by Jessica Joy
If I’m truly honest with myself I have known it for a while now, but I was just too chicken shit to admit it. Something has been growing between us since the beginning, but I was too blinded by my fear to actually let myself feel it. Well, my fear of letting myself feel something for someone only to have it ripped away damn near became a reality the day Gage got hurt. I wasted too many days resisting him, too many nights spent sleeping alone wishing he was lying there next to me. I love him, and I have for a long time, and I almost missed my chance to tell him. When he wakes up, I’m not wasting another moment of the time I have with him. We’d been so good together, and I can’t wait for the chance to see just how great we can be.
He’s going to wake up. Please God, let him wake up.
I miss him. Miss the feeling of his arms around me, the sound of his laugh echoing in my ears. I miss waking up and seeing the ridiculous mop he calls hair stickup up at every angle while he looks at me with that sleepy grin of his. Whenever I would let him sleep in my bed, which looking back on it now wasn’t nearly often enough, he would always wake up wrapped around me like an octopus and give me that cheeky little grin as he asked if I was hungry, and he never meant for food. I would always roll my eyes and laugh him off, demanding a tooth brush and coffee before he even thought about any funny business. I would give anything to hear him ask me that again.
The doctors took him off the drugs that were keeping him under the day after we got him settled in Chicago. They keep assuring me it’s just a matter of time now, that he’ll wake up when he’s ready. “Everything is healing nicely, let nature take its course.” I’ve heard that phrase more times than I can count over the last few weeks. Patience has never been my strong suit, but I’m getting a master class in it right now.
In the spirit of getting him ready to wake up, I’ve been giving him sponge baths every day as best I can, but there is only so much you can do with a giant lump of dead weight twice your size. After the last attempt at washing his back, and having to hit the nurse button for help, I moved on to something a bit more manageable. His beard. I have never met a man more proud of, nor more ridiculous about, his beard than Gage is. He can be such a freakin’ diva about his grooming. I swear he takes longer in the bathroom getting ready than I do, and the last thing I want is to hear him bitch about it when he wakes up. I’ve washed it, trimmed it, and rubbed his precious beard oil into it and he finally looks like himself again. It was seriously getting out of control there for a bit. Full on Grizzly Adams isn’t a great look on him.
Deciding that it’s good enough for now, I clean up the little barbershop I had set up on his bedside tray before looking around the room for something else to do. I’ve been cleaning and straightening the room almost compulsively the last few days. I think it’s all starting to get to me. I can’t stare at these four walls and listen to those machines much longer without losing my mind. He needs to wake up.
Looking around, there is nothing else I can possibly clean so I settle back into my usual spot next to his bed. Deciding a nap might do me some good, I prop my legs up on the bed by his feet and sink low in the chair to rest my neck against the back of it. Wiggling and adjusting ‘til I get comfortable; I close my eyes and try to let my mind drift away. It’s been three weeks since I slept in a bed and I have to admit, I’ve turned this sleep in the hospital thing into a science. The right angle on these chairs and it isn’t too horribly uncomfortable.
After a few minutes, the ever-present beeping sounds of the monitors start to get to me and once my mind latches onto it so I can’t not hear it. So, I guess it’s time to sing. Another little hobby I have picked up since starting my regular bedside vigil. I’m not even sure what I sing but I just hum to myself, letting the music flow through me, trying not to think about anything and hoping I can drift off to sleep.
It must be working and I’m in that weird half-asleep, half-awake zone because I swear I feel something rub against my leg. No, that can’t be right, there’s nothing that should move anywhere in this room, and a nurse isn’t due for a check in for hours. I try to ignore it and keep the song going, wanting to push myself over that hump into full on sleep instead of this weird twilight zone.
The bump against my foot happens again, this time I know I’m not dreaming, but it still makes no sense. With a little grumble I open my eyes and look down toward my feet where they are propped on the bed. Nothing looks out of the ordinary and I’m about to lean my head back against the chair when my heart stops.
It moved.
His foot. Beneath the blanket.
It moved.
Not trusting my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me, I snap my eyes to the head of the bed and come face to face with a smiling Gage. He’s looking at me with a soft look on his face and a warm smile on those kissable lips of his.
Wait. He’s looking at me. He’s smiling.
“Mmm… Don’t stop,” he says, or at least attempts to say, but his voice is rough from disuse. Even in that hardly recognizable state, hearing his voice again immediately brings tears to my eyes.
Chapter 3
Gage
The increased activity on the monitors, and the increasingly annoying pace of the beeps echoing in the room, must set off some sort of alarm because within a couple of moments a frantic looking nurse comes bursting through the door. She pulls up short and stares at me for a moment with a look of shock painted on her face until a man in a leather vest barrels into her and almost knocks her over. The man catches her and straightens, righting the nurse on her feet as he does. He looks over toward me, the same panicked look on his face.
“Sawyer. Jaysus. What the feckin’ hell is goin’ on? Where the hell am I?” There are more important questions at the moment, but those are the only ones I can force my voice around. Like why the hell Lexi is lookin’ at me like she just saw a ghost, her tears still falling silently as shock takes over her features. Normally a lass getting all distraught doesn’t get to me all that much, or, at least I don’t think it does. I’m not really sure right now, everything is so fuzzy. Seeing this particular one crying is making something in my chest ache though. I don’t understand it.
Sawyer closes the distance between the door and my bedside in two long strides and grips my hand firmly. There is familiarity in the casual embrace, it’s not like a formal handshake, there’s history, and something comfortable in it. I know him.
“Fuck, you had us scared Brother. It’s good to have you back.”
“Have me back? What the feckin’ hell is goin’ on?” I ask, gripping his hand tighter as a fist of panic closes around my heart. What the fuck is going on? Why is Lexi starting to look like she wants to bolt from the room? Why is a nurse trying to shove the people I know out of the way? Sawyer looks down at me in confusion, as lost as I am by the looks of it. I need to get a grip, get my feet under me. I know this man at least; he’s someone who’ll help me figure out what the fuck is happening. The smell of coffee drifts off his breath and the thought of making an omelet pops into my head.
Right, we have breakfast on Wednesdays in his kitchen.
What day is it even? An older man in scrubs and a lab coat walks into the room, comes to the foot of my bed and starts flipping through the chart that was hanging there. This must be the doctor, maybe he’ll answer my questions. Taking quick stock of my body and surroundings, I notice how much shit is actually plugged into or on my body. The IV in my hand, the blood pressure cuff on my arm, the steady beeping of whatever machines they have me hooked up to, and yep, that’s a catheter. My legs feel like they’re full of lead, and my left arm won’t move quite right without a warning of pain.
“Good to see you awake, Mr. Dunne. I’m Doctor Jones, this is Nurse Thomas. We are just going to run a couple checks and see how you’re doing and then your friends and I will fill you in. I’m sure you have plenty of questions,” Doctor Jones says with a bored tone, not looking up from the chart.
“O’Gara. The name’s O’Gara,” I correct hi
m.
“Umm, no bud, that’s your mom’s name,” Sawyer says with an awkward chuckle.
Wait, no. I’m not sure why but O’Gara just popped out and felt right. Hearing Sawyer’s reaction, and having Dunne roll around in my brain for a hot second, I realize he’s right. Fuck, how’d that happen? I’m getting a headache.
“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course it is. Dunne,” I mutter, pulling my hand away from Sawyer.
I can’t sort through the fog clouding my brain. I don’t know why my leg hurts, I don’t know how I got here, I don’t know what happened to me, and frankly right now all I want to do is to close my eyes. So that’s exactly what I do. I close my eyes and let the doctor and nurse do what they need to do. The doc keeps asking questions and I answer as best I can.
Does this hurt? How’s this feel? Can you feel this? Recite the alphabet.
I manage to get through most of the interrogation without having to open my eyes, but just as I’m about to tap out and tell them I want sleep, he asks the million-dollar question. The answer once again comes automatically to mind but I’m not sure from where.
“Do you remember what happened, Mr. Dunne?”
“Yeah, bugger of a car wreck, someone hit me while I was on me bike,” I say like it’s obvious, because for some reason I’m sure it is. Just like I was sure O’Gara was my name. The air in the room gets heavy in the wake of my answer and I watch everyone in the room share uncomfortable looks. Even Lexi snaps her head back to me with a deep glare at Sawyer.
Well clearly that was the wrong answer. Again.
“Gage, bud, that accident happened four years ago. Remember? You always tell that story when you want to show off your surgery scar,” Sawyer provides again.
Doctor Jones clears his throat and asks for the room. Yep. Definitely the wrong answer. The nurse goes to issue Lexi out the door, but she just shakes her head with pressed lips and lets out a strained “Nuh uh”; Sawyer takes a step closer to the bed and stares down the doctor, clearly not in a hurry to go anywhere.
“We aren’t going anywhere. So, if you want time, you have time with us.”
“Mr. McGrath. I understand we have made several concessions for both yourself and Ms. Hayes since you got here, but I’m afraid I have to insist that I speak with Mr. Dunne in private. I can only share this information with the patient and the patient’s family.” The doctor tries his best to sound firm and intimidating, but Sawyer doesn’t move, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even blink.
“They’re family. If they can’t be here, I don’t want te hear it and ye can release me right now. Yer choice doc,” I respond before either of the other men can continue their argument. My head hurts and I’m fuckin’ tired. I don’t have patience for this shite. I just want to hear what they have to say as quickly as possible so I can go back to sleep.
The doctor gives me a long look but eventually sighs and nods, evidently knowing he won’t win. Good. I don’t have patience for this bullshit.
“Alright, Mr. Dunne. I’m going to ask you a few more questions. Let’s start at the beginning. What is your name?” The Doctor asks.
The answer comes automatically again, “Patrick Gage Dunne.” Well, that was easy.
“And when were you born Patrick?”
“Gage. It’s Gage.” The response is out of my mouth before I even realize it, like instinct. Yes, that’s right. Gage. That’s my name. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place, I’m certain that’s what I go by.
“Gage, alright. When were you born?” The doctor nods.
“12th of November,1984 in Dublin.” The words flow out of me without much thought, almost subconsciously. Answers that I’ve given for years and just reflexively come out without a thought. The thought of Dublin brings more images to the forefront of my mind. Like tuning in an old antenna TV, the white noise fuzz clears from the picture and I can see the house I grew up in just outside Dublin, see my mother bringing out the chocolate cake she made for my birthday and looks so proud of. Years of childhood memories play through my mind at rapid speed, it's disorienting but comforting at the same time. Like coming home. It feels right.
“Where do you live?” The doctor asks, making notes on the chart as he goes.
“Minnesota. Duluth, Minnesota.” Yes. I can see the harbor in my mind, the snow-covered hills, and a town just up the hill from Duluth proper. “Proctor.” I say, everything once again clicking into place. A flood of memories comes back, making my head spin. The Club, the bar, the Compound. Home.
“Good, good. Now do you know where you are now?”
This time the answer doesn’t come easily to mind, I pause and search for the answer in the rush of newfound memories but come up empty handed. “I… I don’t know exactly a hospital but I have no idea which one.” I say, my brows drawing together in consternation. I have no idea where I am, how I got here, or why my bloody arm and leg hurt so fucking much. It's an incredibly unsettling feeling and I feel a sharp tension knot in my shoulders at the realization.
“Okay, do you remember what happened?” The doctor asks again.
“I already told ye, a car crash but clearly that’s wrong.” I respond, frustration making my head pound even worse. “… I… I guess I don’t know,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut against the confusion.
“What is the last thing you remember Gage?” asks Sawyer, his brow furrowed.
What was the last thing I remember? Fuck. Rubbing my fist across my forehead I try to concentrate and wade through the jumble of memories that seem all tangled and mixed up in my mind.
Seattle. I remember being in Seattle.
Red hair. A mass of red hair and green eyes.
Lexi.
Fuck, Lexi. I remember Lexi. My eyes snap open and I look over at Lexi’s tear streaked face and now ruddy cheeks. She seems extremely distressed at this whole mess which is probably the most confusing part right now.
“Lexi....” I breathe. Her eyes go wide, and she meets my gaze finally, fresh tears streaming down her face. I hold her eyes for a moment longer before turning back to the doctor. “I remember rescue… I mean, helping Lexi out of a tough spot… with her mechanic. Did something go wrong?” I direct that last question to Sawyer, who is still standing next to my bed, his face hard and unreadable.
“Is that the last thing you remember?” The doctor asks.
“Ach that’s what I just said, isn't it?” I growl, something doesn’t feel right, and I don’t like it. The fist of unease tightens in my chest and my stomach nots. This isn’t the answer they were looking for. Fuck. What the fuck happened?
“So, the last thing you remember is helping Ms. Hayes with an issue. Do you remember when that was?” said the fuckin’ doctor who is starting to get on my last nerve.
“A’course I do! It was in fuckin’ May,” I snap, frustration finally winning out as I try to sit up, but pain screams through my left shoulder in protest to my movement. With a growl I settle back down against the pillows and tear my right hand through my hair but pull it back with a grimace when it gets tangled in overly greasy and knotted locks, and I feel a decent amount of growth on my usually shaved sides. What the fuck is going on? How long have I been here?
I look frantically between Sawyer, whose face has settled into stone, and over to Lexi who has started sobbing and turned away from the bed. “Sawyer. What the fook is goin’ on? What happened?” I demand, meeting his cold stare again.
“Mr. Dunne…” The Doctor attempts to interject.
“Gage,” I growl through clenched teeth.
“Gage, just to confirm, the last thing you remember is helping Ms. Hayes in May?”
“That’s what I fookin’ said. Now tell me what the fook is goin’ on or I’m not answerin’ another goddamn question.”
The doctor clears his throat and looks over to Sawyer for a moment before continuing, “Mr. Dunne. Gage. I believe you are experiencing a form of retrograde amnesia. A seemingly mild case at that, which is a good sign, but any amount of memory loss is
a cause for concern regardless. Now I want you to know that memory loss is not an unexpected side effect of an injury like yours.”
I cut him off, not sure I am hearing him correctly, “Wait, wait, what? Amnesia? Like some feckin’ soap opera plot? What the feck ye talkin’ about? What day is it? What the feckin’ hell happened?”
Sawyer puts a hand on my shoulder, presumably to calm my agitation but it only serves to frustrate me more. I refuse to be handled with kid gloves right now. “Sawyer, feckin’ tell me what happened. Now, Brother.”
Brother. Yes. I remember the Sons. Remember my Club, the Compound, remember the day King promoted me to Road Captain, the day I got my patch, all of it. Hearing me call him Brother must ease something in Sawyer because his hard look softens the barest amount as he looks down at me.
“Gage, it’s August,” Sawyer says calmly.
“The fook ye mean it’s August. Four months? I’ve been out for four fookin’ months?” I shout. Any control I have over my reactions vanishes with that news. I struggle to sit again, tired of laying here like a fuckin invalid with everyone staring down at me like I have one foot in the goddamn grave. When my shoulder protests once again, I flop back against the bed with a savage growl. Sawyer takes pity on me and pushes the button on the side of the bed that controls the tilt and lifts the head enough so I’m at least sitting up.
“You were in an accident of sorts three weeks ago, Mr. Dunne. Your initial care and treatment for the worst of your injuries was administered at Seattle General Hospital. You have been with us here at the University of Chicago Hospital for just about two weeks. You sustained several injuries in the accident, including a gunshot wound to the right leg, a broken collar bone, and severe head trauma and lacerations from a fall and subsequent landing. Your leg and shoulder are healing nicely and with continued care and physical therapy we expect you to make a full recovery. The head trauma was more extensive and required you to be put into a medically induced coma for a short period to give your body time to heal and any swelling around your brain to go down.”
