Chapter Text
He dreams of fire, of falling buildings and collapsing ceilings. Of drowning, in a bottle, in pain, in a cabin.
He dreams of being pinned, trapped, crushed. Of gunshots, of searing pain in his gut, the certainty he has lost the other half of his soul.
He dreams of burning, but not from flames or from desire. Death itself burns its way though his veins, taking everything it can.
He doesn't remember any of it when he wakes, all of it slipping away like sand being washed away by the ocean.
The only thing that lingers, is overlapping, echoing voices. He doesn't know who they belong to, but he knows with those words, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
“Thank you for coming to get me.”
“Always.”
Sleep is hard for Wade to claim and quicker to leave him than he’d like. Most nights, he never manages more than a few hours at a time, plagued by dreams or nightmares that never linger long enough upon waking for him to process any of it. Part of him wonders if it’s the memories that he lost trying to reach him, or if it’s simply his mind trying to fill a void that’s unfillable.
All he knows, is that he was in an accident in April, in a coma for a month before waking up and told it was a miracle that he survived and still functional, complete memory loss aside. The hospital shipped him out a month after he woke up, once he’d gotten back what they deemed enough strength. He was thanked for his service, given an address of where he lived and told to come back twice a week for checkups. He’d been given a substantial amount of money to live on, enough that he’d never have to work another day in his life if he chose so, and basically been left to his own devices.
In the whole time since waking up, there's been no visitors or messages from anyone, no drop in's from friends, no calls from family, concerned about how he's doing. It makes him wonder what kind of person he was before — was he such an unkind and awful person that in the aftermath of an accident that should have killed him, no-one cared to see how he was doing? It paints a sharp contrast to the feeling in his dreams and the voices that overlap. Were they simply fragments of his imagination trying to make him feel better for being alone through his own making, pulling strands of something from nothing to give him the illusion that he belonged somewhere, with someone? Or are they echoes of someone who once loved him, before he turned into someone that people forgot about, living day by day in an apartment devoid of life and color? Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that he is alone. He feels lost, and unmoored with no purpose.
The lack of contact from anyone had bothered him enough in those first couple of weeks after being discharged, that during one of his check ups, he asked about if anyone had been contacted when he woke. The nurse for that appointment is one of those that helped take care of him during his month recovery — she's largely been the one responsible for all his care, so she would know more than anyone else.
Her answer was that he'd had no emergency contact details that worked, either old or unreachable now, and that those listed as his immediate family were dead, with no extended family they could reach.
She didn't say it like this, but in short, there was no one alive that would care that he'd survived. No friends either, in a place he's supposedly lived for a while.
He’d tried not to let it bother him, but it breaks something in him, that there's no-one that cares for him. There's a pull inside he doesn't recognize, something that tells him to give in, to fall, but he doesn't know what for. He only knows that it feels like he'd lose more than what he already has if he does.
That first month after being released from hospital was spent building up strength. Hours spent at home or the gym, pushing until his brain is literally too tired to think about how lonely and empty his life is. He started going for runs the moment he could, going for longer and longer each time. His body protests and there's something in the back of his head telling him he needs to be careful, but until it does something about it and makes him, he's not going to stop.
The routes he chooses for his runs are random, spur of the moment turns and directions, which becomes a blessing in the end, because one day, he stumbles upon a church. He doesn’t know why he ends up so drawn to it, or why his feet lead him to the gate entrance almost without him realizing. But it feels right, like it’s somewhere he should be. It’s the only time he’s felt that way outside of his dreams. Part of him wants to forego his run, but he’s mindful of the fact that he’s been running for a fair bit and he doesn’t want to inflict his sweaty self on others right now. He makes a note of where it is, and resolves to come back tomorrow.
The next day, he finds himself actually looking forward to getting up and out of bed, glad to have something to work towards. He has no idea what is waiting for him — the church could be a dead end, simply just an echo of a good memory and nothing to do with the church itself, but it's the first time since he woke up that he's felt a pull that's felt positive. So even if it’s nothing, he has to at least try. He can’t spend anymore of his days just working out or reading or just existing in this shitty apartment and having the only human contact being from getting stabbed twice a week. If he really was such a terrible person that there’s no one in his life, he must have done something for that to be the case, so he owes it to do better, be better than he was before, and churches are there to help people. It’s a good enough place to start.
He goes through his morning routine with an energy that’s been missing and breakfast doesn’t feel like ashes in his mouth for once. The route to the church is easy enough to get to when he checks on his laptop, despite all the turns he took to get there in the first place so he doesn’t rush.
The church is open when he arrives, door kept open so people can enter and leave easily. It’s a small church, but it feels welcoming, rather than claustrophobic when he walks in. It’s warmly lit with candles and with the natural light of the sun shining through the stained glass windows causing streaks of rainbows to fall over the walls and floor.
It’s the first time he’s felt peace since he woke up after his accident.
There’s no service running at the moment, just a couple of people sitting on the pews, heads bent in prayer. He takes a seat on one of the pews in the back, not yet willing to move further in. He feels a little like he’s just waiting for God to strike him down for daring to set foot inside such a holy place whilst his soul is so obviously stained with sin.
He bows his head and clasps his hands together, the movements coming to him naturally and that in and of itself is a relief. To find part of himself in the simple act of moving without thinking. Church isn’t just a location for him, it’s part of him. Whether it came from having to attend church as a child, or something he did as an adult because of his faith, it doesn’t matter. It’s a tiny piece of the puzzle of who he is.
Unsure of what to pray for, aside for regaining his memories, he sits in the silence and basks in atmosphere. There’s only the faint smell of incense and quiet whispers of the other church goers and it lulls him into a gentle sense of serenity.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there before one of the clergy approach him and joins him on the pew.
“I’ve not seen you here before. Did something bring you in for a reason?” It’s non-judgemental, just curious.
“I, uh, was running yesterday, saw the church and felt drawn to it. For someone without memories, I had to find out why and what it meant to me.”
The priest looks at him, startled. “You have amnesia?”
“Yeah, I woke up a couple months back after an accident and couldn’t remember a thing. I’ve been trying to find myself again.”
“Is there no-one to help you remember?”
“No,” he sighs. “No there isn’t. I’ve been trying to figure out who I am by myself.”
“That’s a difficult thing. No man is an island. So much of who we are comes from others in our lives.” The priest pauses. “But you found something here, which is promising. That means who you were before isn’t gone entirely, just hidden.”
Wade lets out a small laugh, but it’s not really a happy sounding thing. “At this rate, I'll be long gone before I get enough of myself back.”
“Don’t you think you were brought here to this church, for a reason? As a way of regaining those parts of yourself that are hidden?”
“I guess so. But where would I even begin? All I know is that there was no one there for me when I woke up, and not because they died when I lived. Just absent. It makes me feel like I must have been someone terrible before.”
“Well regardless of who you were before, you felt compelled to come here. Why?”
He sighs again. “Because I wanted to know why I felt drawn to this place. And figured it was also good a place as any to start if I wanted to make amends.”
“That’s a good sign — a truly awful person wouldn’t think about making amends, especially if they didn’t remember committing anything wrong.” The priest claps his hands together. “And it just so happens that we’re looking for volunteers to help with our food kitchen.”
“And you'd accept me, just like that?”
“Just like that. There are always people in need of help but never enough hands to do so. I’m not about to cast away a helping soul, simply because he may have done a terrible thing he can’t remember. The only one who can cast judgment on you is God. Until then, the deeds you do will speak for you.”
The words should be a relief, but he’s not sure he likes the idea of being absolved of his sins simply because he cannot remember making them. Still, just sitting around and feeling sorry for himself isn’t going to absolve him either. Little by little, if he has to, he will make amends for whomever he hurt in his past.
“What would you need me to help with? I’m not sure what I can even do.”
The priest smiles at him. “It doesn’t matter what you can or can’t do — skills can be taught. All you need to do is turn up and we’ll show you what to do.”
He makes it sound so easy, but Wade has his doubts.
As it turns out, it really is that easy. For the next two weeks, he turns up and they show him exactly what he needs to do. At first, he helps give out food and donations to those who turn up, pours out teas and coffees and waters as needed. Then one day, one of the volunteers responsible for food prep calls out sick and Wade finds himself pulled in to help by the other — a petite, strawberry blonde women in her late 40’s who he heard runs the kitchen like a drill Sargent. When he starts to protest, she shuts him up with a sharp glare and a snapped comment. “If you’re capable of not burning water, than you’re a better choice than some of the other volunteers. Now shush it and move.”
He very wisely does as he is told and shuts his mouth and moves into the kitchen to help. There’s a short crash course of where everything is and what needs doing before he’s left to it. It should be terrifying, considering he doesn’t actually know if he’s any good at cooking — he doesn’t bother cooking for himself, most nights are either shitty things he can shove in the microwave, or getting takeout that he lives on for a couple of days — but he finds his hands moving steadily and automatically as he prepares the food. There’s a sense of peace that it brings him and before he knows it, he’s finished his share of the prep work.
“Damn newbie, have you been holding out on us?” Lynn, as he discovered her name was as people shouted through to her, wolf whistles over his shoulder as she looks over his work.
He chuckles at how impressed she sounds. “Not on purpose. I didn’t think I was any good at cooking until today.”
“Well you are, and that means you’re gonna be stuck with me now. God knows I’ve needed someone else who can actually manage themselves in a kitchen.”
“Glad to be of assistance.”
And so, Wade finds himself basically promoted and his time is spent more in the kitchen than in the main church hall, but he finds he doesn't mind, because Lynn can provide enough conversation for at least a half dozen people. She fills him in on all the gossip of the local community, who the regulars are, where the best places to go for food are. It’s comforting, a balm on the patchwork that is his heart. He learns more about her too — that she moved here 10 years ago, that she learned to cook with her mother and cousin, that she thinks caffeine is God’s gift to mankind. And he thinks that slowly, she becomes a friend.
He also learns more about himself, the more he volunteers. He learns of the artists he likes, and whose songs he unconsciously knows the lyrics to when Lynn puts the radio on when they’re working. He learns that he’s a dog person when a family brings theirs into the hall one day and everyone stops to coo over it, and he finds himself joining in excitedly. He learns that he’s almost obsessive when it comes to planning and organizing, when Lynn asks him to help with the food inventory — he gets so into it, a very involved spreadsheet is made, to which Lynn takes one look at it and leaves the whole thing to him, muttering under her breath about not dealing with crazy. He learns how the way he likes to take his coffee first thing is vastly different to how he’ll have it the rest of the day, like he just needs a boost first thing and then he can manage the rest of the day.
Day by day, he feels like he’s being built back up brick by brick. He’s still hollow, but at least for now, he has a purpose and hopefully, one day he’ll have his memories back, for better or for worse.
It’s three weeks later of him helping primarily in the kitchen, when Lynn comes up to him after they’ve finished for the day.
“Hey Wade, I need a favor.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
She takes a deep breath, like she’s gearing herself up to ask him something terrible. “I need you to come with me to visit my cousins grave. I didn’t go when it was her birthday and I haven’t been since, and I need to see her. And I would ask Father Jamie, but he is helping with something else so I can’t.”
“Yeah, of course I can go with you. But you know I can’t drive right?” He didn’t get given a drivers license with his other documentation when he woke, and there’s no car belonging to him either. He’s assuming that he must have been able to drive at some point, because he’s fairly certain for any kind of job that has the military thanking you for your service after an accident probably needs you to be able to do so, but he hasn’t really been bothered to chase it. It’s not like he’s doing anything that needs it, and anything he’s needed has been walkable. And he’s not about to find out if it something his muscle memory has retained with someone else’s vehicle.
Lynn shakes her head. “That’s part of why I’m asking you. I can’t drink if I have to drive. And I’ve been good at not drinking, and I don’t want to break my streak. But I always get worse when I go and see her.”
Something about the way she says it resonates with him — he’d go with her regardless — but this feels like he’s been handed something precious and he doesn’t want to break it.
“Then I’ll help you keep that streak. When did you want to visit her?”
A look of relief floods over her face, like she was expecting him to judge her. “Tonight, if that’s okay. The site’s not far from here, and I keep putting it off.”
He nods. “We can do that. You know it’s not like I have any other plans going on.”
She laughs at him. “True Mr Amnesia, with your very boring life right now.” Lynn wrings her hands together, the gesture unusual for her. “The drinking thing doesn’t bother you?”
“No, why would it bother me?”
She sighs deeply. “Because it normally bothers people. I basically admit I'm an alcoholic and they act like I've killed their family pet or something.”
“Well, I'm not other people.”
“No, no you are not.”
The drive up to the cemetery itself doesn't take long from the church, but it’s awkwardly silent. For someone who can talk like they would physically die if they didn’t, Lynn is uncharacteristically quiet, and he doesn’t know what to say. Everything he can think of just sounds like shallow condolences or is too personal and prying to ask.
Lynn parks her car by the fence and shuts the engine off with a sigh. “I need a minute, but if I haven’t moved in two, please make me get out the car.”
“Sure thing.”
He gives her two minutes to collect herself, before turning to her and placing a hand on her arm. “Lynn…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m moving.” With a large huff, she’s climbing out the car, so he follows suit. The sun hasn’t started to set yet, but the weather has turned colder and biting. He’s struck by the weirdest feeling of somehow no longer being used to it, despite being told he's lived in this area for his whole life.
Lynn doesn’t wait for him to ponder the feeling. She just carries on walking up to the cemetery entrance.
The walk to her cousin’s grave is only a few minutes but he’s filled with a sense of terrible dread and deja vu, like he’s done this path before. Nausea sets in, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he promised Lynn his help, he’d turn around and walk straight home, weather be damned. He wonders if the family he was told was dead is in this cemetery somewhere and that’s why he feels awful, the grief for them lingering long in his bones, even if he can’t remember them.
When they reach what is presumably Lynn’s cousins gravestone, he almost walks straight into her because she stops so suddenly. He’s about to ask her what’s wrong, when she takes another step forward and looks at the small grave marker that rests next to it.
“Oh… her husband died…” She murmurs under her breath. The air around them is quiet enough that he catches it.
“His grave not here the last time you came up?”
She shakes her head. “No, I managed to come up on time for her birthday last year, and it wasn’t here.” She peers forward, presumably to read the engraving so he follows suit.
Robert Wade Nash 30th August 1968 - 17th April 2025
There’s no other words, no personal sentiments given. It feels impersonal and cold, and a heavy weight sinks in his stomach, along with an itch in his skin that makes him feel that something’s wrong by looking at that name and those dates.
“It’s a little sad that’s the only thing he gets — no headstone or words for him,” he says, feeling inexplicably hurt by it.
“Yeah, but it’s only temporary, hopefully.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he died in April. You gotta give the ground at least 6 months before you can put something more permanent up. Otherwise you risk it sinking or damaging the actual grave. Most places recommend about a year though.” She pauses for a beat. “Fucked me up when I first visited here on her birthday. I was about ready to track her husband down and beat him to death for the slight. For all 3 of them.” That makes sense, he guesses, but it still feels a sad that a small marker is the only thing there to mark someone's final resting place.
It’s now he turns to actually look at Lynn’s cousin grave, and sure enough, there are 3 names etched beautifully under their surname on the stone. Mother, son, and daughter.
Marcy 15th June 1977 - 17th December 2014
Robert 3rd March 2004 - 16th December 2014
Brooke 22nd October 2005 - 16th December 2014
There’s something there in the back of his head that rings out, that those names and dates feel familiar, that he should know who they are, but a larger part of him recoils from it, turning away like feeling heat from behind a locked door you know you shouldn’t open.
“There was a fire, in the apartment block they lived in. It was awful, far worse than it should have been because the building was a hellhole apparently. The kids, they died from smoke inhalation, which was a small mercy I guess. Marcy died from her injuries. I have no idea how her husband managed to survive unless he wasn’t there. Our family always reckoned it was either his fault, or he was out drinking himself to oblivion again.” The heat from behind that closed door intensifies as Lynn speaks, and fire crackles warningly. He doesn’t want to face it, doesn’t want to know what it means. Doesn’t want to know why it feels like parts of himself are hidden behind that door. It feels like if he pries, he’ll find himself engulfed in the flame, burnt to a crisp.
“He doesn’t sound like a good man,” he rasps out, throat tight and dry with something that’s almost adjacent to guilt.
She shrugs. “I’d never met him, so I couldn’t say either way. Marcy left home young, to escape her parents, to live the life she wanted. She was a good woman. I don’t think she would have been with him if he was that bad of a person. She was always a good judge of character.”
“Or she didn’t find out until after she married him and couldn’t leave, and it killed her.”
“Maybe.” She sighs, kneeling down so she’s sitting in front of her cousins grave. “But either way, she’s dead now, and I never got to say sorry, or meet her kids or her husband or learn how her life was. If she got to have her dreams. The only things I learned were from the shouted phone calls her and her mom used to have when Marcy tried to reach out.” Lynn reaches a hand out to brush over Marcy’s name, and he watches as a small tremor shakes through her. “I never even knew she’d named her daughter after me until after they’d died.” The tremor gets worse, and she sniffles loudly, like she’s holding back tears. He kneels down next to her and puts his arm around her until she stops shaking.
They sit in quiet for a moment before he feels like he can break the silence. “I take it Lynn is short for something then?”
“Yeah, my full name is Brooklynn. I hated it, used to throw tantrums when people used it. Made everyone call me Lynn. Except for Marcy. She always used to call me Brookie, ever since we were little and could say each other's names,” she explains, before wiping her the tears from her face. “Our moms were sisters and super close, and we were born a week apart so we basically got raised as sisters. We were inseparable. Drove our parents nuts. We were always going to be family. But her parents, and our family as a whole, were super traditional and didn’t want her to go down the path she chose, thought the life they had planned for her was best. And Marcy, Marcy was stubborn. If she wanted something, she worked for it and got it. So she saved up and hightailed it out of home. I was so heartbroken, because she never talked to me about it. I would have gone to the ends of the earth for her and she left me behind. She just turned up to say goodbye, so I told her I hated her and that she wasn’t my sister anymore and she left. By the time I’d gotten over myself and reached out to contact her, her number wasn’t working anymore and anytime I’d try to ask her parents, they acted like I was betraying the family.”
“So you never got to mend your relationship before she died?”
“Nope. And I will always hate myself for that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is.” Lynn lets out a huff of breath, and then something like a laugh, but it’s bitter. “The one thing I knew about her husband was that he was an alcoholic, and ended up in rehab a few times but it never stuck. I never got how he couldn’t do it for her, and for their kids. Like, why weren’t they enough for him to get better? But then she died. When I found out, I got blackout drunk to avoid how shit I felt. And then none of the family went to the funeral, and I was forbidden to go, so I got drunk again. And then again. And then I couldn’t stop, because every moment I was sober, I’d remember she was dead and I wasn’t, and I felt like I was half alive. I remember thinking that maybe I could understand her husband after all, because I had a partner and they came with kids and I just could not pull myself out of that hole for them.”
There’s a though that comes to him, that addiction doesn’t work like that. That you can’t make yourself sober for someone else, because it will never work. The shame of failing them will send you back into that spiral. You have to get sober because you want to be sober, you have to like who you are sober, otherwise you will continue to find yourself in that bottle.
He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he wonders if it’s from that same place that tells to to turn down an invitation to drinks when offered, or that place that tells him to give in on his darkest days. It doesn’t feel like a memory, just a reminder of something of who he is.
“What happened in the end? For you to end up here?” He asks instead of saying any of this out loud, not wanting to overstep, or to try and explain where it’s come from, because he honestly wouldn’t know how.
“My partner left — said they didn’t want to be third-best in my life after the bottle and my ‘sister’. And I don’t blame them. I struggled with being there for them and the kids, too concerned with myself.”
“That’s not fair on you. You lost someone important to you and were grieving.”
Lynn shrugs. “Maybe not, but the way I went about my grief hurt everyone around me. I was not a pleasant person to be around when I was drunk. I don’t blame them for wanting to get away from me.” She shifts, moving so that her feet are no longer under her. “As for how I ended up here, I begged my parents and my aunt to tell me where Marcy was buried, so I could at least visit her to pay my respects. My aunt and uncle flat out refused, as did my father. My mom on the other hand, said that if I got sober and stayed that way for a month before Marcy’s birthday, then she would bring me here herself.”
“And you managed it.”
“Yeah, just about. And then coming here the first time fucked me up all over again, and I was back where I started.”
“Not completely back where you started. You managed to stay sober for at least a month, so you must have worked out some coping strategies to help, which is more than you would have had when you first were trying to get sober.”
From the corner of his eye, he can see her turning to look at him, eyes boring into the side of his face. “That’s… basically what my AA group said. And not normally the take I hear from non-alcoholics.”
He can’t tear his eyes away from the Nash grave, lingering over the children’s name, drawn to them like gravity. He knows what she’s trying to say. “Maybe I was. Maybe that’s the reason I turn down drinks with the other volunteers. I still don’t remember.”
“Well, either way, it’s nice to have someone who stays sober with me.” Leaning back on her hands, Lynn looks up at the sky, gray clouds moving in overhead. “I ended up moving here with my mom not that long after visiting that first time, and she helped me get help. The family weren’t happy that we’d come up nor that I had ruined my life by becoming a drunk, so they disowned us, like they had Marcy. But that was okay, because we had each other and we got through it. She visited with me every time, and we built a life up here.”
Her mom has only ever been mentioned in past tense, never mentioned in plans and he knows that if she were still here, Lynn wouldn’t have needed someone else to come up with her. “She passed away?”
“Yeah, last year. Complications from COPD. Knocked me right back off the wagon. But I had a good support system thanks to her, and I’ve been drink free since then. It’s just coming up here to Marcy brings everything back and I don’t always trust myself to not drink myself to oblivion again.”
Feeling his legs going numb under him, he shifts slightly before speaking. “I think both of them, your mother and Marcy, would be proud of you. For keeping on trying and for asking for help when you needed it. That takes more strength than people realize.”
She nudges him in the ribs with an elbow and a gentle laugh. “And you would know about that Mr Amnesia. To keep on going when you literally have no idea why you’re here. That’s impressive.”
He nudges her back, softly. “Thanks.”
“Any time.” Lynn takes a breath, like she’s centering herself. “And I like to think they’d be proud of me too. So, thanks for saying so.”
“Any time.”
They sit in the silence for a time, and it gives his mind too much space to dwell over the pang of bone-chilling grief at the name “Brookie” and the unexplainable hurt at the lack of headstone for a man he doesn’t know. That locked door with the fire behind it crackles, heat sizzling towards him, but there’s another one that’s joined it as he lingers on what Lynn was silently implying — that the man he was before was an alcoholic. It’s radiating hurt, a bio-hazard of pain waiting behind that sealed door and he daren’t open it.
He’d thought that if the time came, that if something came along that flipped a switch and his memories were there for the taking, that he would do it, hands outstretched and almost greedy for who he once was. But sitting here, on cold, damp earth, he finds himself flinching from it, terrified of the confirmation of what he knew all along — that he was in fact a terrible man and his isolation here is punishment. He doesn’t want to reach out to that heated door either, doesn’t want to find out why the story of Lynn’s cousin and children dying feels like someone scorching the remains of his heart. Doesn’t want to think on why there’s an overwhelming urge, gut deep, to beg on his knees for forgiveness to Lynn, as if he was the cause for her beloved cousin’s death.
He wants to throw up. He wants to run, as far away from this feeling as he can. He wants to drown out every single thought that is crossing his mind. But he doesn’t. He keeps himself seated next to the woman who has become a friend to him, who is most certainly struggling more than himself right now.
The sky darkens and the chill has long set in before Lynn makes a move to leave.
They both groan as they rise, cold and older age not doing either of them any favors to their joints, and they make their way back to Lynn's car in silence. It’s only broken when they both slide onto the seats and Lynn starts the engine.
“Thank you again, for coming up with me.”
“No problem. It’s the least I can do.”
She huffs out a little laugh and he’s glad it’s a happier sound than before. “Absolutely. You’ve owed me for all that gossip I’ve been filling you in on.”
“Definitely. Although now I’m wondering what I’ll have to pay for any gossip from this point onwards.”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head slightly. “I’ll think on it.”
The drive back is considerably less awkward than on the way in, and he’s grateful he was able to do this for Lynn, that he could help her the way she’s being helping him.
Light spills in from the gap in his curtains and it paints a pale strip across his ceiling, highlighting all the tiny bumps of the ugly popcorn texture. He’s been staring at that same spot since he first laid in bed several hours ago, unable to sleep.
Although, if he’s being honest with himself, it’s more that he’s afraid to go to sleep. He still doesn’t remember what he dreams, but after figuring more and more of who he is, he knows it’s of his life before. It has to be. But what if after today, with all the thoughts and emotions that are storming inside of him, those two doors in front of him are forcefully slammed open and he remembers? Remembers what it was that caused that fire, that caused that hurt?
He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to handle that. It’s cowardly, and he’s disappointed in himself at the way it feels like he’s rejecting a sign from God. He stumbled across that church for a reason, and bit by bit the people there have been helping him find parts of himself again. This is just another step in that path.
But it rankles him still, that he’s here and purposeless. He wants to know what is at the end of this path he is on, why he’s on this path. There’s a longing deep in him, down to his marrow, that knows he is meant for more than this. More than handing out food and drinks, and kitchen inventory.
Maybe that’s the choice God is giving him right now. Stay in ignorance and live with that deep seated ache and longing, or step forward and bear the sin of who he was and find his purpose.
He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he’s aware of is the sound of his alarm and the sun glaring in over the spot he’d been staring at for hours.
There’s the faint echo of those overlapping voices, like there is every morning, but there’s no tidal wave of memories that he had been afraid of. It’s a relief, that the choice hasn’t been taken from him. But… he does wish he knew who those voices belonged to, and why his heart feels full whenever he thinks about it.
Deciding not to dwell on it anymore, especially before he’s had coffee and breakfast, he swings himself out of bed, feeling the aftermath of sitting so long on the cold ground yesterday hit him solidly.
His morning passes much like they all do now — he cooks himself a small, simple breakfast, makes his first coffee of the day into what Lynn calls an abomination against coffee and takes the time to breath. He still exercises, but it’s not the frantic drive to silence his brain it once was. Now it’s a way of keeping connected to his body and looking after himself and he finds that much more grounding than the overdoing it.
As he plans out his day off, he finds himself having put time aside to visit the cemetery again.
It’s not something he necessarily wants to do, but between how seeing those graves and hearing Lynn’s story made him feel, he thinks he has to go back. Nothing has made him feel like this intense before, good or bad, and as afraid as he is to remember, he wants to sit with the emotions. Maybe something other than those two doors will come to him and it will help him decide how he wants to progress, for better or for worse.
The way to the cemetery isn’t that far from his apartment, and whilst the weather is gray and dreary, it’s not raining like it was the night before, so he doesn’t mind taking the walk there. He doesn’t bring anything with him, not even his phone — not that he really even uses it apart from alarms.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting to happen when he stands in front of the Nash’s headstone again, staring at their names but the feeling of all encompassing guilt isn’t what he would have gone with first. It steals his breath away and his chest feels one moment away from caving in, taking his heart out with it.
This family, this mother and her children must have meant something to him, in some regard, for him to feel like he could fall apart at any second thinking about them.
A horrible thought occurs to him — he’s lived here all his life, was most likely an alcoholic and he has this deep seated belief that he’s done something terrible, something that no amount of repenting can wash clean, and could have sent him into the path of working for the military, especially if his mistake had driven everyone in his life away from him in shame.
Maybe the fire was his fault. Maybe he lived in that building too, and through stupidity or carelessness, he caused a fire that killed God knows how many people. It’s an awful enough thing to have caused that would make people in anyone’s life leave. It should feel like a stretch, a massive leap of worse case scenario thinking and self-centered-ness to come to that conclusion, but he’s mostly running on muscle memory and emotion these days, always looking for pieces of himself in the world around him.
There isn’t much in his life since waking from his coma that he’s had such a strong reaction to — the church was one thing, learning that he was good at cooking a second. This is another. It has to mean something. Even if that is something he doesn’t want to remember.
He stands there for longer than he'd like to admit, wanting to say something but finding all his words gone like smoke.
What can you say to a family you've potentially killed? What do you say to the only thing that has given you a way to get your memories back, and not just scrape by on feelings and reactions?
Sorry doesn’t feel anywhere near enough, and neither does thank you, but that’s all he has right now.
He wants to kneel down, so he’s at least eye level with the headstone when he talks, but the ground is damp and muddy — he’s still achy from sitting on the cold ground for so long yesterday, so he doesn’t want to add onto that, especially as his back feels tender. (Which is something he’s going to have to look into later. The hospital didn’t say that he’d injured his back, but it feels wrong in a way that doesn’t just seem like getting older.)
He takes a deep, steadying breath and then he talks with the words he does have.
“Hi. This is probably really strange for you — you’re not even gonna know who I am. But I think I need to apologize to you all. I think I’m the reason you’re all dead. I don’t know for sure — I don’t remember anything before waking up a few months back. But I have this feeling, deep down inside, that screams out to me that I’m guilty. I saw your names and it’s like I was drowning. There’s nothing I can do or say that will make it better, nothing that will take away the pain from your family, but still, I need to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what ever it was I did to you, what ever I had done that cost you your lives.
“But I also need to say thank you. Since waking up, not being able to remember anything has been wearing down at me, because I feel like something is wrong, something is missing and nothing has sparked any kind of memories in me. But coming her has woken something in me, and I just need to open that door and I’ll remember.” He swallows, the words clogging in his throat from emotion. “I’m not brave enough yet and I’m sorry for that too. For being a coward who can’t face what he’s done. But I will, and I’ll apologize to you properly.”
He swears it.
Over the next week or so, he makes time to visit the cemetery. He fits it around his appointments and volunteering, only going up every other day. He’s never there for longer than a couple of hours. Sometimes he’ll sit and talk about how life is for him now, how things are going with volunteering, or how he’s coping with still not remembering anything. Other times he simply sits there in silence, letting tears fall if they come, or just taking in the peace and letting himself feel. No other doors come to him, but he’s content with that for now.
It’s after he’s visited a couple of times when Father Jamie catches him before he leaves the church.
“Wade? Are you free for a moment?”
“Yeah, everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, I just wanted to catch up with you. It’s been a while since we’ve been able to talk.”
Wade follows Father Jamie into his office and takes a seat. The office is quaint little space, comforting rather than claustrophobic, fitting the vibe of the church.
Father Jamie takes the seat next to him — he always prefers to sit next to someone when talking to them, Wade’s noticed, and it’s something he appreciates.
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
“I just wanted to see how you were doing with everything. You’ve been volunteering with us for a little bit now and I wanted to know how you were finding things.”
“It’s helped, having something to do with myself, as well as having people to talk to. I've been learning more about myself than I thought I would ever get back.”
Father Jamie beams at him. “I’m glad to hear it. It’s good to know you’ve found something of yourself here. I am sensing a but in there however.”
“Yeah, you got me.” He huffs out a sigh. “I still feel like I’m missing my purpose, that there’s something more out there for me. I feel like I’m waiting for a sign.”
“A sign from God?”
“Something like that.” He stares at the cross hanging on the wall like it could give him the answers he needs.
“Wade, I think God has a plan for you. And right now, He’s waiting for you to be ready before giving you a sign for the next step.”
“I just have to wait huh?”
“Until you’re ready. And you never know, you might already be there.”
“Yeah.”
“Now, I won’t keep you. I know you’re eager to get out.” Father Jamie stands, and Wade follows suit. “I really am glad to hear that you being here has helped. I hope we can continue to do so, for as long as you need.”
“Thanks. And I'm glad to be able to return the favor, even if slightly.”
He heads out after a short goodbye, waving to the others that are still about before deciding to make a short trip to the cemetery before heading home.
Making the walk again to the Nash family headstone, he’s still pondering what Father Jamie said to him and what God’s plan for him could possibly be when there’s a sight that stops him dead in his tracks.
Maybe God is giving him a sign, one he can’t ignore, because kneeling in front of the headstone with her hands clasped in her lap, is an angel.