Tuesday Morning Collection, The: One Tuesday Morning, Beyond Tuesday Morning, Remember Tuesday Morning

by Kingsbury, Karen

  “Was anyone else hurt?” Jake lifted his hand slowly toward his face and then changed his mind and let it fall again.

  “That isn't important, Jake.” Jamie's tone put an end to the line of questions. “Let's focus on getting you better.”

  Captain Hisel cleared his throat. “We miss you down at the station.”

  Jake blinked. “What station?”

  Captain Hisel looked at the others around the room and finally back at Jake. “The fire station.” The man's eyebrows formed a deep-set V. “Don't you remember?”

  “Look …” Jake gave a pained shake of his head and released a heavy sigh. “I don't know if this is … some wacky dream or … or if I've lost my mind.” Jake met Captain Hisel's eyes again. Discouragement tinged his voice. “But I don't remember the station … or you.” He shifted his gaze to Jamie and his father. His words were slow and machinelike, dimmed by his raspy voice. “Or either of you … or anything about being a fireman.” He looked at Sierra, and his eyes softened some. “The only thing I remember is Sierra.”

  Jamie's head spun, and she had to grip the bed's guardrails to keep from falling. She flashed the captain a look and motioned toward the hallway. He nodded and turned as she leaned in closer to her husband. “We'll be out in the hall for a bit. Go ahead and rest, Jake.”

  Taking Sierra by the hand, Jamie followed the captain and Jake's father into the hallway. The moment they were out of earshot from Jake, Captain Hisel stared at Jamie, his mouth open. This was the first time the captain had seen Jake since he'd regained consciousness. “He really doesn't remember.”

  “No.” Jamie bit her lip to keep from crying. Her head was spinning harder now, and the black spots were back, dancing before her eyes and making it hard to hear. “Not … not even me.”

  The men must've known she was about to fall, that she couldn't possibly stand up another minute under the weight of all that had happened. Jake's father came up along one side, Captain Hisel along the other, with Sierra in the middle. Together they formed a circle, arms linked, heads bowed, silenced by the tragedy of it all.

  And for a long while no one spoke.

  Jake's words had said it all.

  Questions had been weighing on Jake since he came to, and now he wanted answers. Here and there he'd caught snippets of conversations in the hallways—sometimes when he was in and out of sleep. Something major had happened in New York City, a disaster that involved more than him.

  If he really was a firefighter, then Jake had the feeling he wasn't the only man injured in the incident—whatever it was.

  He reached for the television remote and clicked the On button. Strange, that his brain could remember how to talk and operate a remote control. He could even picture New York City. But if his life depended on it, he couldn't remember his name or the woman who apparently was his wife.

  A picture began to take shape on the TV screen, and a logo at the corner said CNN. The all-news channel—another thing he remembered. A man was standing behind a podium talking, and Jake glanced at the doorway, hoping the people he was supposed to know wouldn't come back. Not yet. If they weren't going to tell him what had happened, he had to find out for himself.

  Jake focused, and someone offscreen asked the man a question—something about football games that weekend.

  “The NFL will take this weekend off in honor of the victims of September 11,” the man said. “We believe this is the least we can do to show our respect.”

  NFL? That was the National Football League. So why were they taking a week off? And what had happened September 11 that would cause them to cancel all their games? They wanted to honor victims that had been hurt how? What was the man talking about? A realization hit him like a fist in the stomach. What day had he been injured, anyway? He wasn't sure, but he thought he'd been in the hospital just two days. Maybe he was one of the people hurt on September 11.

  The image changed, and a somber-looking man announced that the station was going to do a recap of the events from the past two days. A picture flashed of two towering buildings. Fireballs and thick black smoke poured from the top of one of them, and before Jake could remember where he'd seen the buildings, an airplane came into view and flew smack into the other tower.

  His mouth went dry. The reporter was saying something about terrorists and suicide missions, but none of it made sense. Terrorists? Flying planes into buildings? Had this happened while he was unconscious, or had he been in one of the buildings, even fighting the fire in one of them?

  His hands shook, and the remote control fell to his lap.

  Over the next few seconds, the recap showed the collapse of first one building, then the other. One image showed a different flaming structure—wider and nowhere near as tall. And finally, the picture changed to a rural-looking field, with what looked like a charred crater.

  A chart appeared on the screen with a banner across the top that read, “Attacks on America.” The information detailed the apparent loss of four airplanes, multiple buildings in New York City, and Washington, D.C., and the deaths of some three thousand people, more than four hundred of which were firefighters or emergency personnel.

  Three thousand people dead? And hundreds of firefighters?

  Jake clicked off the TV, and suddenly a memory filled his mind, clear and detailed. The tall buildings were part of the World Trade Center—the famous Twin Towers in downtown Manhattan—situated in the heart of New York City.

  The memory of the buildings was so clear it was striking, and Jake settled back against his pillow. There was only one reason why he would remember the buildings this well. He must've spent time there, and that meant the people outside were telling the truth. He was a firefighter, probably stationed somewhere near the towers. He and the other guys at his station had probably been in the buildings hundreds of times.

  If that was true, then he must've been injured in the terrorist attacks. And not only that, but he was probably lucky to be alive. The numbers flashed through his head again. Thousands dead … hundreds of emergency personnel. How had he survived? And which close friends and colleagues had been killed when those buildings tumbled to the ground?

  He tried to remember the captain's name. Hiser or Hisen…. Whoever he was, no wonder he looked so shaken. The station hadn't responded to a fire. They'd responded to a national disaster, a tragedy worse than anything America had ever seen. And he'd been right there in the middle of it.

  Reality took a moment to introduce itself.

  So, his name was Jake, after all, and he really was a firefighter. He had to be; he'd been found beneath his fire truck, and the captain recognized him. Jake worked the sore muscles in his jaw and tried to imagine fighting fires, wearing the heavy uniform and holding the high-pressure hoses while flames raged around him. He could conjure up such scenes in his head, but not one of them felt familiar. And nothing came to mind when he tried to picture the station, the one the captain had asked him about.

  Jake closed his eyes and concentrated so hard his face hurt beneath the bandages. He had obviously worked at the station dozens of hours every month for who knew how many years, so why couldn't he remember any of it? If he could picture the World Trade Center buildings, why couldn't he picture the fire station?

  And what about the woman? At first the idea of not remembering her had seemed so strange he merely dismissed the thought altogether. He couldn't be married to her, otherwise he'd know at least something about her. Instead, he'd assumed that somehow she must've been confused about him, and by believing that, he was able to convince himself the whole situation was some kind of enormous mistake.

  But clearly he'd been wrong. Everything the people in the hall outside his room had been telling him was true. He was a firefighter, married to Jamie, and he worked at a station in New York City that had most likely been decimated by the terrorist attacks on September 11. Somehow he'd fought the biggest fire in the country's history and walked out of it alive. Sure, he'd lost his memory, but his doctors
could do something about that. The important thing was, he'd survived.

  Another understanding dawned in the dark corridors of his confused brain. If he was ever going to find his way back to the person he used to be, he'd need the support of the people outside in the hallway.

  Especially Jamie and Sierra.

  Recent memories came to mind, the terrified look on the woman's face each time she entered his room, the anxiety in the eyes of the other men, the man who was obviously his father, and the captain. No, Jake didn't recognize them. But he hadn't so much as smiled at them, either. However hard this ordeal was on him, they were going through something equally awful. Until a few days ago they'd shared intimate relationships and friendships with him, and now he was so disoriented he hadn't found it in himself even to be kind.

  He was alive, after all. He had a family and friends who loved him. Jake pictured them again, Jamie and his father, the captain. Combined, he had not a single memory of any of them, and the reality of that would have left him utterly despondent if not for one thing—he remembered Sierra. His little daughter gave him a starting place, a single rock to cling to as he set out on the climb of his life. The hike back to reality as it had been before September 11.

  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.”

  TWENTY

  SEPTEMBER 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.