From the Wreckage

by Melissa Collins

  “It’s my fault.” David tips a chin at what remains of Ian’s legs. “I’m to blame for you losing your legs.”

  With a flippantly sarcastic laugh, Ian says, “Like hell it is. It was an attack. An act of terror. Some coward who wanted to harm innocent people. That’s whose fault it is. Don’t try to make sense of it, because you never will.”

  “Then how is this fucking fair?” David snaps. “You lose your legs and I lose my memory. What a fucking pair.”

  “You lost your memory because you landed on that thick skull of yours. The heat and the pressure of the explosion made your phone burst against your head. And I lost my legs because I chose to protect my friend. Given the chance, you would have done the same.”

  Just then, a nurse walks in, introducing herself as if she hadn’t heard a word of what was just said. “I just need to check some vitals,” she explains.

  “I’m gonna go, man.” Ian lifts his chin to me, silently asking me to wheel him back to his room. “I’ll be back soon though.”

  The few minutes it takes us to get back to Ian’s room pass in silence. I tell him, “Thank you,” as I wheel him into his room, making sure to lock the wheels. Glancing up at me, a look of understanding passes between us. “For saving him. For visiting him. For telling him the things I couldn’t.”

  “He’s going to be okay, Grace. I can tell.” Ian reaches up and grabs my hand.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he’s alive. And that’s all that matters right now. The rest will fall into place.”

  We talk for a few more minutes. He tells me about how he’s going to be discharged to a rehab center in a day or two. I tell him Jade is worried about him and he lets me know he’s worried about her, too. Without getting into too much detail, I can tell there’s something special there. Neither of them want to admit anything about it, but it’s there, lingering under the surface. Kissing his cheek, I thank him again. He shoos me away when a nurse enters, telling him it’s time for his sponge bath.

  Pitching his voice low so only I can hear him, he says, “This is the part I’m going to miss the most.”

  And with those words and the sly smile on his face, more of my hope is restored. Hope that even though it isn’t right now, soon enough, everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.

  I walk back into David’s room as the nurse is exiting. Resuming my place at his side, I’m surprised when he admits, “I remember parts of it.”

  Moved to the edge of my seat, my hand hovers above his. But fear of reminding him what he’s forgotten about me keeps me from actually taking it in mine. “The attack,” he continues, unprompted. “It was loud and bright. Chaotic.” Turning his head back to the window, he says, “Maybe it was hearing it from his mouth, or seeing his face, but I remember Ian jumping on top of me. Then it went black.”

  “David . . .” Talking only makes me want to cry for him, so I keep it to only his name.

  “The next thing I remember is waking up here. And your voice. Your singing. That was the only thing that cut through the black.”

  His eyes begin to close, heavy with sleep. “You should rest for a little bit. You need it.”

  In seconds, he’s asleep, his breathing deep and even. Giving him the only piece of me he remembers, I sing to him in his sleep, offering him the hope of more memories to come.

  “You can’t do that.” Frustrated, Mom turns to Dad, begging him to make me understand. “Talk to your son, please. I need to go get some coffee.” Breezing past him as she walks out of my hospital room, Dad cups his face in his hands.

  “Listen, I know you don’t want to–”

  “I’m not moving in with my parents.” Standing at the window, I look out at the scene that once brought me some solace. Now, it just annoys the shit out of me. It turns out that one week is all it takes for cabin fever to set in. Well, that and the two weeks and two days I spent in here unconscious. Dr. Thompson informed me this morning that I would be discharged today. My recovery is nowhere near over—and I’m not even talking about the memory part. That’s still more than fuzzy.

  Having suffered nerve damage on my right side, I’ll need weeks of physical and occupational therapy to regain full motion in my right arm. And my leg, well it’s broken pretty badly. Which in turn means that I need to use crutches to help me hobble around.

  And that’s where the argument with Mom comes in. Despite Dr. Thompson reassuring her that I’m strong enough to live on my own, she won’t hear of it. It doesn’t help that my apartment is up a flight of stairs, either.

  “You know she isn’t going to let up on it.” Dad joins me at the window, dropping a hand to my shoulder. “Just for a few weeks. Do a little rehab and heal a little more. Prove to her that you’re doing better and then she’ll ease up.”

  “No.” I stand to my conviction. “I’ve felt like enough of an invalid these last few weeks. I’m going home and that’s–”

  “You’re going home?” Grace’s shocked voice calls out from the door. Her face lights up, bringing to life the hundreds of freckles dotting the creamy skin of her nose and cheeks. “Oh my goodness. That’s fantastic news. I’m so happy,” she rambles on. Fuck if I’ve tried my hardest, but I still can’t remember who she is, what part she played in my life. But in the week since I’ve been awake, she hasn’t missed a day of visiting me.

  That tells me something no memory can offer.

  I nod, walking over to my bed. “Yes, I can go home. And that’s exactly where I’m going.”

  “So you’re still stuck on that?” Mom stands at the door, Dr. Thompson at her side. “Please tell the doctor what you think you’re going to do.” Grace watches on as if she’s a spectator at a ping pong match.

  “Oh, great,” I huff, settling down onto the hospital bed.

  “David. I think it’s in your best interest to stay with your parents for a while.” The doctor looks down at my mother, her face splitting into a huge ‘I told you so’ smile.

  “No way,” I challenge him.

  “Look.” His face softens as he approaches me. Sitting in the seat usually reserved for visitors, he addresses all of us. “You’re young and strong and those things have helped you tremendously in your rather quick recovery. But your leg and arm, those are damaged enough that you’ll need someone there to help you. I’m not saying you need around the clock help, but you shouldn’t live on your own at first. Besides, you can’t drive. So you’ll need the help. And,” he adds as he stands from the chair, “being somewhere familiar might bring back some of your memory. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your discharge papers and the contact information for the rehabilitation center. I believe it’s the same one where your friend is staying.”

  I don’t know if I was an angry man before the attack, but it’s not something I like about myself right now. Yet I have no other way to deal with what I’m feeling. Essentially, I’ve been reverted to a child. I can’t drive on my own. I can barely walk. And now I have to move in with my parents.

  “John,” my mother calls out. “Come over here and help me pack up some of these things.” Busying themselves with the flowers, cards, and clothes I have here, they leave me and Grace alone.

  Grace walks over to me, letting my parents pack up on the other side of the room. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think the doctor is right.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t any of your business.” She pulls back from me, as if my words physically harm her. Immediately regretful of my meanness, I apologize. “I just want to get back to my life. The parts I remember at least.” And some of those parts have been coming back to me. The firehouse. My fellow crew members. My job and what a big part of my life it is. With every visitor, I gain a small piece of that part of my life back.

  So when Grace suggests, “You could stay with me,” a million thoughts race through my brain. The primary one is that I still don’t remember her completely. It would be so unbelievably unfair of me to take her up on th
is offer in the blind hope that I might remember her. It’s clear she cares for me, that she remembers what we once were, that she wants it all back.

  How cruel would it be for me to live with her? To offer her a glimpse of the life we apparently used to have only to remember nothing. “I’m on the ground level,” she explains. “And there’s an extra bedroom, so you don’t, you know . . .” Her voice turns bashful and her cheeks turn red. “And I work during the day, so you’d have the place to yourself, but I’m home early enough to take you to any doctor’s appointment you might have. And it would ease your mom’s concerns,” she rambles on and on. She takes my silence as a no. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even bothered. You should be with your parents.” She turns away from me, robbing me of the deep, sparkling blue in her eyes.

  “Wait.” When she spins back around, something inside slides into place. Maybe it was the sway of her hips. The movement of her bright red hair flowing in long waves. The light in her eyes, that no matter the challenge, never seems to dim. She’s only a few steps away from me, but it feels like it takes me forever to cover the few feet.

  Standing in front of her with the help of my crutches, I take a deep breath, weighing my options. For the last week, I’ve been too afraid to tackle this part of what my life used to be. Learning about my family and my job, those were easy enough somehow. But if I try to remember Grace and the couple we used to be, and I fail, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to recover from that.

  Worrying her lower lip in between her teeth, she waits for me to say something else, not wanting to push me into something she feels I might not want. “I know you don’t remember me,” she says, cutting through the emotional silence in our tiny corner of the hospital room. “And I know you don’t love me like I love you, but I want to help you remember. And if I can’t . . .”

  The end of that sentence seems as if it’s too painful for her to verbalize. And that knowledge is enough for me to say, “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  Shockingly, my parents are okay with this move. Based on how adamant Mom was about me moving in with her and Dad, I can only take this to mean one thing: they trust Grace with my life.

  That says something that forgotten memories don’t have to.

  The two-hour drive back to her apartment takes more out of me than I’d like to admit. The fact that my parents are trailing behind us only adds to the stress. Grace apologizes over every bump and pothole, which in New York is a lot. When we make it back onto Long Island, my parents stop at my apartment, offering to pack up some clothes for me. Part of me wants to go with them, to just head home in the hopes that all my memories would be waiting there for me. But I know that wouldn’t happen. So instead, I go to Grace’s apartment with her.

  A vague sense of recollection washes over me as I crutch my way into the door. There’s a framed picture of me and her at the beach. A wisp of smoke filters through my consciousness, but it’s extinguished before I can make anything of it. Balancing my weight, and situating the crutches under my arms, I lift the frame from the table. Standing at my side, she looks at the picture with me. “You threw me in the water that day.”

  “I did?” A wide smile splits her face at the somewhat dumbfounded sound in my voice.

  “I was tiptoeing along the edge, saying how cold the water was. And you didn’t believe me. Told me I was being a baby. So I splashed you.” Her fingers move on my forearm, resting there comfortably. We both look down at the contact, but neither of us pull away. “You lifted me up over your shoulder and carried me right into the surf. Threw me into a cresting wave and stood there laughing at me when I surfaced.”

  “You must have hated me.”

  Shaking her head adamantly, she smiles. “Not once. It was one of the best weekends of the summer. We camped out under the stars and ate S’mores for dinner. And then you . . . Well, it was an amazing weekend.”

  “What were you going to say?” Dropping the frame back to the side table, I wait for her answer.

  “Nothing. It’s not–”

  “Don’t tell me it’s not important.” Propping the crutches under my arms, I reach for her. Holding her shoulders in my hands, I squeeze. “Don’t you get it? All of it’s important. It’s all that I’ve forgotten and if I don’t have someone here to tell me about it, well, then it never happened in the first place.”

  Wiggling out of my grip, she laces her fingers with mine, a stark contrast to the cold metal at my side. “We made love all night and then again as the sun rose above the water. Sand got into places it shouldn’t ever be, but we were happier than anything. Lying there, watching the sun rise, it was one of the happiest moments of my life.”

  Without even thinking about it, my hand moves to the side of her face, stroking over the round apple of her cheek. “I wish I could remember it all. Every single moment. Just the way you remember them. All the details—the sounds, and smells. How everything felt.” My voice wavers. “I just can’t. They’re not there, yet.”

  “They will be,” she reassures, squeezing my hands in hers.

  When my parents return with my clothes, they drop off some takeout as well. Exhausted from the long day, they excuse themselves. Lingering at the door with Grace as they make their exit, I know they’re all talking about me, but I don’t have the energy to care.

  “You all settled in there?” Grace leans against the doorframe of the bedroom she’s spent the last hour fixing up for me.

  Scanning the room, I take stock of everything she’s brought in to me: water, a snack so I don’t have to trudge my way inside if I wake up hungry in the middle of the night, the remote for a television that’s barely across the room, fresh clothes and towels if I want to shower. I’m holding off on that one, knowing I’ll need way more help than I care to take right now. All I need is the kitchen sink and I’ll be completely covered. “Yeah, I think I’m good.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave you alone then. Have a good night’s sleep. See you in the morning.” Before closing the door completely, she adds, “I’ll be right in the next room if you need anything.” Watching her walk away, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

  Stuck in a vortex of nothing, all I see is black. Stretching out my arms around me, I can’t feel anything. With trepidation, I step forward, keeping my arms outstretched. After a few steps, the ground changes. From hard concrete, cold under my bare feet, it fades away, turning into warm grains of sand. The darkness fades, a sun comes into focus in the distance. With each passing step, the sun lifts higher into the sky.

  In the distance, I see a small tent. It’s far enough away from the shore so it doesn’t get wet, but close enough to catch the spray of the surf. Taking a deep breath, the salty air fills my lungs. I’m happy. The feeling spreads all over my body, warming my limbs, bringing a smile to my face.

  As I walk to the tent, a woman steps out. It’s Grace, her fiery red hair flowing in the light breeze. With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she stares out at the ocean. She looks happy. Blissful, actually. I open my mouth to say something, to catch her attention, to call her to me. Yet, before any words come out, a man steps out of the tent behind her.

  It’s me. Stretching my arms above my head, I reach to the sky before letting my arms drop around her. It’s an oddly surreal scene to watch. I’m standing here watching a scene from a life I don’t remember play out in front of me. I’m watching me hold the woman I’m supposed to love.

  They don’t notice me at all as I walk toward them. I don’t exist—this new, memory-free version of the man in the dream. They hold each other, letting the cool ocean water wave over their feet as the sun greets them. “Mornin,’ babe,” I say, nuzzling into her crazy hair.

  “Hey, yourself.” She leans against me, her heat seeping into my bones.

  Grace turns around into the circle of his arms, wrapping both of them in the blanket she’s holding. Catching a glimpse of her naked body, I feel my own reacting.

  She’s gorgeous. There’s no other word
to describe her. Creamy skin, curves for miles. And that smile on her face. It rivals the light from the sun.

  He drops the blanket to the sand, lowering Grace to the powder blue fabric in the process. Everything blurs together. There and here. Him and me.

  Then it’s only me and Grace.

  There’s no other me—the me who remembers. I become the same person.

  Hovering over Grace’s body, everything from that weekend falls into place. Capturing her mouth in mine, I taste the sugary sweetness from the S’mores. The gritty texture of the sand scratches the palms of my hands. Her scent, vanilla and orange, surrounds me, holding me close to her body.

  Sinking into her body is incomparable to any memory I thought I’d ever recover. The soundless vacuum in which dreams exists pops to life. “Gracie, baby,” I groan into her ear.

  Clawing at my back, she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me impossibly close to her body. “Oh, God . . . oh, God . . . oh, God . . .”

  The height of our joint pleasure opens my eyes. Catching a glimpse of something, I’m not sure if it’s part of the dream or of reality.

  “Grace,” I call out. Fumbling wildly, I try to maneuver my crutches. My arms, heavy with the sleep I so desperately needed, aren’t working fast enough. The tray at my side table crashes to the floor. The glass of water crashes to the floor, splintering into a thousand pieces. “Shit.”

  Busting through the door, Grace is a disheveled mess. A beautiful, unruly mess of perfection. Her hair is knotted in a messy pile on top of her head. The T-shirt she’s wearing must be two sizes too big. And either she’s not wearing shorts or I can’t see them because the shirt comes down to the middle of her thighs. “What happened? What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” The words fly out of her mouth, not allowing me any time to warn her about the broken glass on the floor.

  “Ouch,” she screams out. Hobbling the two more steps over to my bed, she falls to the bed, cupping her bloody foot in one hand. “Are you okay?” she asks, concerned only about me and not at all about the gash on her foot.