One Tuesday Morning (34 page)

Now—with the weekend behind them, Laura had convinced Clay they needed to get as close to Ground Zero as possible. They were allowed past a few checkpoints, simply because they flashed a copy of their flyer and asked for permission to post it closer to the rubble pile.

They were a block away from the collapsed towers when a police officer stopped them, came up to the back of the cab, and moved his hand in a turning motion. “No one's allowed past this point … only official personnel in this area, you'll have to turn around.”

Laura rolled down the window and felt her heart skip a beat. “My husband was in the south tower.” Laura peered at the officer from the back of the cab and showed him the flyer with Eric's picture. “We're here from Los Angeles. Please … can we get a little closer?”

“No one goes past this point.” The man anchored his hands on his hips and looked at Laura. His eyes were a dark, haunting reflection of all he must've seen since September 11. “No one but official personnel.”

Clay leaned over Laura's legs and looked at the man. “I'm a police officer from Los Angeles.” He pointed to the flyer. “The missing guy's my brother. Are you sure we can't get closer?”

The officer's face softened some, but he shook his head. “Look … it's been nearly two weeks since those buildings fell.” He pointed down the street to a line of dump trucks slowly heading up a hill of debris. Loud machinery sounded in the background, and the officer's voice could barely be heard over the noise. “If your brother's in there, believe me—you don't want to find him.”

“We won't stay.” Clay was persistent. “If we could post a few flyers, at least we'd feel like we did our best.”

For a moment the officer only looked at them, his eyes moving from Clay to Laura, and back to Clay again. His mouth hung open just enough to show his astonishment. “Can I be straight with you?”

“Definitely.” Clay's answer was quick.

For a split moment Laura considered covering her ears. She didn't want straight talk this close to Ground Zero; she wanted Eric.

“I don't care what they're calling this in the newspapers, but it's not a rescue effort.” He pressed his lips together, and though his eyes stayed dry, his chin quivered some. “What's going on in there is a recovery. And they'll be darn lucky if they recover even a few hundred bodies.” He shook his head. “It's that bad.”

The cab driver shot them a look over his shoulder. “Meter's running.”

Laura ignored the driver and locked eyes with the officer. “So we're wasting our time?” Clay was still stretched out over her knees, peering out the window. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.” He sniffed hard and stared in the direction of Ground Zero. “Everyone wants to believe that their person is missing, but I'll tell you something, lady. There just aren't any missing persons. The patients at every hospital have been identified, and the homeless shelters have no victims.” He tossed his hands in the air and met her eyes once more. “It's too late for any of that. Your husband ain't missing, lady. He's dead. Go back to LA and have a service for him. Then find a way like the rest of us to get on with life.” The officer glanced at Clay and back at her. “I'm sorry.”

He stepped away, turned around, and yelled something to an officer across the street. Then he walked beyond Laura and Clay and headed for the driver of the cab behind them. “No one's allowed past this point,” he yelled. “Only official personnel beyond this …”

Clay sat up and stared straight ahead. Then he dug his elbows into his knees and rested his head in his hands. Laura watched him, and something inside her began to die, something she couldn't quite peg. Through every day, every hour, since September 11, Clay had been strong for her, positive, encouraging. Even when they'd considered the worst possible scenario—that Eric might never come home—he'd been cautiously optimistic.

But not now.

Laura closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the officer's words.
Your husband ain't missing, lady. He's dead …

If it was true, she couldn't break down here, not parked in lower Manhattan with an anxious cab driver casting glances at her from the front seat. She sucked in a quick breath and put her hand on Clay's knee. “Clay …”

After a few seconds he looked at her. His watery eyes told her they were thinking the same thing. It was over … the search, the second chance, the hope that Eric would ever come home. All of it was over. She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “To the Marriott, please.”

Their efforts in New York City were finished. The police officer's blunt words had told them all they needed to know. It was time to go home, have a service for Eric, and get on with living.

T
WENTY
-T
HREE

S
EPTEMBER
25, 2001

The day of reckoning arrived on Tuesday, September 25, two weeks after the terrorist attacks. That morning Jamie was in Jake's hospital room, sitting by his side, when Dr. Cleary walked in and gave them a crooked smile.

“Today's the day.” He planted himself near the doorway and studied Jake. “How're you feeling?”

“Ready.” Jake sat up straighter in bed and stretched his arms forward. “I was ready yesterday.”

Much of the bandaging had been removed from Jake's cheeks and head, and the shock of seeing his burned face was wearing off. Beneath the red and blistered skin, he was still Jake Bryan, the only man she'd ever loved. And he'd heal eventually. There'd be a few light scars, but otherwise it was only a matter of time before he looked more like her husband and less like an accident victim.

With the bandages off, Jake could talk easier than before. His voice was still a bit raspy, but from everything he'd told Jamie, he was feeling well enough to go home.

“Yesterday your white count was still a little high.” The doctor crossed the room and found Jake's chart at the end of his bed. “Today's numbers are better.”

An hour passed while Dr. Cleary handled Jake's release papers, and sometime around ten o'clock that morning, Jake fell asleep. Jamie watched, awed at how quickly he was making a comeback.

A physical comeback, anyway.

He still didn't remember anything more than Sierra, but if his body was healing, Jamie could only hope that very soon his mind would, also.

Infection in Jake's arm had set in a week ago, and at one point Jake's fever had spiked to nearly 104 degrees. Dr. Cleary explained that infection was common where second-degree burns and lacerations were concerned, and rather than send Jake home on antibiotics, he'd kept him in the hospital and administered them through an IV. Jake had finished the treatment a full twenty-four hours ago, so there was nothing more to keep Jake in the hospital.

Jamie was actually glad.

For one thing, she no longer had any doubts that the man in the bed beside her was her husband, Jake. Even with his painful-looking burns, the face was definitely Jake's. The blue eyes and rugged lines that had been his trademark since he was a teenager. Regardless of his memory loss, this was the man she had married. In some ways Jamie wished the bandages had come off earlier—back when she'd been crazy with fear that somehow there'd been a mistake, a mix-up. At first she'd dreaded Jake's homecoming, especially the idea of setting him up in a guest room when he belonged in bed beside her. Now that she was sure the man was Jake, she was beyond anxious to get him home and help him regain his memory.

Over the past ten days—while Jake's father stayed at the house with Sierra—Jamie had spent every day and several nights at the hospital, cozying up in a chair next to his bed and covering herself with whatever blankets the nurses could find for her. In the process something was happening.

She and Jake were becoming friends.

The connection between them had come gradually, in small bits of conversation and shy glances, but it was happening. That much was obvious. They'd be watching a rerun of the
Cosby Show
on his hospital TV, and they'd laugh at the same funny line. Then he would shoot a quick look in her direction, and she'd see something familiar. The hint of a sparkle in his eyes, the seeds of a smile.

She had asked Jake if he wanted to play cards or read or work on a puzzle while he was in the hospital, and he'd tried all three. He couldn't remember any card games, but one day last weekend he stared out the window for a moment until suddenly his eyes lit up. “Backgammon. I think I know how to play backgammon.”

“Okay.” The statement had taken Jamie by surprise. The two of them had played backgammon back when they were first married, but only for one summer. They were too active to spend much time indoors, and both of them quickly tired of the game.

But still, if Jake remembered it, that had to be a good sign. Jamie had dug through their basement storage area, found the old backgammon set she'd bought years earlier, and brought it to the hospital. Since then they'd played it several times each day, and more often lately, Jake would make a move and follow it with a friendly comment or competitive gibe. Something like “Try beating that”
or “Nice move.”

Constantly, Jamie would catch herself wanting to share some memory with him, something about Sierra or some time in their past, but always she caught herself. Dr. Cleary had been adamant that at first all communication had to be kept in the present. As though they were starting all over again.

One afternoon, when they'd had enough backgammon, Jamie found an old puzzle in the hospital waiting room and set it out at the end of Jake's bed. His ankle was still in the cast, but he slid it over to create a surface for the puzzle. For three hours straight, they worked the pieces into first a frame, and then a complete picture. Every few minutes their fingers would brush against each other while they worked, and sometimes Jamie would lift her eyes to find him watching her.

She'd been tempted to bring Jake's journal and his Bible into the hospital, but in the end she decided to wait. It'd be better for him to read those while sitting on their bed—sometime when Jamie wasn't around. He might remember better that way, encouraged by the combination of a familiar setting and deeply precious words that not so long ago had meant the world to him.

Instead, she'd brought him John Grisham novels—his favorite before getting hurt. She had laid three of them out on his bedside and watched while he picked them up, one at a time, and looked them over.

“Interesting.” He'd lifted his eyes to hers.

“You remember them?” Jamie had been breathless, having walked up the stairs to his floor. She wasn't working out, wasn't playing racquetball or jet-skiing. If it wasn't for the stairs, she'd go stir crazy with how sedentary her life had become.

“No.” He looked at the books again. “But I'll try to read them.”

Jake's reading skills were fine, but his headaches weren't. Whenever he tried to read more than a few paragraphs, he'd close his eyes and rub them, grimacing from the pain. At that point she'd take over, reading the text out loud, stopping now and then when he'd have a question.

“So, wait a minute. Is the book about that guy or the other one?”

“Which one?”

“The one in the first chapter.”

Once in a while Jamie's mind would go blank, and Jake would raise an eyebrow at her. “Hey, I'm the one with amnesia, okay?”

They would both giggle, and the sound of their combined laughter would ring so clear and true in Jamie's heart she would be convinced beyond a doubt that Jake was returning to her. That he was making his way back through the mire of forgotten moments to a place where they could live and love and laugh again, a place where they could resume life where they'd left off.

There'd been hard times that week too. Times when she'd be staring at Jake, watching him sleep, and he would wake up and see her. Instead of the smile she was used to, he'd jerk back, his eyes filled with confusion and fear. “Where am I?” he'd ask. Other times he'd sit straight up in bed glancing around the room, caught in some nightmare.

Jamie was handling those moments better now, because all of Dr. Cleary's predictions were coming true. She was becoming her husband's friend, and once they were able to go home—in just a few hours now—that friendship would grow until finally the flashbacks began. After that it would only be a matter of weeks before he would remember everything about his past and they could get on with the business of living.

Jake was still sleeping, so Jamie kept her voice to barely a whisper as she called Jim Bryan and told him the news.

“He's coming home.” She was excited, but she could hear the fear and doubts in her voice all the same. They had miles of ground to claim back before she could truly celebrate. “His burns look good and the infection's gone.”

“What time should I be there?”

“One o'clock.” Jamie soaked in the sight of Jake. Even with his burns he was handsome, and if he never looked the same again, that didn't matter. His memory was worth more than anything else.

“I'll get Sierra ready.”

They'd made the plan days ago. When it was time for Jake to come home, his father would bring Sierra and leave her with Jamie and Jake. Then the older Bryan would head back home straight from the hospital, just as Dr. Cleary had ordered. Jamie had left her car at the ferry parking lot back in Staten Island. She and Jake and Sierra would take a cab to the ferry, make their way across the harbor, and then drive their car home.

Jake's father had decided that once he went home, he'd take a driving trip across the country to visit his brother-in-law in Arizona. He'd spend a few months there until Jake was better and could handle visits.

Jamie sat back to wait. All the hours and days of living at the hospital and wondering when Jake would be well enough to go home were finally coming to an end. The first part of the nightmare was almost over. The tips of her fingers trembled as she folded her hands and counted the minutes.

Just before noon someone brought in two meal trays and Jake's release papers. An hour later a familiar nurse showed up with crutches and a wheelchair. “Your chariot, Mr. Bryan.”

Jamie carried the crutches and a bag full of cards and gifts from her and Sierra and the guys at the station.