0986388661 (R) (32 page)

“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 in 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.”

“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–”