“That got me at first, too.” Jim Bryan gave a soft chuckle. “Then I remembered something that happened back in 1993. Jake and I were two of the last firefighters who responded to the bombing at the World Trade Center. The fire was out, but as a precaution, we walked up the stairs, making sure people were handling the evacuation okay. We walked up fifty floors that day checking each stairwell, looking for stranded office workers who'd given up or collapsed. Jake said something on the way back down that I just remembered yesterday morning.”
Jamie waited, anxious for the rest of the story. She glanced at Jake. He was unmoved, unchanged. His chest fell in a gentle rhythm, but he showed no signs of waking up.
Jim Bryan chuckled again. “On the way back down, Jake kept wanting to take off his turnouts.”
“Why?” Jamie still didn't understand.
“Because once you've walked fifty flights in a suit that heavy, you're pretty well exhausted. On the way back down, we knew we were out of danger. All Jake wanted to do was take off the turnouts and bound down the stairs two at a time. In the uniform, we had to pace ourselves.”
“So you think …”
“I think Jake had a victim on his back, and after a few flights, he realized there was a better way to go about it. He probably slipped out of the stairwell at one of the floors, set the victim down, and took off his turnouts. Then he would've put the victim over his back again and continued down the rest of the way.”
The notion made perfect sense. “He could've found the turnouts again on the way back up so he'd be ready to fight the fire.”
“Exactly.” Jim's tone changed. “Only he never got the chance. He was probably out near the truck helping the victim when the building collapsed.”
“So … if that's the explanation, I wonder what happened to the person he saved.”
“Maybe he was taken away by ambulance.” Jim Bryan paused. “Or maybe he was buried in the rubble. I'm guessing that if Jake hadn't gone over to the truck, he might've been buried too. Jake's the only one who'll be able to tell us.”
“If he remembers.” Jamie had already shared the doctor's concerns with Jake's father.
“Yes … I guess we won't know until he wakes up.”
They ended the conversation and Jamie stared at Jake. It had been an hour since anyone had entered the room, and she was sleepy. Still, she kept her eyes on Jake, whispering to him, coaxing him to surface from the deep place where he was sleeping. She clutched tightly to the fingers on his right hand.
“Guess what? I just talked to Sierra. She wants you to come home. Your dad's with her right now, but the doctor says it won't be long. You're doing a lot better.” She studied him. His face was still bandaged because of the burns. Only now, what with the surgery, his short dark hair had been shaved, and his head was wrapped even bigger than before. She ran her tongue along her lower lip. “We're all pulling for you, Jake.”
She no sooner had his name out of her mouth when she felt his fingers move. “Jake?” This time she didn't whisper. The danger that too much stimulation might make his brain swell had long since passed, so she didn't need to keep her voice down. “Jake, honey, can you hear me?”
A moan came from deep in his chest, and then it stopped. False alarm, Jamie told herself. But what if it wasn't? “Jake … wake up! It's Jamie, honey. I'm right here waiting for you.”
Again he made a moaning sound, only this time his head moved an inch or two in each direction. Jamie jumped to her feet. It was happening, Jake was waking up! She rushed into the hallway and waved at a nearby nurse. “Quick … get Dr. Cleary. My husband's coming to!”
Jamie felt so wonderful she darted back into the room and barely felt her feet touch the ground. If Jake woke up now, if he had his memory and his health, the doctor would have to peel her off the ceiling. The idea was more than she could hope for.
She came up to Jake's side and took his hand again. He was still moaning, still moving about. First his head and shoulders, then his feet and legs. His injured left ankle was in a cast now, one that would stay on for six weeks. But otherwise, Jake's body was fairly healthy. The burns would heal quickly. Dr. Cleary had said so.
The only questions were about Jake's brain.
“Jake … can you hear me?”
He blinked, opening his eyes only the slightest bit. He looked like someone peering into the sun for the first time after spending a week underground. “Mmmmmm.” The moan was louder now, more distinct, and Jamie's heart soared. He was trying to talk!
“I'm here, Jake.” She was still standing, grasping his knee with her right hand and squeezing his fingers with the left. “You're doing great. Can you hear me, honey?”
He blinked wider this time and squinted, looking around the room until he found her. And the most terrifying realization hit Jamie. He was looking at her without even the slightest bit of recognition.
They were Jake's eyes, for sure. Same shade of blue, same eyelashes. But since Jake was a boy, his eyes had lit up when they found her, every single time they saw each other.
Until now.
Now, as Jamie stared at Jake, there was no love, no sparkle, no pool of shared memories. Nothing at all. What had the head injury done to him? What if he was different now, changed. She banished the thought as quickly as it came. He wasn't changed. He was dazed and hurt, and he needed to heal. He'd suffered a head injury, after all. What did she expect? “Jake? Honey, can you hear me?”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Dr. Cleary's voice sounded above a handful of others. The doctors were coming. They needed to see him, of course, but not yet. She wanted to know for herself first just exactly what Jake remembered. And what he'd forgotten when the south tower slammed him beneath the fire truck.
He was still looking at her, the blank stare giving her a pain in her stomach. She tried one more time. “Jake … can you hear me?”
Her husband's lips parted and came together again. Then in a burst of determination he opened his mouth a fraction wider and said the thing that must have been troubling him since he woke up. The thing that brought her world down around her and made her wonder if life between them would ever be the same again.
“Who …” he said, his words slow and parched. “Who is Jake?”
SEVENTEEN
SEPTEMBER 13, 2001
Almost nothing made sense anymore.
Jake, if that was his name, had figured out he was in a hospital. But for the past few hours, the only thing he'd been able to hear was the unfamiliar voice of a woman. A pleasant voice he'd never heard before in his life.
She talked to him constantly, even though his eyes were closed and he couldn't move. There was no question the woman was worried about him, but then that was understandable. He was worried about himself. The thing that seemed strange was that she kept calling him Jake, and talking about their house, and his father, and their little girl.
Out of everything she'd said that day, only one name brought to mind a face. The name Sierra. He could picture her as clearly as … well, as anything.
And it was with that understanding that he knew something was very wrong. Now that he was finally able to make his mouth work, he'd voiced his single most frightening question to the pretty dark-haired woman standing beside him. Who was Jake? Her face went from hopeful to horrified. But that didn't help answer his question, so he tried again. “Who's Jake?”
A pair of doctors walked into the room, and the woman turned to them. Jake couldn't make out what she was saying, but whatever it was, she was upset. He wanted to shout at them. Hey … what about me? He had no idea who he was, and they were upset? He felt like a crazy person, as if he'd woken up on a planet he didn't recognize.
He had a terrible headache, but otherwise everything seemed to move all right. His left ankle was in a cast, and there were bandages on his arms. He lifted both hands over his head and used his uncovered fingers to feel his face and scalp. They were covered too. He must've been in an accident, a car accident maybe. That mu
st be it. But why couldn't he remember his name? And why wouldn't anyone answer him about this Jake person? Was that supposed to be him? A name that wasn't in the least bit familiar?
The trio was still whispering halfway across the room. He raised his voice and spoke so they could hear him. “Will someone … answer me? Who's Jake?” His words were coming more easily now, but they were still painfully slow and raspy. “This … is a hospital?”
One of the doctors looked past the woman and smiled at him. The man nodded at his partner, and both of them made their way over to his bedside. The woman stepped aside and leaned against a wall. Her face was pale and her eyes looked red and watery.
“Yes, this is a hospital.” The younger doctor had taken the closest position. “I'm Dr. Cleary, and this is my partner, Dr. Hammond. You've been—”
“What happened?” His voice was suddenly loud and rude, but he didn't care. At first it felt like some kind of dream, as if maybe he was merely having trouble waking up. But now things were starting to feel weird. Really weird. He didn't know his name, didn't know Jake, and he'd never seen the woman at the back of the room. But clearly the woman knew him. It was the most unsettling feeling he'd ever had.
Dr. Cleary hesitated. “You were in an accident.”
“Yeah … I got that.” He rubbed his head and winced. His body felt like it had been trampled by wild horses. The throbbing in his head made it hard for him to think straight. Talking was an all-out effort. “Did I … did you operate?”
“We did. You're healing up very nicely.”
“How long?” He looked around the room, and met the woman's gaze. As quickly as he could, he tore his eyes from her. “How long … have I been here?” The doctor shared a glance with his partner, and Jake had the distinct feeling they weren't telling him everything.
“Three days. They found you beneath your fire truck, Jake. Your head was hurt, and your face and arms were burned.”
“Burned?” He was too stunned to say anything else, though a hundred questions fought for position in his mind.
“You were lucky. Nothing worse than second-degree. In six months or so it'll be hard to see your scars.”
The information was coming too fast. Jake narrowed his eyes, and nausea hit him like a sledgehammer. What had the doctor said? “I have a fire truck?”
Dr. Cleary smiled. “Not you, exactly. It's the one you and the men from your unit travel in when you take calls.”
The doctor was crazy, that had to be it. “You mean I'm a fire-fighter?”
“Yes, Jake.”
This time the doctor's smile faded, and the room was perfectly silent. From her place against the wall, the woman was no longer watching him. She hung her head and seemed to study something on the floor near her feet. For a moment, the doctor checked back at the woman, and Jake guessed that she had provided this information. The doctor shifted his position, and his eyes found Jake's again.
“You've always been a firefighter. It's all you've ever done.”
Jake's mouth hung open. “I'm not a fireman, and I … my name's not Jake.” He covered his eyes for a minute, each word deliberate. His voice was so hoarse it took everything to make himself heard. The tension in his head was getting worse. Why couldn't he remember anything? The entire scene was like something from a pyschotic ward. “I'm not Jake.”
The woman covered her mouth and stifled a cry, then she ran from the room. Dr. Cleary watched her go and made a move in her direction, then changed his mind. He turned back to Jake, but this time Dr. Hammond cut in first. “Okay, if you're not Jake, then who are you? Give us your name, and we'll do what we can to help you.”
He thought about the question, but for the first time since he'd woken up, he had no answer. He knew he wasn't Jake, and he'd certainly never fought fires. But then who was he? “I … I'm not sure.”
Dr. Hammond gave a slow nod of his head. “Are you a businessman? Do you work in Manhattan?”
“Manhattan?” The word felt familiar on his tongue, but he wasn't a businessman. The notion felt completely foreign to him. “Where's Manhattan?”
The doctors exchanged a quick look, and Dr. Cleary took over again. “In New York City. It's the business district.”
“No.” He shook his head. “That's not right … I don't work there.”
Dr. Cleary nudged his partner and motioned for him to leave. He dropped his voice to a whisper, but Jake could hear him anyway.
“Make sure she's okay, will you?”
The other doctor nodded and left the room. When he was gone, Dr. Cleary turned back to Jake and gave him an understanding look. “I know this is hard for you, Jake. The memory can take a pretty tough blow when a person has trauma to the brain. Let's try a few more questions, okay?”
“No.” He wanted to put the pillow over his head and go back to sleep. Maybe that would give his brain time to work right again. “I just want … to be normal.”
“I realize that. We're doing everything we can to help you.” He hesitated. “Just a few more questions.”
He clenched the muscles in his jaw, and his face stung. “Fine.” He gave a frustrated huff. “Ask.”
“Are you married?”
It wasn't meant to be a trick question, but his mind went completely blank. He glanced at his left hand and held it up. “I have a wedding ring.”
“Okay, good. But do you remember anything about your wife or your marriage?”
“So I am married?” Jake started to feel cold. A shiver passed over him and his teeth chattered. “Was … was that woman in here … is she my wife?”
Dr. Cleary nodded. “She's ready to help you, Jake. She loves you very much.”
The conversation might as well have taken place between two strangers. The skin on Jake's face felt like it was on fire, and his head hurt no matter how much pain medicine they gave him. But he had to figure out who he was. Even if it took every bit of the energy he had left. It was unthinkable that the questions coming from his mouth were his own. His name was Jake … he was a firefighter, happily married to a woman he didn't even recognize. He had no choice but to work through the pain until at least something made sense.
Jake licked his lips and realized they were swollen and cracked. “Were … were we happy?”
“Your wife says you were very happy. You spent every free moment together.”
“Doing what?” His teeth clicked against each other and he shook.
“Would you like a blanket, Jake?”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor disappeared out the door and returned in less than a minute with a blanket. He spread it over Jake, and a warmth made its way through his body. The doctor looked at him. “Do you know where you live?” The man's voice had a serious tone, as though the question was a difficult one, and he didn't really expect an answer.
Jake's heart ricocheted around beneath his rib cage. Where did he live, anyway? Was it New York? Or Florida? Maybe Michigan or San Francisco. His face stung deep to the core of his being, and his head throbbed. How was he supposed to answer questions when he could barely draw the next breath?
“I'm sorry …” The doctor was waiting. “Maybe this is too much for now. We can try again—”
“Could …” Jake interrupted him. He winced at the effort each word cost him. “Could you give me … choices?”
“Cities, you mean?”
Jake gave a slight nod. “Maybe …” His tone was impatient again. If only the pain in his head would let up. “Maybe something … will sound familiar.”
“Okay.” Dr. Cleary had a clipboard, and he held it to his chest, his head cocked. “New York?”
He shook his head, barely moving it an inch in either direction. “Not New York.”
“Los Angeles?”
“No.”
“Tell you what, I'll give you a list, and when you hear something that sounds familiar, let me know.”
He hated this. What was wrong with his brain that he couldn't even remember where he lived or
who he was? And worse, what if he never found out? Panic bubbled up in him, and for a moment he had a strong desire to flee, run as fast as he could and find a bench somewhere. Then he could sit down and wait until everything made sense.
But he was hooked up to a dozen monitors and tubes, and his ankle was in a cast, so running wasn't an option. Besides, it wouldn't help. “Fine.” His voice was gruff and laced with frustration. He was thirsty, and tired, and his mouth was pasty dry. “Please … give me the list.”
“Boston … Detroit … Santa Fe … Colorado Springs … Phoenix …” Dr. Cleary paused and raised his eyebrows. “Anything?”
“No … nothing.” Sweat broke out along his brow as he waited for more possibilities.
“Staten Island … Seattle … Portland … Oklahoma City …” The doctor hesitated. “Did anything come to mind when I said Staten Island?”
“Water.” He moaned and his eyes closed.
The doctor blinked. “Water?”
“Please.”
Dr. Cleary took the plastic pitcher from beside Jake's bed and held the straw up to his lips. He drew in a steady stream of water and winced at the way it hurt to form his mouth around the straw. Two more sips and the doctor set the pitcher back on the table. Jake settled back against his pillows.
“Staten Island, Jake. Did that make you remember anything?”
“No … nothing. I have no idea where I came from.” He sucked in a slow breath. “Or who I am.” He closed his eyes and willed himself to remain calm. When he opened them, he gazed out the window. “This is scary stuff, Doc.” His words were coming a bit easier. “Isn't there something you can give me? A pill … something that would help me remember? I feel like I'm crazy.”
“There's no pill for this, Jake. Just time.” The doctor gave him a concerned look. “Is there anything … anything you remember about your life before today?”