One Tuesday Morning (37 page)

They made their way to the table and ate breakfast, the air between them somehow more relaxed than before. When they were done eating, Jamie turned to him and drew a slow breath. “I think you're ready, Jake.”

“For what?”

“Ever since we were married, you've kept a journal.” She crossed her arms, her words breathy and nervous.
“Not every day, but often enough.” Her eyes found the ceiling, and for a moment, she wondered if she should change the conversation and make it wait for another time. Instead, she looked at him again, more resolutely this time. “Every morning you'd read your Bible, and most of the time you'd add something to your journal.” She hesitated. “I … looked at both books the other day, after we first knew about your memory. There's so much there, Jake. Notes and highlighted sections in your Bible … and the journal … Jake, it's your life story. If you want to remember how to be Jake Bryan, everything you need is right there.”

Jake simply stared at her. A journal? And a Bible with notes and highlighted sections? It was exactly the type of information he needed. He struggled to his feet and reached for the crutches leaning against the table near his seat. A wild hope surged through him, hope greater than anything he'd felt since he woke up from the accident. “Where are they?”

“Upstairs.” She crossed her arms more tightly around herself. “I'll be busy down here all day and, well, I thought it'd be better if you read them upstairs on our … on the bed up there. A place that was more familiar.” She angled her head. “Can you handle the climb?”

“Definitely.” Jake nodded and took a few wobbly steps toward her. “Lead the way.”

Jamie did, and as he followed her upstairs, Jake had the sense he wasn't only finding his way back to a bedroom where he'd slept all those thousands of nights. He was finding his way back to yesterday, and every wonderful thing about it.

They entered the room, and Jake stopped at the doorway. A candle burned on an antique dresser, and the hint of vanilla mixed with the pungent smell of eucalyptus and dried flowers that hung on a wreath over the bed. A thick comforter with a delicate blue design was spread across the mattress, and the dark mahogany wood that made up the four-poster frame matched the dresser and four other pieces.

Everything about the room was warm and welcoming, a perfect haven for two people who loved each other. But as inviting as it was, Jake had to admit there was nothing familiar about it. Nothing at all.

“The books are over here.” Jamie pointed as she walked toward the bed.

Her words were hurried, and Jake could sense that being in their bedroom together made her feel uncomfortable again. She stooped down and reached under the bed. As she did, her sweatshirt rose up, exposing the skin on her back. She was pretty; no question about it. Jake looked out the window so she wouldn't catch him staring. Something about seeing her bare back made him feel awkward. Jamie stood up, and he glanced back in her direction.

“Here.” She had the books in her hand, and she crossed the room and handed them to him. “I'll be downstairs. Take as long as you want.”

“Thanks, Jamie.” He held her eyes a bit longer than usual. His words felt clumsy, especially with his raspy voice, but he had to try anyway. “About …” He used his chin to gesture toward the bed. “About that. I'm sorry … I … I'm just not ready.”

“That's okay.” Her face turned a deep red, but she didn't look away. “We'll find our way back.” She tapped the books in his hands. “That's the best place I can think of to start.”

When she was gone, Jake set his crutches down against the dresser and hopped around the edge. Then he climbed up and stretched out along the side of the bed where she'd found the books. He sat up against two oversized pillows and pulled the books onto his lap. Holy Bible, the first one read. The cover was made from worn leather, and at the bottom—nearly rubbed off from use—was his name: Jake Bryan.

He opened it and read the inscription inside. Then he made a quick glance at the pages. Jamie had been right on. There were highlighted sections of text nearly every few pages, and just as many scribbled notations in the margins. He stopped at one in the book of Hebrews.

The highlighted section read,
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us keep our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith…
. Jake's eyes scanned the page and found the tiny, handwritten words beside the verses.
I must always keep my eyes on God … there's no other way to run the race of life, no other way to win
.

Twice more he read the words until the truth began to sink in. He was not just a religious guy, a guy who went to church and paid his taxes on time. He was in love with God, ruled by the Lord's truth, guided by His principles.

Jake could feel sections of the missing puzzle falling into place all at once.

His father—also clearly a man of God—had given Jake the Bible as a means of passing on his faith, and clearly Jake had caught the baton. Whatever else might not have felt tangible at the moment, the part that involved God was as real as his heartbeat. Tears gathered as he closed the cover of the Bible and held it to his chest. The crying surprised him, and he closed his eyes to keep the moment private between him and God.

Help me, God … how do I do this?

He wanted to pray; in fact, the thoughts he had for God swelled within his heart. But something about praying didn't feel completely natural. Jake understood that. The amnesia stood like a fortress wall in the way of his remembering exactly how to voice the words. But the thing that brought tears to his eyes was this: At least he remembered how. And that meant in addition to his memories of Sierra, he also had memories of God. Since that was true, it would only be a matter of time before he would remember Jamie and his father and everything about being a New York City firefighter.

A slow sigh eased between his lips. The words he wanted to say to God grew and built within him until speaking them in the silent places of his soul was the most natural thing he could ever remember doing.

Lord, it feels so good to find You again, to read the notes in my Bible and know that here, with You, is the place where I've always found my strength
. He paused, and a tear squeezed its way from the corner of his eye. He let it go.
I'm a firefighter, God, so I know I've been in some tough places before. I was in a tough place that Tuesday morning at the World Trade Center. But this … this not knowing the people I love … this is the hardest thing I can imagine
. He sniffed.
So I need Your strength again, God … I need to spend time with You and Your words and pray that You'll hold me up, like You've obviously done all my life
. He rubbed his thumb over the leather of his Bible. Strength unlike any he'd felt since he'd been injured washed over him, and he tightened his grip on the old book.
Thank You for letting me live … thank You for Jamie and Sierra and for bringing me safely to this place. Now … please, God … if You could just help me find my way home
.

Jake spent the rest of that day and most of the next two weeks praying and poring over the highlighted sections of his Bible and the hundreds of entries in his journal. Jamie had been right about that too. The things he'd written gave him an intimate understanding of his passion for God and Jamie and Sierra. The entries spoke of his fear that Jamie might never share his faith and her fears that something might happen to him on the job. They told of happy times and family vacations, and they detailed his hopes for Sierra's future. They talked of the tougher calls he'd taken as a firefighter and the fun times he and Larry Henning had shared.

Never mind that his head still hurt when he read, the material was both fascinating and gripping, filling in the missing pieces of his past until at the end of those two weeks he didn't merely know everything there was to know about Jake Bryan. No, it was more than that, a feeling that ran much deeper.

Because of the two books, he was actually becoming him.

T
WENTY
-F
IVE

O
CTOBER
13, 2001

Bit by precious bit, Jamie could feel her husband returning.

The day after she'd led him to his Bible and journal, Jake had taken them down to the guest room, and from that point he'd been lost in the information. All of which was a wonderful thing, because when the two of them were together with Sierra over dinner or breakfast, his conversations and quiet reflections sounded more like Jake Bryan all the time.

It was late Saturday afternoon, nearly three weeks after he'd come home from the hospital, and she was tired of staying away from him. Even if he was busy reading, she wanted to be near him, talk to him. See if his memory was bursting through the fog in his brain. She walked from the kitchen to the guest room and gave the door a quiet push open. He was reading the Bible, too caught up even to notice her, and so she leaned against the doorframe and studied him. This reading was all he'd done, really, the thing that had taken up most of his time since she'd showed him the books on his second day at home.

Jamie had been in touch with Dr. Cleary and explained Jake's fascination with the material. “Should I be worried about him? I mean he'd rather read all day than get on with life outside the guest room.”

“That's perfect. No alarm for concern, Jamie. It's just the kind of thing that'll help him remember. He'll let you know when he's ready to start living again.”

And so for two weeks, Jamie had done nothing but tend to his burns and prepare his meals while he buried himself in the books. The church friends and firefighter visitors had continued to stop by, wanting to wish Jake well and offer whatever help they could in his recovery. By now the surviving men he'd worked with knew about his memory loss.

But so far, Jamie hadn't allowed them in. She'd greet them at the door, hug them, talk with them, tell them the latest about Jake. But she intended to stick as closely as possible to Dr. Cleary's orders, and he'd made it clear that visitors would only slow the healing process of Jake's brain. Jake needed a simple life, as close as possible to the one he'd had before he was hurt.

Once that felt familiar to him, he could see the guys from the station. Besides, Jamie felt terrible around Jake's buddies, because none of them wanted to talk with her about Larry Henning or the others who'd been lost the morning of the attacks. Surely they talked among themselves about the emptiness, the enormous losses of so many great men who had risked their lives to try to save others. But around her they said very little.

She didn't want to talk about the missing men either; in fact, she still hadn't talked with Sue since September 11. The few times Jamie had called, Sue had been sleeping or talking with family. Certainly, the depth of the tragedy was setting in throughout the department, and Jamie was content to be shielded from most of it.

The efforts at Ground Zero were no longer being called a rescue. They were a recovery operation, and that could only mean one thing. Larry was dead. At some point Jamie and especially Jake would have to deal with the loss, but not yet. Not until her husband could figure out who he was. And until then, Jamie was more than willing to focus all her energy on Jake and, in the process, delay her own grieving, as well.

She studied him from the doorway, and he still didn't see her. He was too caught up in a world he was desperate to find again. His burns were healing. Only a few spots still required bandaging—an area on his forehead and his left cheek, and spots on both his forearms. His skin was red and blotchy, and his voice was still not back to normal, but he was looking more like himself all the time. He was finished with the crutches too, and though the boot cast remained, he could get around without assistance. She'd talked to Dr. Cleary about some of the subtle differences that remained, especially the way he walked and carried himself. The man was Jake, for sure, but there was something subtly different about him. Even Brownie, their old lab, had noticed. More than once when Jake had limped into the room, she would bare her teeth at him. Not until Jamie would assure the dog that everything was okay would she lie back down. But even then she seemed to keep a close eye on Jake.

“That's part of the amnesia,” Dr. Cleary had explained. His tone had been reassuring and Jamie was grateful. She still remembered that terrible day when she'd read Jake's chart, and how it had felt to doubt whether he was indeed her husband. The doctor went on, explaining the situation in a way that eased her vague concerns completely.

“When a person loses his long-term memory, he sometimes loses the ability to act like himself. In this case, Jake remembers how to talk and walk, just not how to talk and walk like himself. This could affect his word choices, his mannerisms, even the way he carries himself. It's only natural that your dog might not truly recognize him.”

The news was helpful, and it made Jamie feel better. But still, it was strange to have him walk past without working his arm around her waist and pulling her close for a slow kiss, odd to see him talk to Sierra without stooping down and giving her the horsey rides she missed so much.

Jamie drew in a sharp breath, and the sound of it caught his attention. Of the two books, this time he was reading his journal, and he peered at her over the top of it. The moment he did, his eyes lit up and he set the book down beside him. “We need to go to the beach.”

She stared at him. What was this? Was he actually starting to remember? “The … the beach?”

“Yes.” Enthusiasm filled his scratchy voice, and a smile flashed on his face. “So we can jet ski.”

“You mean you …” Jamie's jaw dropped, and her mouth was suddenly dry. “You remember that?”

The corners of Jake's mouth fell back into place. “No.” He pointed to the journal on the bed beside him. “But I know I used to love it. We both did.”

Disappointment cast a momentary shadow over the moment. When it was gone, Jamie nodded, willing away the tears that stung at her eyes. “So you're ready to get out again?”