One Tuesday Morning (26 page)

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?”

He closed his eyes and thought as hard as he could. The action was like looking through a dense cloud of fog. He could make out nothing, absolutely nothing. He concentrated again until …

Something began to take shape in the vast emptiness, but at first he couldn't tell if it was a person or a flower. It was something, and in a few seconds he could see the face of a little girl with long curly hair. A name came to mind with the picture, a name he could practically see scribbled on the inside of his eyelids.

“Yes.” He opened his eyes and stared at the doctor. “When I think hard enough, I can see a little girl, long curly hair.” He bit the inside of his lip and willed away the burning around the outside of his mouth. “I … I can't quite make out her eyes. She isn't old … maybe four or five.”

The doctor seemed happy with this latest bit of information. But his enthusiasm did nothing for Jake, because he had no idea who the child was. Just that she was familiar to him. “I'm not sure if it's her name.” He motioned to the water, and the doctor gave him another sip. The sweaty feeling was going away, but his world was still upside down. “I keep seeing the word ‘Sierra.’ I see it whenever I see her picture in my head.”

“Very good. Your memory isn't completely gone.”

“Am I supposed to know her?”

“Yes.” The doctor gave him a half smile. “She's your daughter.”

Jake blinked twice. His daughter? He had a daughter? Whenever had he become a father? And who was the child's mother? Why couldn't he remember anything about the little girl except her face and her name? The anger was back. “This is crazy.” Tears stung at his eyes, and he pursed his lips, ignoring the pain the action brought. “I have to know who I am.”

“Let's see if this helps.” The doctor's voice was slow and deliberate without a trace of humor. “Your name is Jake Bryan, and you're married to Jamie. The two of you have known each other since middle school, back when you lived in the same Staten Island neighborhood.” He glanced at his clipboard and appeared to be reading some notes. “Your father was a firefighter, a chaplain, and all you've ever wanted to do is fight fires. You joined the FDNY, New York's Fire Department, when you were just out of school, and you married Jamie the year after that. You live in a house given to you by Jamie's parents, who died in a car accident when you were much younger. Four years ago you and Jamie became the parents of Sierra Jane.” The doctor paused, the corners of his mouth lifted just a little more. “The two of you are very close. At least that's what Jamie says.”

Jake's head was spinning.

He was drowning in an ocean of pain and fear, and now he felt like a secret agent. One who'd just been handed a new identity, and for whom only Sierra's name and face were familiar. Nothing else about what the doctor had just told him struck even the simplest chord in his memory. But then, maybe he had no memory. Just an empty shell of a brain, somehow able to function and talk, but without the ability to remember anything worthwhile.

But it wasn't the doctor's fault. And nothing the man could say was going to make the truth any easier to grasp. He looked up at Dr. Cleary. “Thanks, Doc. I … I need some time to myself, if that's okay. In about ten minutes you can send in that wom—” He stopped for three full seconds and cleared his throat. The effort did no good—his voice was still little more than a raspy whisper. “My … my wife. Send her to me later, okay?” His anger was fading now. There was no point being mad at the doctors or the pretty brunette. They were only trying to help him.

“Very well.” The doctor nodded and left his room.

When he was gone, Jake clenched his fists and pressed them over his eyes. Tears tried to build there, but he wouldn't let them. Something like this needed time, not tears. Lots of time all by himself so he could figure out who he was. He'd been robbed of his very self, and he needed hours, days maybe, to sift through his losses and grieve; time to make an inventory of all the empty places in his brain. Something terrible had happened to him, and now every memory, every recognition that had been a thread in the tapestry of his persona, had been stolen from him. Every single memory.

Just to be sure, he did another inventory. For nearly five minutes, he thought as hard as he could about his childhood, his school days, his firefighting history, his life with this … this Jamie woman. His experience as a father. But no matter where he parked his brain, the results were the same.

His house of memories had been robbed blind.

He still had questions, like what were the chances his memories would magically return to him? And how was he supposed to work a job he no longer knew anything about? But those questions could wait. For now there was a bigger question looming among all the others, one that he had asked early in his discussion with the doctor, but had never gotten an answer to.

What had caused this?

Maybe the woman—his wife—would tell him. Whatever it was, the trauma of it must have been very bad, too bad to talk about. The doctors had obviously avoided telling him the details. What if he'd been driving the fire truck and killed someone? The possibilities were too frightening to imagine.

There was a noise at the door, and Jake let his hands relax and fall back to his side. It was the woman. She wasn't tall, but she had long legs and she looked fantastic in her worn-out jeans and red T-shirt. Her face was a creamy white, and her brown eyes took up almost half of it. What was he supposed to say to her? Until this week they'd been friends or lovers since they were in middle school. Wasn't that what the doctor had said?

She crossed the room slowly and set her shaking hands on the rail of his bed. “Jake … I know you don't remember me.”