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?”