One Tuesday Morning (30 page)

But if he was going to begin the journey, if he was going to do it with a smile, he needed to get started. And that meant he couldn't go another moment without having Sierra by his side and telling her something he should've said the moment he first saw her. Even if he didn't remember ever having said it before.

“Sierra …” His voice was quiet and scratchy, lost in the hum of hospital machines around him. It fell far short of the door. He tightened the muscles in his stomach and tried again, the raspy words much louder this time. “Sierra … come here.”

The little girl popped her face just inside the room, and Jake felt a surge of emotion for the child, a wave of feeling that fell just short of recognition. Her hair fell in a cascade of curls, and her pink dress flounced below her knees as she moved into the room, still latched tightly to her mother's hand. “Daddy …?”

“Yes …” Jake swallowed hard. His throat hurt and his words sounded unnatural. Or maybe this was his normal voice, and he simply didn't recognize it. Jake tried not to think about the possibility. “Come here, Sierra.”

A smile lifted the corners of her little mouth, and she lowered her chin, her eyes wide and tentative. The woman lowered her face to Sierra's. “Stay here for a minute, baby. I'm going to talk to Daddy first.”

Sierra did as she was told and waited by the door. The men stayed in the hall, and that was fine with Jake. They were probably talking about how terrible it was that he couldn't remember them. Or maybe they figured he needed these moments alone with his family. Jamie made her way to his bed. The fear was still in her eyes, but this time Jake forced his bandaged face into what he hoped was a smile.

“Jake …” She bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Her voice was barely loud enough for him to hear. “I know you don't remember me. I'm not sure how much you remember Sierra.” She paused and gripped the guardrails on his bed once more. “But please … if you don't remember, at least pretend. For Sierra's sake.” She opened her mouth, and a quiet laugh tangled up with a cry. She put the back of her hand against her mouth for a moment. “Last week you were curling her hair and taking her to church. At least act like you know her. Okay?”

Jake held her eyes for a long while. “Okay.” His voice was so hoarse he could barely speak. “I'm sorry, Jamie. I'd give anything to … to remember you.”

Her eyes glistened. She sniffed and straightened, as though she was desperate to keep her composure, and she nodded her thanks and then returned to Sierra.

“All right, honey. Daddy wants to talk to you.”

Sierra looked past Jamie to Jake, and this time he managed to wave his fingers at her. She followed Jamie back to his bed and found the courage to step up, her face inches from his. “Hi, Daddy.”

A lump grew in Jake's throat, and he considered his feelings. Each time he looked at the girl or thought about her, he was swallowed up in emotions. “Hi, Sierra.” He cast a quick look at Jamie, then back to his daughter. “Thanks for coming.”

Sierra cocked her head, her eyes wide. “Did you lose your voice, Daddy?”

“Yes, honey.” This time his smile wasn't forced. “I think I hurt it in the fire.”

“Oh.” She nodded.

The moment felt awkward again, and Jake's mind raced. He would have to find familiar ground—even if none existed. He reached his bandaged arms through the holes in his bedrails and took hold of Sierra's fingers. The lump was back, and speaking was still more difficult. “Daddy's gonna need your help to get better, okay, honey?”

“Okay.” She beamed at the notion. “I'll bring you water and toast and ice cream in bed when you come home.”

“Perfect.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw Jamie wipe at a tear. He kept his focus on Sierra.

“I'm glad you're okay, Daddy.” She lowered her face to his hand and planted a gentle kiss on each of his fingers. “You can't do butterfly kisses yet, but I can. Okay?”

“Okay.” Jake used what was left of his energy to extend his fingers a bit farther and stroke the child's feathery soft cheek. Then he said the only thing he could say, the single truth he hoped would somehow bridge his past and his present. Though he couldn't remember saying it before, though he wasn't sure it reflected his feelings perfectly, it was the only thing he had to hang onto.

“I love you, Sierra. I'll always love you.”

T
WENTY

S
EPTEMBER
17, 2001

The doctor's information was more than Jamie could process at once.

But somehow, after a weekend of emotions too jumbled to sort through, Jamie was sure of one thing. This meeting with Dr. Cleary was the only way any of them could move forward.

By now they all knew that Jake was aware of how he'd been injured. So in addition to the pain of his injuries and the frustration of not remembering his past, he had to deal with the awful enormity of what had happened to him and his friends on September 11.

Jamie sat by Jake's bed, her hands folded on her lap. She didn't have the nerve to hold his hand, not since he woke up. A few times over the weekend, Jake had made an effort to cast her a kind look or even the hint of a smile. But it was obvious by the things he said—and the things he didn't say—that he still saw her as a stranger. Dr. Cleary had already explained what type of head injury Jake must have suffered in order to lose his memory. Now the doctor was getting specific.

“Let's talk about amnesia.” He looked from Jake to Jamie. “You've had a few days to see where Jake's at, what he remembers.” The man hesitated. “I'm sure you have questions.”

Jake was partially sitting up in bed, and he gave a nod of his bandaged head. “Lots.” Doctors had removed most of the bandages on his arms and replaced them with smaller, patchlike sections of gauze. His voice was still raspy. “It's so random, what I remember and what I don't.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Cleary leaned forward, and his expression grew serious. “The brain compartmentalizes information, and memory is no exception. A part of your brain contains the memory of learned behavior—sitting, standing, walking, eating, even vocabulary. Another part contains functional memory—language, the meaning of various terms and expressions, memories of places and routines.”

“Jake remembers those things.” Jamie glanced over her shoulder at him. “At least I think you do. Right?”

“Yes.” Jake nodded. “And I can remember everything that's happened since I woke up.”

“Exactly. A third of the brain's memory bank is devoted to that type of remembering. Short-term memory, it's called.” He pursed his lips and studied Jake. “The problem we're dealing with is long-term memory—an area of loss that's most common with head injuries like yours.”

“I don't get it.” Jamie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her stomach was in knots as she dropped her hands into her lap and looked at the doctor again. “If his long-term memory is gone, how come he can remember how to eat or the fact that he worked in New York City?”

Dr. Cleary shifted his position and nodded as though he'd expected her questions. “Again, the brain sees those memories as more learned behavior or functional information. Occasionally, a person with a head injury will lose that part of his memory as well. But long-term memory loss is something different.” He paused and took a slow breath. “Picture a storage unit filled with information about specific people and experiences shared with those people. That's a picture of a person's long-term memory.”

“That's what I'm missing?” Jake adjusted himself so he was partially on his side, facing the doctor.

Jamie caught the way he still winced when he moved.

“Definitely not. Every memory you've ever made is still in that storage unit.” The doctor managed a sad smile. “But right now the door's locked, and none of us can find the key.”

Jamie folded her arms tight and pushed her fists into her stomach. The information was interesting, but it didn't tell her what she wanted to know, what she was desperate to know. When would Jake recognize her? She did a little cough and tried to find a way to voice her feelings. “Are you saying … that someday he'll get his memory back?”

“Almost always.” This time the doctor's smile was fuller. “Long-term memory loss generally lasts no more than six months. The exact timing is different for every patient, but most of the people suffering from this type of amnesia get flashbacks as early as two or three months into their recovery.”

“Flashbacks?” Jake ran his fingers over his right forearm. Though the bandages had been removed, the burns on that arm were the worst of all.

Jamie's heart went out to him. She moved to put her hand on his shoulder, to comfort him and let him know she was sorry he was hurting. But she stopped herself. Any small shows of affection would only make Jake nervous.

Dr. Cleary stood and walked closer to Jake's bed, looking from him to Jamie. “Flashbacks are definitely part of the healing process. They're the brain's way of letting an amnesiac see through the window of the hidden storage unit I was talking about earlier.” He leveled his gaze at Jake. “They're a little scary sometimes.”

Scary?
Jamie felt her heart skip a beat. How could anything be more frightening than looking into her husband's eyes and seeing not a bit of recognition? “In what way?”

“The first memories that return are usually those closest to the point of memory loss.” Dr. Cleary gripped the railing along the side of Jake's bed. “That means memories of the accident.”

Whatever he'd been through in those final moments, it had to have been horrific. Dr. Cleary looked at Jamie. “At first the flashbacks tend to come just before or after sleeping. He might sit up suddenly in bed or yell out in the middle of the night.” He hesitated. “You'll have to help him through that.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

Dr. Cleary moved to the end of the bed and lifted Jake's chart. “That about covers the amnesia.” He shot a brief look at Jamie. “I'll talk about that a little more with you later. For now, let's go over his burns.”

Jamie had been so caught up with her husband's memory loss, she'd barely considered the fact that he had burns to deal with. Yes, they were painful, but beyond that Jamie hadn't given it much thought. She narrowed her eyes, grateful for the diversion.

“How's the skin on your face feeling, Jake?” The doctor kept his eyes on the chart as he returned to the side of the bed.

Jake lifted his left hand and gave a light touch to his bandaged cheeks and forehead. “It stings.”

“By the looks of it, you were headed back into the building when it collapsed.” The doctor bent over and carefully lifted the corner of one of the bandages on Jake's right arm. “A burst of searing hot air must've knocked you back, pushed you under the fire truck. In the process it burned your arms and face.” He lifted the corner of another bandage and looked at the burn beneath. “Your arms are healing nicely. Second-degree burns, which means you'll have some scarring, a deep redness for the first six months or so, but much of it will disappear in the first year.”

This time the doctor peered beneath the top section of the bandages still covering Jake's face. “You were very lucky with your face. The skin on your cheeks and forehead took the brunt of the heat and came close to being third-degree burns.” He straightened and glanced at the clipboard again. “The wrap we're using is helping a lot. I think we'll be able to avoid skin grafts.”

“What about scars?” Jamie didn't want to ask, but she had to. Jake's face had been the first thing that made her fall in love with him when they were kids. Not that it mattered; she would love Jake no matter how he looked. But still, she had to know.

“He'll have some.” The doctor lowered the clipboard and held it against his side. “But nothing drastic. In a year or so you'll have to look close to even see them. Of course, his throat and lungs have been damaged too. Burned by the same hot blast.”

“That's why I sound like this?” Jake held a hand to his throat. “And why I can't breathe right?”

“Yes. But you'll heal up.” Dr. Cleary nodded. “We've been giving you moist air breathing treatments, and that'll continue for the next week or so, and after that you'll be much better. We won't be sure until then if you have permanent damage to your voice, but that won't affect your release date.” He took a step back and looked at Jamie. “The head incisions are healing nicely. His brain size is back to normal.” He slipped his hands in the pockets of his white jacket. “If nothing else changes, you can go home next Monday or Tuesday.”

Panic slammed into Jamie's heart, and she crossed her arms more tightly around her waist. How was she supposed to bring Jake home when he didn't remember her? “That … that soon?” She caught Jake's eyes and saw he shared her concern.

“Yes.” Dr. Cleary gave Jake a pointed look. “The sooner you get situated in a familiar environment—even one you can't remember now—the sooner your memory will return.” He smiled and set the chart on a nearby table. “Why don't you get some sleep, Jake. I'll talk to your wife out in the hall.”

Jamie followed the doctor out of the room, but she felt dizzy and detached. As though she still couldn't believe this was her life. Jake? Jake her lifelong love didn't remember her? It was like some kind of crazy joke.

They walked a few feet away from Jake's room, and Dr. Cleary turned and faced her. “I have to be honest with you, Mrs. Bryan. A lot about Jake's recovery will be up to you.”

“Me?” Her voice was the slightest whisper.

“Yes. You need to be patient, let him come along at his own pace. The flashbacks will happen more quickly if he feels comfortable.”

Jamie's head was swimming, and she raked both her hands through her bangs. “I … I'm not sure I understand.”

“He has no memory of being married to you.” The doctor met her eyes and held them. “For the next few months, treat him like a good friend—be kind to him, considerate, answer his questions, help him with his bandages. But don't expect anything more.”

“Meaning …” Jamie's hands fell to her sides, and her knees felt weak. “Don't talk to him like we're married?”

“Don't

act
like you are.” The doctor angled his head, and his eyes filled with sympathy. “Do you have a guest room, Mrs. Bryan?”