Silence hovered between them for several seconds. Finally, one of the workers managed a sad, nervous smile. “That's good.” She crossed her arms. “I'm afraid a lot of them were.”
“Yeah, well, not Jake.” She wanted to tell them the south tower hadn't really come down, but she wasn't up to the conversation. Without saying another word, she spun around and dashed outside to her minivan. She was right, wasn't she? If Jake was fighting the fire, he'd be in the north tower, the one first hit. His station would have been one of the first ones called, right?
She buckled Sierra into her car seat and ran her fingers through her sweaty bangs. What was she doing? The parking lot was full of cars, but not a single person. Everyone was inside watching TV. Then she remembered. She was going home to call Jake. That way she would know for sure that he was okay.
“What's wrong, Mommy?”
Jamie climbed into the front seat, started the engine, and shifted it into reverse. At the same moment, she remembered she'd left her gym bag on the ground outside the van. “Just a minute, honey.” Jamie jumped back out, but as she did, the van moved backwards, tripping her and nearly knocking her beneath the front wheel.
The van was backing up without her!
She grabbed the top of her seat and pulled herself back inside. Inches before her car would've hit the one behind it, she slammed on the brakes.
In the backseat, Sierra began to cry. “Mommy … what's happening? I was driving away by myself.”
Jamie gripped the steering wheel with both hands and gasped for breath. “It's okay. Mommy's … sorry, sweetie. Nothing's going to happen to you.” Her heart raced, the sound of it echoing throughout her chest and neck, and a fresh layer of perspiration trickled down the sides of her face. With deliberate motions she put the van in park, stepped back out of the van, grabbed the gym bag, and threw it into the seat beside her.
The club was only five minutes from home, and when she was halfway there, she looked at Sierra in the rearview mirror. “Mommy's not feeling very good today. Let's see if Billy across the street wants to play, okay?”
“Okay.” Sierra's voice still held concern. “Is your tummy sick?”
“Yes.” Jamie tightened her grip on the steering wheel. It wasn't a lie. “I think if I have a little nap I'll feel better.”
They pulled into the driveway and hurried into the house. Sierra hovered near Jamie's leg while she dialed the neighbor. The woman was a stay-at-home mother of three, and she'd offered to baby-sit Sierra anytime. Jamie told the woman that yes, she'd seen the news, and no, she hadn't heard from Jake.
“I need a few hours …” Jamie's voice trembled. “To make sure he's okay.”
“Oh, Jamie, yes.” The neighbor understood immediately. “Bring her right over.”
Two minutes later Jamie was back at home. The last thing she wanted was to watch the horrific scenes on television. But the TV was her only source of information, the only place where she might get the details about firefighters and how many were hurt. She was on her way across the house to turn it on when she saw the message light blinking.
Jake must've called! He was fine, somewhere away from the World Trade Center helping from a distance. She darted up to the machine. A red number three was blinking on the front of it. Three messages. Jamie held her breath and pushed the play button.
They were all from Jake's cell phone number. The first two were brief messages saying he would try her again in a few minutes. She gripped the back of the desk chair as the third message began to play.
“Hi … it's me again.” Jake's tone was upbeat. “Looks like we'll get the call here pretty soon, honey. Everything's going to be okay, Jamie. I love you and I'll be home tonight, I promise. God's with me. Oh yeah, and my angel. Can't forget about him.” His voice hesitated, and when the message started up again, his words were thicker than before. “So, I'll see you later, all right? And, sweetheart, tell Sierra I love her.”
Jamie stared at the machine, and the room around her began to spin.
She pushed the button and played the message again, searching his words for a hint of worry, some premonition of the danger ahead. There was none. The sound of her heartbeat filled her senses once more, and for a single instant, she thought about tearing through the door and running. Just running as fast and hard as she could until she was sure that none of it was really happening. The World Trade Center hadn't been attacked; hadn't collapsed to the ground. Jake's unit hadn't responded to the Twin Towers, surely not.
But running would do no good now.
Jamie searched the kitchen, desperately trying to think of who she could call. As she did, her eyes fell on the figurine she'd painted for Jake three days earlier. A firefighter with an angel over his shoulder. But angels weren't real, and there was only one way she could make sure Jake was okay.
She'd have to go to the scene herself.
Jamie grabbed her purse and keys and raced for the van. Eight minutes later she pulled up to a massive traffic jam near the ferry docks. Police officers were waving at the motorists, saying something Jamie couldn't quite make out. She rolled down her window, and suddenly she saw it. One of the Twin Towers was missing. It wasn't a joke or a lie or a hoax. It had really happened. The skyline was grotesquely changed, forever disfigured.
The south tower of the World Trade Center had completely disappeared. In its place was only billowing smoke and ash some twenty stories into the air. The remaining tower was still a blazing inferno.
An officer approached her. “I'm afraid you'll have to clear the area, ma'am.”
“I need to find my husband! He's a firefighter in Manhattan.”
“I'm sorry.” The man's face was taut and pale. “No one's allowed into the city. Port Authority's closed down every entrance. The only ferry service available is leaving Manhattan, not entering it.”
“But my husband didn't drive today.” She looked away from the officer and back at the single tower still standing, still burning. “With … with all the craziness around the World Trade Center, he won't be able to get to the ferry docks and what if—”
“Ma'am …” The officer held up his hand and waited until Jamie looked at him. His voice was firm. “No one's allowed into the city. No one.” His expression softened. “I'm sorry. Why don't you go home and call his station. Maybe someone there knows something.”
Jamie wondered what would happen if she ignored the officer and drove through the closed gates, right onto the ferry. The idea fled her mind as quickly as it came. Breaking the law wouldn't help Jake. Besides, the officer was right. She needed to get home and call the station. Maybe Jake and Larry were still there, still waiting for the call. Maybe somehow they'd been left behind to man the station.
She said nothing. Instead, she took a final glance at the disaster across the harbor and then sped home, her eyes wide and unblinking. The moment she was inside, she dialed the station. A recording came on the line. “All circuits are busy. Please try your call later.”
“No!” Jamie screamed at the receiver and slammed it on the hook. Maybe Jake had his cell phone. Firefighters didn't usually carry them out on calls, but maybe this time … Jamie picked up the phone again, punched in the numbers, and waited.
“The caller you are trying to reach is not available at this moment.” The computer voice sounded oddly happy, as though it belonged to the only person in New York City unaware of what had happened that morning.
And it had happened. There was no denying the fact.
Then she remembered Sue. If anyone would've found something out, it would be Larry's wife, Sue. Jamie knew the number by heart, and she punched it in as fast as she could make her fingers work. Sue answered on the first ring. “Hello?” Panic and anticipation filled her voice in equal amounts. “Who is this?”
“Sue, it's me. Jamie.” She remembered to breathe. “What've you heard?”
“I called the department public information line. They don't know anything.” Sue hesitated and sniffed back a sob. ??
?We're supposed to … to stay by the phone and wait for a call. Someone will get in touch with us as soon as they know anything.”
Brownie trotted up beside Jamie and licked her fingers.
Jamie absently ran her hand through the dog's soft fur and made her way to the nearest chair. She closed her eyes, terrified about the question she needed to ask. Scared to death that Sue would know the answer. “Sue …”
“Oh, Jamie … it feels like the end of the world.”
“Sue …” The room began to spin again. “Did they tell you if our guys went to the scene?”
“Yes.” A series of sobs sounded over the phone line. “Engine 57 reported to the … to the south tower.”
“The south tower?” Jamie hung her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She had to fight to keep her balance even on the sofa. Brownie began to whimper. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, but that … that doesn't mean they were caught in the collapse. Lots of them got out, Jamie.” Sue took three quick breaths. “We have to believe they're okay.”
“What're we supposed to do?” Jamie opened her eyes, but all she could see was the south tower of the World Trade Center disappearing in a giant cloud of debris.
Over and over and over again.
“Get off the phone and wait. Someone will call us as soon as they find them.”
Jamie raked her fingers hard through her hair. She had to get a grip. “Okay.” Sue was right … the guys were fine. They had to be. Her teeth chattered and she struggled to speak. “G—g—good idea.” Jamie ended the call and walked halfway to the TV, her steps slow and robotic. The scene was the same one she'd seen from the ferry docks. One tower standing, the other vanished.
A news anchor was on the scene a few blocks from the World Trade Center. His face was dirty, his jacket covered with thick dust. “… reports that more than a hundred firefighters may have been trapped in the south tower in the moments before it collapsed.” The man was shouting, trying to be heard over the chaos on the street. “Apparently, they had no real warning that the tower was coming down and …”
Jamie blinked and the sound from the TV faded. More than a hundred firefighters? A hundred? It wasn't possible. And if Jake's station had responded to that building, then as many as eighteen, including Jake and Larry, might have taken the call. Both the night and day shifts. Nausea built within her and she gripped her stomach. A hundred firefighters? It was unthinkable, too massive to comprehend.
She pictured Jake and Larry, hurrying up the stairs to whoever needed their help. If anyone would've stayed in the building, they would've. And that could only mean one thing. Jamie began moving again, crossing the room until she reached the television. He couldn't have been in there … he would have found a way out, just as he always did whenever he fought a fire. But if a hundred firefighters had been in the building …
She placed her hand on the dusty TV screen, over the hazy image of smoke and dust still billowing from the collapsed area. “Jake!” She screamed his name, and the sound of it bounced around the room. “Jake … no! No!”
Then, with her hand still on the cold glass, still gently touching the place where Jake was, she collapsed slowly to the floor.
And for the first time that morning, Jamie hung her head and wept.
****
In Los Angeles Laura Michaels was starting to lose it.
She'd done what Murphy said; she'd waited more than an hour for Eric to call. When the south tower collapsed, just after ten o'clock on the East Coast, she did the math. At one floor per minute, Eric would've barely had time to escape the building. But now it was ten-thirty—seven-thirty her time—and still Eric hadn't called.
As a way of passing time, Laura had focused all her energy into helping Josh get ready for school. The boy wanted to go, and there was nothing he could do by staying home. If the news about Eric wasn't good, Laura would rather tell Josh later after she'd had time to absorb the shock. Besides, school would be good for him; better than a day of watching TV reports and seeing unimaginable images flashed across the screen again and again.
Laura pulled a loaf of wheat bread, a string cheese, and a juice pack from the refrigerator. The feel of it in her hands made her stomach turn, and she glanced at the clock on the microwave. Seven-thirty-three. She opened the twist-tie on the bread, took two slices out, and laid them on a paper towel. Breathe, Laura … keep breathing. A layer of peanut butter on one slice, blueberry jam over another.
Josh stood nearby, dressed in a blue T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair neatly combed.
He hadn't asked about Eric since he first saw the fires.
“Are you scared, Mom?” He crossed the kitchen, grabbed a bag of cheese crackers, and tossed them on the counter next to his sandwich.
Laura glanced at the clock again. Seven-thirty-five. She turned and looked at Josh. What had he just asked her? Something about being afraid? She slipped the sandwich into a plastic bag. “Yes.” Her fingers weren't shaking now, but anxiety gripped her heart and made it feel unsteady, balanced on the edge of an endless abyss of devastation. She leaned back against the counter. “I guess I am afraid.”
“Did he call yet?” Josh opened his lunch box and began to pack it.
“No.” Laura tried to read her son's emotions as she reached for a napkin and tucked it in beside his lunch. “Not yet.” She shifted her gaze. Seven-thirty-seven. God … why hasn't he called? Help him get through to me …
Josh locked his lunch box and stared out the front window. Laura's heart broke for the child. He had to be thinking about the disaster in New York, otherwise he wouldn't be asking questions. But his eyes were strangely flat. Was he denying the possibility that something had happened to Eric? Or was he really not that worried? Or worse, maybe Josh's lack of reaction was the result of one very sad obvious fact. The child felt no connection to his father.
Laura moved from the counter to the other side of the kitchen and put her hands on her son's shoulders. “He'll call. Any minute now.”
Josh blinked. “But if he doesn't, does that mean he's dead?”
“Josh!” Laura's voice was louder than she intended it to be. Her hands fell to her side and her jaw dropped. “Don't talk like that! I'm sure he made it out. It'll just take a while before he can call us.”
Her son looked at her for a few seconds. Then, with an expression utterly void of emotion, he took his lunch box into the front room, sat down, and stared out the window.
“What're you doing?” Laura trailed behind him.
“Waiting for my ride.” There was anger in Josh's tone now, and Laura felt her heart constrict.
Laura sat down a few inches from her son. “Josh, I'm sorry I yelled. It's just …” Her voice faded, and for the first time that morning, tears stung at her eyes. “I have to believe he'll call. You understand that, don't you?”
Josh turned around and faced her. “Who cares?” The boy's chin quivered, but his eyes were dry and determined. “He didn't even tell me good-bye.”
Her son's words hurt worse than any other news from the day. Worse than Eric's phone call that morning, worse than watching the plane crash into his building. Her suspicions had been right all along. The years of silence and missed opportunities, the list of broken promises and months of absences had severed any hope of a bond between her husband and their son. Whether Eric came home or not, Josh didn't have a father.
And it was all Eric's fault.
Laura let the sorrow spill from her heart. She pulled Josh close and buried her face against the top of his head, her tears mingling with his blonde hair, and leaving them both wet. “Josh … I'm sorry. Your dad loves you.”
She could feel the anger leave her son's small body, but when he pulled back, his eyes were still dry. “I know, Mom. I want Dad to be okay. And I'm sorry you're scared.” He gave her a crooked, wistful smile far older than his years. “He'll call any minute.”
A car pulled up outside and Laura sighed. “Your ride's here.”
They bot
h stood and Josh kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mom. See ya after school.”
“Love you too.”
She watched him go, begging God that somehow, when Eric came home—and he would come home—they could talk about their problems and find a way to work them out. Josh needed his father to spend time with him, take an interest in his soccer and schoolwork. Most of all he needed Eric to tell him he loved him.
Laura returned to the kitchen and checked the clock once more. Seven-forty-one. She positioned herself near the phone and stared at it. Come on, Eric … call me. God, make him call me. Please …
Her silent prayer was pierced by the ringing of the phone. Laura was so surprised she jumped back and stared at it for a moment. It took two rings before she grabbed the receiver. “Hello?” She was breathless, certain Eric's voice would sound any second on the other end.
“Laura … it's me.”
She was unable to speak, overwhelmed with relief. It was Eric; he'd survived, after all. But as soon as the thought raced through her mind, so did the doubts. If it was Eric, why was it so quiet in the background? He still had to be in the middle of downtown Man—
“Laura, it's Clay … are you there?”
She swallowed back a sob. “I … I thought you were Eric.”
“I just woke up. Laura … are you watching it?” His voice was tense, frightened. “Eric was there, wasn't he? In the World Trade Center?”
“Yes. He called me right before—” Her composure broke, and three quiet sobs sounded over the phone line. “Right before the second plane hit.”
“How about since then? Has anyone heard from him?”
“No.” She took a series of quick breaths and saw dark spots dance before her eyes. She had to exhale, had to force herself to stay calm.
“Laura … are you okay?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I'm … waiting for his call.”
Clay did a loud breath, and his own fear was tangible. “You shouldn't be alone. I'm on my way.”