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Movement. A response to the touch. In an electric buzz, the signal I’ve been sending from my brain to my hand works. It’s nothing more than a subtle spasm at first, but it elicits a response from the hand covering mine.

A gentle squeeze. A soft caress. A guiding voice, beckoning me to keep trying.

So I do.

A small hand fits perfectly inside mine. Wrapping my fingers around it, it feels as if it belongs there, a natural extension of my own body.

“You’re doing so well, David. Can you hear me? Please tell me you can hear me,” the voice that usually sings to me demands, covering our joined hands with another one.

There are no other voices in the background at first, only the constant
beep beep beep.

“Oh, please.” Something wet falls on my arm.

My arm.

There’s feeling in my hand and my arm.

It travels up my shoulder, touching the side of my neck. When it moves over my face and neck, something in my throat feels out of place. It’s foreign enough to cease the progression of feeling returning to my body, but not so uncomfortable to halt it entirely. Following through to the other side of my body, feeling returns to my other arm and a pinch of some kind shoots through the other hand.

With a few more squeezes from the hand in mine and more drops falling to my arm, the sensation of waking up travels down my chest to my torso. Eventually it reaches my legs, filling my entire body with the warmth and awareness I’d been craving for who knows how long.

“He’s waking up. He’s waking up,” the voice repeats, growing more and more frantic. More voices fill the room. The steady
beep beep beep
accelerates, but the hand in mine holds firm, squeezing mine, coaching me, talking me through the flurry of activity to which I’m becoming aware.

The yellow spheres of luminescence sharpen into focus, becoming blinding white, hot rays of pure light.

“His eyes.” The small hand grips mine tighter. “He’s blinking.”

I feel movement on my other side, and the voice that once sung to me begins to cry gentle sobs of elation.

“David. Oh, God, David. Please wake up. Come back to us. Please, baby,” the voice begs. The other voices come into focus, but they’re not nearly as beautiful as the singing one. I feel the presence of other people around me, their love and warmth radiating toward me.

Fingers comb through my hair as more light filters into my blinking eyes. Moving my head back and forth jostles my brain, bringing back some of the pain. But the soft caress of those fingers eases some of it away.

Leaning into the touch brings more sobs, more voices, more movement.

Faces come into view. A man and a woman. Older. Grey dusting their hair and wrinkles creasing their faces, they smile at me. Locked in a tight embrace, they cry on each other’s’ shoulders.

Gurgled noises try to move in my throat, but they’re stopped, blocked by something.

“There are tubes in there. To help you breathe and a feeding one, too,” a voice explains from the other side. Turning my head to the sound, a woman with black hair comes into focus. Calmly, she continues, “Hold steady for just a minute and we’ll get them taken care of. Just try to relax.”

Pressure is followed by a sensation I’d be happy never to feel again. Gasping for air, I choke and gag. “Easy there. Take it easy,” the woman with black hair coaches, calming me.

The choking eases up, allowing air to flow steadily into my lungs. When I try to speak, my throat is raw and sore. An echo of what should be my voice falls from my lips. “Can he have a sip of water?” the older woman asks, looking at me with concern in her eyes.

A minute later the rim of a paper cup is tipped back at my lips. “Just take a small sip,” the singing voice says. “Is that better?” she asks, placing the cup back on the small table to her side.

I nod, letting my surroundings settle around me. “David,” a deep male voice calls to me from the side where the dark-haired woman is. “Do you know where you are?”

Do I know where I am?

Letting that question settle in my brain, I try to put the pieces together.

Do I know who I am?
Now that seems like a more appropriate question.

Scanning the room, the expectant faces of everyone surrounding me wait anxiously for a response. Wanting nothing more than to give them the answer they want, I continue searching my shaken brain. One clue. That’s all I need. But it never comes.

“That’s okay,” the male voice says. “It’ll take some time.” Pulling a chair to my side, he’s level with me now. Wearing a white coat and holding a metal folder in his arms, a small piece of the puzzle falls into place. “I’m Dr. Thompson. You’re at New York Presbyterian hospital.”

Gathering all my energy, I manage, “For how long?” At the sound of my voice, the older couple cries some more, holding each other even tighter. The hand in mine squeezes before pulling our linked fingers up to her mouth.

“Two weeks,” he clarifies. Noting my panic, he adds, “Easy. Just try to stay calm. We’re going to get your vitals and run some more tests. Try to get some rest and ease back into this being awake thing. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

Forgetful that it causes pain, I nod as he leaves my side. Dropping a hand to the older gentleman’s shoulder as he walks to the door, Dr. Thompson calls him Mr. Andrews. Addressing the woman as Mrs. Andrews, another, larger, piece of the puzzle fits together.

“Mom,” I croak. “Dad.” Spinning on their heels, they abandon the doctor and race to my side.

“We’re here, sweetie.” Mom cries, sitting in the chair the doctor just vacated. “We’re here,” she repeats, letting her words trail off into quiet sobs.

“We weren’t sure you’d ever . . .” Dad’s words trail off into his own tears. “That’s not important. You’re here. You’re awake now. We have you back. Thank God.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews,” the nurse calls to them from the door. “We just need you to sign a few forms for some tests.”

“We’ll be right back, son.”

As subtly as possible, I nod, trying my best to ignore the lingering dull ache of pain in my skull.

“Hey,” the voice at my side calls my attention. Turning toward it, I’m greeted with a bright, tear-stained face. Swiping at the tears streaking down her cheeks, she smiles at me. “Can I get you some more water?” she asks, tipping her head at the cup on the table at her side.

I nod and she lifts it to my lips once more. “Better?”

Swallowing the small sip, I let the water trickle down my throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

After putting the cup back, she covers my hand with hers. Adjusting the pillow behind me, she helps me sit up a little.

Another piece slides into place.

The touch.

The song.

“You were here?” Confusion coats my scratchy voice.

Her mouth pulls up on one side, a sweet smile lifting her lips. “Every single day,” she reassures, her voice sounding thick, heavy with emotion.

“You sang to me?”

Her cheeks stain red. “Not very well, I’m afraid. But yes–” A deep shuddery breath interrupts her sentence. “Every single night. When everyone would leave, I sang to you until I ran out of words to sing.”

“Everyone?” Flipping through the seemingly limited files in my brain, I can only recall her touch and her song. “Who was here?”

“So many people. Your parents only went home to shower and sleep.” Stroking her thumb over my wrist helps calm the pending panic of not being able to remember anything from the past two weeks, especially how I landed myself here in the first place. “All the guys from the squad were here. They rotated in and out, taking turns.”

“The squad?” Frustration I don’t have the energy for bubbles in my tightening chest.

“The firehouse. Captain Gallagher, Gonzalez, and Miller. All of them came in at some point.” She pauses. Looking up at the water-stained ceiling, it’s as if she’s plucking her ideas down from above. “David?” she asks, her voice wobbly and trembling. “Do you remember what happened? Where you were? Who you were with?” Swallowing hard, I watch as she wars with what to say next.

Shaking my head, I admit, “No. I don’t. Nothing is coming to me.”

“You’re a firefighter at Squad eighteen in Manhattan.” Holding my hand in one of hers, she covers her mouth with the other, concern passing over her face. “You were at the 9/11 memorial and it was attacked. There was a bomb. You were with your best friend, Ian.” Losing her battle with her tears, she cups her face in her hands.

“I . . . I don’t remember anything.” Looking down at my blanket-covered body, I try to jolt to life the part of my brain holding this memory captive, but it’s locked up, sealed in a vault so tight, no key can ever open it.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeats over and over through her tears. “It’s better that you don’t remember right now. I probably shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. I’m just so happy you’re here. You’re back. I never thought I’d hear your voice again.”

I’m trying so damn hard my head hurts, but I can’t do it. I can’t put it all together. None of it is making any sense. Reality is tethered to me on a thin string, a wisp of a rope, fraying and splitting at the end. Letting what I’ve learned to this point run around in my head, I lean back on the pillow under my head. Closing my eyes, I repeat what I do know in the hopes that it will spark to life some of what I don’t.

Firefighter.

9/11.

Attack.

Squad 18.

Ian.

“I’m a firefighter?” I ask despite her already having told me as much. She nods. “And I was attacked at a memorial with my friend?”

“Yes,” is her simple response, but it sounds as if she wants to say so much more.

“Did he . . . I mean . . .” I pause. Scrubbing a hand over my face only reminds me of the bruises lingering there. “Did he make it out?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately, but again there’s this uncertain quality to her answer. Not having the energy to deal with what she’s not saying right now, I close my eyes and take stock of what I’ve learned.

My head throbs at it all.

Fighting through the pain, I ask the question I’d been too ashamed to ask since I felt her touch bring me out of unconsciousness. “Can I ask you something else?”

Brushing her hand through the hair falling in my eyes, she says, “Anything. You can ask me anything, baby.”

“Who are you?”

The doctor and my parents walk back in the room, explaining the tests I’m being whisked away to, but all I can focus on is the look of horror on her face. Before she can say anything, I’m being wheeled out of the room.

Moving in reverse on the gurney, my eyes stay locked with hers. They’re such a deep blue it’s as if I’m being sucked down into an ocean. But the only memory coming to me is of her song, its melody drifting toward me, chasing the dark away.

“He doesn’t remember you at all?” Jade hands me a very large glass of wine as she curls next to me on her sofa.

Taking a few large gulps, I swallow down the wine, letting it accompany the pain I’m attempting to bite back. Shaking my head, I try to give her as much information as I can without breaking down. “He doesn’t remember me, or that he’s a firefighter. He doesn’t even remember what happened to land him in the hospital.”

“Ian?” she gasps his name, clutching her hand to her chest.

Dropping a hand to hers, I explain, “No, sweetie. I’m sorry. He doesn’t remember Ian either. I mentioned his name, but David had no clue who he was.”

“So then he doesn’t know . . .” Her question trails off into silence.

“No. I couldn’t tell him that.” After taking another sip, I try my best to rationalize how unfair life can be sometimes. “The man I love had just woken up from a two week coma and he couldn’t remember a damn thing except his parents. How was I supposed to tell him that his best friend had lost both of his legs trying to protect him?” Not that it was my intention, but I allow my anger to seep into my words, letting them fall from my mouth as if they were barbed and spiked, intended to inflict pain.

We both finish our first glass of wine before pouring another, letting the silence settle around us.

“How is he?” My words cut through the quiet.

She shrugs, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I guess. Slowly coming around to the idea that he has no legs. But he met with the orthopedist today. He’s going to be fitted for prosthetics and he can start rehab with them soon.”

“I can’t wait to see him. Is he up for visitors yet?” Since the attack, he hasn’t wanted to see much of anyone. Even the guys from the squad. When they come to visit, they hang out in the hallway, a silent wall of strength supporting their injured brother. He’s only wanted to see Jade and his parents.

Shaking her head, she sighs. “No. He’s still working through it all. I’m shocked he even wants to see me.”

“Well you two are–”

She laughs. “Please tell me you’re going to end that sentence explaining what we are. Because I have no clue. We were hanging out. That’s all. Something casual, something fun. Then the smallest flicker of feeling started to come to life and he was nearly blown up.” Searching for her thoughts in the bottom of her second glass of wine, Jade shifts on the sofa, twisting to face me. “I was really starting to like him. To enjoy my time with him. And I think he felt the same way, too. But now . . . no, you know what? Forget it. It’s not that important.”