. He remembers everything up to the night he found you in the park."
His words settled like ice into her heart. "The night he found me?" She sank heavily onto the bed. "He’s forgotten me?"
"Yes, he has forgotten all the years he spent with you," he said self-righteously, trying to sound nonjudgmental but barely succeeding.
As she stared at Father, all the color drained from her face, "Oh god, I’ve caused him that much pain that he can’t bear to remember me?" Suddenly, she panicked. "I can’t feel the bond. It’s gone. I’m alone." For the first time since she had met Vincent, she was completely alone and adrift . . . adrift on an empty sea of utter aloneness. Was this how Vincent had felt before they met? Never had she felt this alone and cut off. There was a vast emptiness in her heart that had once been filled with his love and light, and she was afraid that the emptiness could destroy her. But hope blossomed as she asked, "Is there a chance that this is temporary?"
"I don’t know, but you must know this, he gets very agitated when asked about the missing three years. He is definitely afraid to remember. I dare not push him." Surprisingly, the words gave him the comfort that was denied her.
Her face crumpled as a leaf crushed underfoot, and the tears that had begun to slowly streaming down her cheeks gave way to a flood of hysterical tears. Father moved to take her into his arms as he fought the sting of tears in his own eyes. "I’m sorry, child, but maybe it is for the best."
"How can you say that?" she sobbed, pushing away from him. "I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. I can’t live without him. He is my life."
"If he is your life, then do what is best for him. Give him peace and safety."
A lost, bereft, and very unhappy woman stared at him incredulously, not really seeing him. Then with a sudden shake of her head, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and straightened to her full height, seeming to grow taller with the resolution he saw in her eyes. "He will be safe now, won’t he? With the bond gone, I can’t endanger him any more."
Father watched her do what Vincent did so often, pace the room. When had she picked that up, he wondered. So many of their actions were reminiscent of the other.
"Will he have peace? I hope so. God knows, I won’t," she said bitterly. Turning steely, determined eyes to him, she said, "If I am to stay out of his life, I need the rose I gave him, his journals for the last three years, and my letters. I think I’m entitled to these things."
"Yes, I understand," he dropped his eyes. This woman, whom he still vaguely resented, was once again sacrificing her life for his son’s. He felt faintly ashamed and was shamed even more by the thought that it was . . . only faintly. But, he was only doing what he thought was right for his son. Surely, she could see that or would in the future. It was for Vincent’s own good; he soothed his troubled conscience.
"Do you suppose he is still asleep?" she asked hopefully.
"I’ll see." Father returned in a few minutes to a very nervous Catherine. "Yes, he’s asleep."
"I want to see him." Defiantly, she dared him to deny her this one last look at the man she loved.
She was so unhappy that Father relented. "Yes, of course. Go on in." Secretly, he hoped that Vincent would not wake up while she was there, and he slumped heavily into his chair.
Catherine quickly ran into Vincent’s chamber. He lay in soft repose, his arms curled over his head. She stood by his bed drinking in his beauty, yearning to take him in her arms, then she leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the lips, whispering, "Remember love, Vincent." She straightened, smiled sadly at him and slowly backed out of his chamber.
Father rose, opening his arms to her as she entered the chamber. Gently, stroking her hair, he said, "Catherine, I’ve been thinking. There is a way that you can see him occasionally. You are a Helper, you know?" He squeezed her gently.
All the light seemed to have gone out of her and gazing at him with dazed, dispirited eyes, she agreed wearily. "Yes, he can know me as a Helper, but the others must be told. Mouse might be a problem. He has a mind of his own." She sank into a nearby chair and buried her face in her hands, crying quietly. In spite of his relief that she would no longer endanger his son, his heart went out to her. He realized for the first time just how fiercely and truly this young woman loved his son. And he knew she would do whatever she thought was best for him.
"Father," came the weak call from Vincent’s chamber.
Catherine sprang to her feet, then sagged back into her chair when Father grabbed her arm and shook his head. "I’ll be right back," he promised.
"Please." Her haunted eyes followed him as he left his chamber.
"What is it, Vincent? A drink of water, hum?" He arranged the covers neatly over the large form then brought him a cup of water.
"Was there someone in my chamber?" Vincent rasped through a dry throat. His eyes darted around the room in agitation as he swallowed the refreshingly cool liquid.
"Ah . . . yes. One of our newer Helpers looked in on you . . . Cathy. You wouldn’t remember her. She’s only been with us for two years." The half-truths came surprisingly easy to his lips.
"Tell her I’m sorry that I will meet her some other day." Closing his eyes, Vincent slipped back to sleep.
"I’ll tell her, son. Sleep well." Tenderly, Father brushed a strand of hair from Vincent’s forehead then, with a soft sigh of relief, returned to his own chamber.
Catherine was pacing back and forth when he returned. How much pacing this chamber has seen over the years, he thought as he paused at the threshold. She stopped abruptly, the hope dying in her wide, green eyes when he spread his hands open. "He just wanted to know if someone had been in there."
"And?" she whispered.
"I told him a new Helper had been in to see him, and he said to tell you he was sorry and would meet you some other day," he replied.
Every word he spoke was like a knife twisting in her heart. Turning away from him, she bowed her head in defeat. After a few minutes of silence, punctuated by the sounds of subway trains and the tapping on the pipes, she drew a sharp breath then said, "Well, I guess there is nothing more for me here." Completely devastated and feeling as if her life was over, she picked up her jacket, then retrieved the rose and her letters, the journals she would leave with Father. "Keep me posted, please?" she asked as she hugged him.
"Of course I will, child," he answered softly. "Sleep, if you can."
"I don’t think I will ever sleep well again," she said in a haunted voice, as she began walking down the corridor.
"Shall I send someone with you?" he called after her, worried about her state of mind. She just waved a hand in defeat and never stopped.
*
When she reached her apartment, she looked around as if she had never seen it before. The woman that had flown out of here to save the man she loved was not the woman who had returned. Part of her had gone with that which Vincent had lost. She would never be the same until he returned to her, and she could feel his love nestled in her heart.
Walking out onto the terrace, she remembered all the times they had spent here. Then, collapsing into the wrought iron love seat, she cried until there were no more tears. After dragging her weary body into bed, she tried to sleep. But sleep eluded her for a long time, and when she finally succumbed, she dreamed of losing Vincent and not being able to find him.
Vincent, on the contrary, slept deep and dreamless. Day by day he improved, and soon Father allowed him to resume his daily activities. He knew he had lost the last three years, but whenever he thought about that time, he would begin to shake, becoming very disturbed, and his friends and family soon learned not to mention it. Still, there was an empty space in his heart that nothing seemed to fill. And he began to dream. Strange, troubling dreams of someone he couldn’t find. He wondered if that someone could fill the empty space inside him.
Father watched over him carefully. He knew it was selfish of him, but he was secretly glad that Catherine was out of Vincent’s life. Now he would have his son back. Of course, he could never come right out and say it. The other members of the community loved Catherine, and what she had brought to Vincent truly warmed their hearts.
The following weeks proved Father right. He had his son back, but at what cost? Vincent had lost all his spark and fire, and it was with dismay that Father realized that he was not the son that he knew. He was docile, uncomplaining, never raised his voice, seldom went Above and, frankly, was a little dull. Father never knew how much he enjoyed the arguments and discussions that they had had until they were gone. Now, Vincent always deferred to him, rarely voicing an opposite opinion and if he did, very diffidently. Well, things would get better. After all, he had just survived a life threatening illness. At least, Father hoped this would be the case. He simply refused to see the obvious: that Vincent had lost more than three years; he had lost a part of himself.
*
So, Catherine became a Helper who occasionally visited Below. The first time she saw Vincent was almost her undoing. He and Father were poring over a set of maps when she entered the chamber. She had heard his beloved voice and weakly leaned against the tunnel wall, not at all sure she had the courage to enter. "You have the courage. You do. I know you," Vincent’s voice sounded in her mind. Pushing away from the wall, she wiped the tears from her eyes with a tissue and pasted a smile on her face. "Father, may I come in?" she asked, her voice quivering slightly.
Father’s head snapped up in consternation. After a quick glance at Vincent, who was still absorbed in the map, he replied cheerfully, he hoped, "Of course, Cathy, come in." Turning to Vincent, who was turning to greet the newcomer, Father introduced her to him. "Ah . . . Vincent, this is Cathy, the new helper I told you about."
With a polite smile on his face, Vincent extended his hand. "Hello, Cathy. I’m sorry I don’t remember you. It’s nice to meet you."
Trembling slightly, she took the proffered hand. As their hands touched, she sensed that something was wrong. He should have picked up on her unease, but he seemed totally unaware of how she felt. She flashed a quick look at Father who shrugged his shoulders slightly "I’ve met you before, Vincent. You look much better then the last time I saw you."
"Yes, Father told me you had come in to see me. Thank you." His smile as he looked down at her brought tears to her eyes, and she quickly looked away.
"Did you want to see me for any particular reason?" Father asked, trying to rescue her.
With a quick smile of thanks, she answered, "Yes, I have those books you wanted and some clothes and material that I was going to give away. I thought that Sarah and Mary might be able to use them. Everything is just outside the entrance."
"I’ll get them for you," Vincent offered.
"What’s wrong with him?" she whispered urgently, as soon as Vincent was out of ear shot.
"I don’t know." Father whispered back, exasperated.
"Something is missing. Is it possible he’s no longer empathic?" Vincent came back into the chamber, and she turned to him with a quick smile of thanks.
Father shook his head and bent to look at the books Vincent handed him.
"I’m sure Sarah and Mary will appreciate the clothes and material and put them to good use," Vincent said, setting the material on a nearby chair.
"Yes, thank you, Cathy," Father said, gazing at her intently.
Catherine took the hint. "Well, I’ve got to go. Let me know if there is anything else I can do." She smiled her best smile and somehow found herself out in the tunnel. Her weak legs could barely hold her up, but she knew she couldn’t give into the weakness there. When she finally groped her way to the basement, she leaned gratefully against the tunnel wall. Then, sliding down it until she was huddled in a ball of unutterable misery at its base, she sobbed uncontrollably. She had promised herself that she would not do this, but she was unable to stop.
Catherine’s life settled into a routine of long hours of frenetic work followed by nights of restless sleep filled with unhappy dreams. When not working or sleeping, she found anything to keep her busy and nonthinking. She didn’t always succeed.
*
Father kept a wary eye on Vincent and was more than pleased with his apparent lack of interest in the last three years. What Vincent couldn’t tell him--what Father didn’t know--was that he knew he was running away from those lost years even as he dreamed of them night after night.
One night, the dreams changed. They became charged with a feeling of great loss and frustration. He was constantly searching for a voice that called out to him, a beautiful, lilting voice that trilled his name. His name had never sounded so beautiful as it did in these dreams. When he approached her, for it was a woman, she would gaze at him sadly, tears streaming from her eyes. All he ever saw were her eyes. She would turn from him, and as he turned her around, she would fade away. But he knew her. Deep in his soul, he knew her. And something in him longed for her. Suddenly, he would be terrified, and he would bolt awake, crying her name, a name that faded away as mist in the sun.