From the Wreckage

by Melissa Collins

Scanning the room, the expectant faces of everyone surrounding me wait anxiously for a response. Wanting nothing more than to give them the answer they want, I continue searching my shaken brain. One clue. That’s all I need. But it never comes.

  “That’s okay,” the male voice says. “It’ll take some time.” Pulling a chair to my side, he’s level with me now. Wearing a white coat and holding a metal folder in his arms, a small piece of the puzzle falls into place. “I’m Dr. Thompson. You’re at New York Presbyterian hospital.”

  Gathering all my energy, I manage, “For how long?” At the sound of my voice, the older couple cries some more, holding each other even tighter. The hand in mine squeezes before pulling our linked fingers up to her mouth.

  “Two weeks,” he clarifies. Noting my panic, he adds, “Easy. Just try to stay calm. We’re going to get your vitals and run some more tests. Try to get some rest and ease back into this being awake thing. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

  Forgetful that it causes pain, I nod as he leaves my side. Dropping a hand to the older gentleman’s shoulder as he walks to the door, Dr. Thompson calls him Mr. Andrews. Addressing the woman as Mrs. Andrews, another, larger, piece of the puzzle fits together.

  “Mom,” I croak. “Dad.” Spinning on their heels, they abandon the doctor and race to my side.

  “We’re here, sweetie.” Mom cries, sitting in the chair the doctor just vacated. “We’re here,” she repeats, letting her words trail off into quiet sobs.

  “We weren’t sure you’d ever . . .” Dad’s words trail off into his own tears. “That’s not important. You’re here. You’re awake now. We have you back. Thank God.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews,” the nurse calls to them from the door. “We just need you to sign a few forms for some tests.”

  “We’ll be right back, son.”

  As subtly as possible, I nod, trying my best to ignore the lingering dull ache of pain in my skull.

  “Hey,” the voice at my side calls my attention. Turning toward it, I’m greeted with a bright, tear-stained face. Swiping at the tears streaking down her cheeks, she smiles at me. “Can I get you some more water?” she asks, tipping her head at the cup on the table at her side.

  I nod and she lifts it to my lips once more. “Better?”

  Swallowing the small sip, I let the water trickle down my throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

  After putting the cup back, she covers my hand with hers. Adjusting the pillow behind me, she helps me sit up a little.

  Another piece slides into place.

  The touch.

  The song.

  “You were here?” Confusion coats my scratchy voice.

  Her mouth pulls up on one side, a sweet smile lifting her lips. “Every single day,” she reassures, her voice sounding thick, heavy with emotion.

  “You sang to me?”

  Her cheeks stain red. “Not very well, I’m afraid. But yes–” A deep shuddery breath interrupts her sentence. “Every single night. When everyone would leave, I sang to you until I ran out of words to sing.”

  “Everyone?” Flipping through the seemingly limited files in my brain, I can only recall her touch and her song. “Who was here?”

  “So many people. Your parents only went home to shower and sleep.” Stroking her thumb over my wrist helps calm the pending panic of not being able to remember anything from the past two weeks, especially how I landed myself here in the first place. “All the guys from the squad were here. They rotated in and out, taking turns.”

  “The squad?” Frustration I don’t have the energy for bubbles in my tightening chest.

  “The firehouse. Captain Gallagher, Gonzalez, and Miller. All of them came in at some point.” She pauses. Looking up at the water-stained ceiling, it’s as if she’s plucking her ideas down from above. “David?” she asks, her voice wobbly and trembling. “Do you remember what happened? Where you were? Who you were with?” Swallowing hard, I watch as she wars with what to say next.

  Shaking my head, I admit, “No. I don’t. Nothing is coming to me.”

  “You’re a firefighter at Squad eighteen in Manhattan.” Holding my hand in one of hers, she covers her mouth with the other, concern passing over her face. “You were at the 9/11 memorial and it was attacked. There was a bomb. You were with your best friend, Ian.” Losing her battle with her tears, she cups her face in her hands.

  “I . . . I don’t remember anything.” Looking down at my blanket-covered body, I try to jolt to life the part of my brain holding this memory captive, but it’s locked up, sealed in a vault so tight, no key can ever open it.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeats over and over through her tears. “It’s better that you don’t remember right now. I probably shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. I’m just so happy you’re here. You’re back. I never thought I’d hear your voice again.”

  I’m trying so damn hard my head hurts, but I can’t do it. I can’t put it all together. None of it is making any sense. Reality is tethered to me on a thin string, a wisp of a rope, fraying and splitting at the end. Letting what I’ve learned to this point run around in my head, I lean back on the pillow under my head. Closing my eyes, I repeat what I do know in the hopes that it will spark to life some of what I don’t.

  Firefighter.

  9/11.

  Attack.

  Squad 18.

  Ian.

  “I’m a firefighter?” I ask despite her already having told me as much. She nods. “And I was attacked at a memorial with my friend?”

  “Yes,” is her simple response, but it sounds as if she wants to say so much more.

  “Did he . . . I mean . . .” I pause. Scrubbing a hand over my face only reminds me of the bruises lingering there. “Did he make it out?”

  “Yes,” she answers immediately, but again there’s this uncertain quality to her answer. Not having the energy to deal with what she’s not saying right now, I close my eyes and take stock of what I’ve learned.

  My head throbs at it all.

  Fighting through the pain, I ask the question I’d been too ashamed to ask since I felt her touch bring me out of unconsciousness. “Can I ask you something else?”

  Brushing her hand through the hair falling in my eyes, she says, “Anything. You can ask me anything, baby.”

  “Who are you?”

  The doctor and my parents walk back in the room, explaining the tests I’m being whisked away to, but all I can focus on is the look of horror on her face. Before she can say anything, I’m being wheeled out of the room.

  Moving in reverse on the gurney, my eyes stay locked with hers. They’re such a deep blue it’s as if I’m being sucked down into an ocean. But the only memory coming to me is of her song, its melody drifting toward me, chasing the dark away.

  “He doesn’t remember you at all?” Jade hands me a very large glass of wine as she curls next to me on her sofa.

  Taking a few large gulps, I swallow down the wine, letting it accompany the pain I’m attempting to bite back. Shaking my head, I try to give her as much information as I can without breaking down. “He doesn’t remember me, or that he’s a firefighter. He doesn’t even remember what happened to land him in the hospital.”

  “Ian?” she gasps his name, clutching her hand to her chest.

  Dropping a hand to hers, I explain, “No, sweetie. I’m sorry. He doesn’t remember Ian either. I mentioned his name, but David had no clue who he was.”

  “So then he doesn’t know . . .” Her question trails off into silence.

  “No. I couldn’t tell him that.” After taking another sip, I try my best to rationalize how unfair life can be sometimes. “The man I love had just woken up from a two week coma and he couldn’t remember a damn thing except his parents. How was I supposed to tell him that his best friend had lost both of his legs trying to protect him?” Not that it was my intention, but I allow my anger to seep into my words, letting them fall from my mouth as if they were barbed and spiked
, intended to inflict pain.

  We both finish our first glass of wine before pouring another, letting the silence settle around us.

  “How is he?” My words cut through the quiet.

  She shrugs, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I guess. Slowly coming around to the idea that he has no legs. But he met with the orthopedist today. He’s going to be fitted for prosthetics and he can start rehab with them soon.”

  “I can’t wait to see him. Is he up for visitors yet?” Since the attack, he hasn’t wanted to see much of anyone. Even the guys from the squad. When they come to visit, they hang out in the hallway, a silent wall of strength supporting their injured brother. He’s only wanted to see Jade and his parents.

  Shaking her head, she sighs. “No. He’s still working through it all. I’m shocked he even wants to see me.”

  “Well you two are–”

  She laughs. “Please tell me you’re going to end that sentence explaining what we are. Because I have no clue. We were hanging out. That’s all. Something casual, something fun. Then the smallest flicker of feeling started to come to life and he was nearly blown up.” Searching for her thoughts in the bottom of her second glass of wine, Jade shifts on the sofa, twisting to face me. “I was really starting to like him. To enjoy my time with him. And I think he felt the same way, too. But now . . . no, you know what? Forget it. It’s not that important.”

  “Like hell it isn’t,” I wave away her easy dismissal of her feelings. “If he’s important to you and you’re important to him–”

  A flippant laugh breaks through my mini-lecture. “Me important to him?” she jokes. “Are you kidding? Ian is the king of ‘this is nothing serious.’ I was nothing more than a fling for him.”

  “Okay, that might be true of who Ian used to be. But now, he’s changed. His life has been thrown upside down and you’re one of the pieces he wants to hold on to. He wants you there. You can’t ignore that, sweetie. So don’t turn it around and say it isn’t important. Help him. Build up what you lost, no matter how small you thought it was, and learn to move forward together.”

  Pulling me into her arms, Jade let’s out a deep sigh of relief. “You’re right. It’s just been so difficult.”

  Holding her at arm’s length, I look into her dark brown eyes. “Yeah, tell me about it.” I laugh, a small humorless sound.

  “So what are you going to do?” She adds more wine to my still somewhat full glass, after which she refills her own.

  Shrugging, I offer her the only answer I know. “The same thing I just told you.” Taking another sip, I think about all the memories I have of me and David. Of his sweet, loving ways. Of his love for me and for his job. Of his passion for life. Deep in my heart, a sense of duty, born only from love rises in my chest. “He might not remember me now, but I’ll get him there.”

  We clink glasses, toasting our joint promises to help the men in our lives become whole again.

  “Good morning,” I chirp, opening the door slightly. Determined not to let his lost memories stop me from loving him, I walk into his hospital room bright and early, not at all deterred by my sleepless night.

  Dangling a paper bag in my hand and a drink tray in the other, I announce, “I brought some breakfast. And real coffee.” My voice pulls his attention away from the window. Overlooking the city, giant skyscrapers almost touch the white, puffy clouds. It’s a serene view. The perfect place to heal. But as David turns toward me, he looks anything but peaceful.

  He winces slightly as he adjusts himself in the bed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a job? Somewhere else to be? Where are my parents?”

  Ignoring the touch of meanness in his questions, I explain, “It’s Saturday. School’s closed. And your parents are home, sleeping. Probably for the first time in weeks. When I left yesterday,” I continue as I pull his coffee from the cardboard cup holder, “I let them know I’d be spending the night at Jade’s and that I could be here early.” Yesterday when I left, I asked his parents if they’d be okay with letting me have a few hours this morning with him on my own. I think they were so exhausted from the weeks of being here twenty-four seven and elated knowing he was going to make a full physical recovery they were all too willing to sleep in for once.

  “Jade? I guess I’m supposed to know her, too,” he snips.

  “So you’re a teacher?” His question, solidifying how much he doesn’t know me, slices through my heart.

  Nodding, I swallow back the lump in my throat. “Yes, I am. High school English.” He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in the tension vibrating off him that makes me continue to tell him more about me and the connection we share. “Your chief, Gallagher.” He nods, and I don’t dare ask if it’s because he actually remembers him or if he’s just accepting the information. “He’s married to my principal. You helped me land the job, so when you were injured, I was able to take a few days off. I never left your side in those days.” The anguish, the gut-wrenching sickness I felt in those days not knowing if he’d survive crashes into me, forcing tears to well in my eyes. “When you were stable, I went back to work. But I was always thinking about you here.”

  Without saying anything, he nods again. My cue to stop talking about how much I love him, how much I care about him. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to hear any more of it.

  Settling into the chair at his side, I see the dark bags under his eyes. “You didn’t sleep well.”

  “No,” he snaps. “I didn’t. My head is fucking throbbing.” Anger radiates off him, shocking me into silence. “I was up all fucking night trying to remember everything and before I knew it, the sun was up.”

  “It’s okay.” My attempt to calm him is met with more anger. Bordering on rage, the look on his face is almost scary. “Just ask me what you want to know. I’ll try my best to help.”

  “Who are you?” he grits out. “You left yesterday without answering.”

  The air flies from my lungs. Why hadn’t I thought of this? Of him being angry and hurt over losing his memory. Of how he must feel like an alien in his own life. Gathering my strength, I lock my eyes with his, searching there for some semblance of the man I know is still in there somewhere.

  “I’m Grace McCann.” Keeping my voice steady, I continue, “I’m your girlfriend.”

  A look of surprise moves over his face before it changes into something that looks a lot calmer. “I figured it was something like that,” he states, a matter of fact tone.

  Well, that wasn’t the reception I was planning on.

  “Here’s your coffee.” I hand him a paper cup, warning him to be careful. “The nurses said you’re supposed to be on a liquid diet for the day,” I add, even though he’s not listening to me.

  With an air of distractedness, he thanks me.

  Stupid pride nearly bursts in my chest when he tells me the coffee is good. I want to tell him, all I did was make it the way you like it, but something inside warns me that those words will only make him angrier.

  “Look,” he calls my attention as he places his cup on the table. The scratches and bruises that decorated his arm on the first day have now faded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so mad.”

  “I understand. I mean I don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. That’s not what I’m saying,” I ramble, trying desperately to backtrack over what was a monumentally stupid comment. “What I’m trying to say is that it’s okay to be mad. Confused and hurt even.”

  He nods, turning his head back toward the window. The bright rays of sun bounce off the shiny windows of the building next to us, blinding almost. “At least I’m alive, right?” Sarcasm mixes with hope in his words.

  Cutting through what would be my answer, another voice responds to his statement. “No thanks to me.”

  “Ian,” I gasp, shooting up from my seat. “I . . . Jade said . . . You’re here . . .”

  “Gracie girl.” Ian smiles at me and then looks up at the nurse pushing him into the room i
n his wheelchair. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  Hugging him as tightly as I can, I feel the need to squeeze the life out of him. “I see you’ve lifted your no visitor policy, huh?”

  “Well, when I heard this goon was finally awake, I knew I had to come down here.”

  “Who’s this?” David chimes in from his bed, looking over at us.

  Ian looks up at me, confused and worried. The only thing I can do is smile at him, offer him a touch of reassurance that it’ll be okay. Even if I don’t believe it myself.

  “This is Ian. He works at the squad with you. He was injured at the attack, too” I explain, pushing the wheelchair over to the side of the bed. “Ian’s your best friend.”

  David searches Ian’s face for something, anything that will help him put that day back together. “Your legs.”

  “Gone.” Ian runs his hands over his thighs, stopping right at the knee, only a few inches above where both of his legs have been amputated. “It was a backpack bomb.” Maybe it’s something about the straight forward manner in which he speaks, but Ian’s words affect David in a way mine don’t. He seems more at ease, less tense somehow, letting Ian’s words sink in for truth, where he evaluates mine, searching for their truth. “They put it next to a garbage pail and then set the trash on fire. You saw the fire first.”

  Feeling my legs give out below me, I sink down into the chair. Even though I’m not entirely sure if I want to hear this story, I know I need to be here for David. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet.

  Giving no credence to the worry and anger etched on David’s serious face, Ian carries on. Being conscious for most of the two weeks since the attack has probably given Ian more time with his memories than David obviously had. And all that horror has to go somewhere. “You cleared away the civilians. And then you called 911. You were on your cellphone when the bomb went off. I saw it blaze a second before you did and I turned toward you, jumped on top of you.”

  “That’s how . . .” He’s piecing it together now.

  Ian nods, somber and solemn. “Yeah. That’s how I lost them.”