United We Stand (6 page)

“A firefighter would never leave a civilian behind,” Mrs. Bennett said to a round of nodding heads and supportive comments.

“And here are the first of the firefighters,” the announcer said.

Two firefighters, again assisted by paramedics, walked toward the camera. Their heads were down, their faces filthy, clothing ripping, helmets missing—but one of them had a mustache and was the right size, and there was something about the way he walked … Was it possible that … ? He looked up at the camera. It wasn’t him. I looked again, harder, trying to convince myself, but it definitely wasn’t Mr. Bennett.

I felt my whole body—physically and emotionally—sag.

The two men were helped to waiting stretchers.

On the screen another man was loaded onto a stretcher. We couldn’t see his face, but as he was being carried he lifted his arm and gave a thumbs-up to the crowd, and there was more cheering.

“Injuries of the rescued are reported to include burns, concussions, a separated shoulder, and broken bones, but nothing life- threatening,” the announcer reported. “And we take you now to a press conference, where they are going to release the names of those who have just been rescued from the wreckage of the World Trade Center collapse.”

Four men in firefighters’ uniforms, probably chiefs, stood behind a podium. In front of them were dozens and dozens of men and women, reporters, with microphones and cameras, all jostling forward to hear what was about to be said.

“On a day of tragedy,” one of the fire chiefs began, “we are thrilled to report that we have found seven more survivors, and that five of them are members of our family.”

His face lightened, and it looked as if he was fighting back tears.

“The rescue workers were in the process of evacuating the building and were down to the fourth floor when the tower collapsed,” the announcer said. “They reported that they were thrown down the stairs, hit by U falling debris, and trapped in the stairwell, which somehow remained intact.”

“Just tell us their names,” one of the men over from me said, speaking what we were all thinking.

“The men were rescued from stairwell B of the North Tower,” the fire chief said.

North Tower? But Mr. Bennett was in the South Tower. That’s where we’d seen him, that’s where my father’s office was. That was the staircase we were going down when we saw him going up. This couldn’t be him.

I looked at my mother. Her expression mirrored my thoughts, but nobody else was reacting. They didn’t know that it was the other tower, and they all were still anxiously waiting, eyes glued to the set, holding their breath.

The chief started to read out the names. I didn’t even listen. There was no point. It wasn’t going to be Mr. Bennett. It couldn’t be Mr. Bennett.

I wanted to walk away, but I couldn’t. I was frozen in place, waiting for all of them to hear what I already knew, knowing that the hope they were all feeling was going to be washed away in just seconds. I closed my eyes and waited as each name was read out—each name I knew wouldn’t be Mr. Bennett’s.

I counted as each one was named. When the last one was read out there was a hushed silence in the room, as if people were still waiting for his name, or any name, to be said.

“And those are the names of the people who have been rescued,” the chief concluded.

The kitchen erupted into tears, screams, sobs, and swear words as the truth sank in.

“Everybody, please!” Mrs. Bennett called out. “Please, everybody, could we all stop?”

The room quickly, instantly, became silent once again, except for the sound of the TV in the background.

“I’d like us all to gather in a circle.”

A circle? What was she talking about?

“Gather in a circle and hold hands. I want to say a prayer.”

Okay, that I understood. Besides, it would calm everybody down. We shuffled around until we formed a crude circle. I had my mother on one side, and she carefully took my sore left hand, while I offered my right to some guy on the other side of me. It seemed strange to hold his hand, but I did.

“Please, bow your heads,” Mrs. Bennett said, and we all did. “Dear God, we pray for all those who have suffered through this great tragedy. We pray that You give them strength as thousands of people, like us, wait to hear about their loved ones. We know that from great tragedy can come great triumph. We have just witnessed the rescue of seven people, six of them men who were willing to sacrifice their lives to try to save the lives of others.”

That’s what firefighters and police officers did, I thought. They were the guys running up the stairs toward the danger while the rest of us were running away from it.

“And You have delivered them, spared their lives. We want to thank You for sparing the life of Josephine Harris, and for returning six husbands and fathers to
their families. I can only imagine the joy in their homes right now.”

I didn’t need to imagine the sorrow in this one.

“I’d like to end with the prayer that the Lord taught us.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name
…”

Mrs. Bennett gave both of us a big hug and thanked us for coming, and then she handed my mother half a dozen muffins to take home. My mother tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. As we walked away, I turned back around. Mrs. Bennett was still standing at the door, a big smile on her face, waving. I waved back.

We climbed into the car.

“It’s called ‘denial,’” my mother said as she started the car.

“What?”

“Denial. She’s pretending that nothing is wrong,
that everything will be all right. That’s how she’s dealing with it right now.”

“It’s just strange. Really strange. She seems so sure that her husband’s going to be found. When Mr. Bennett wasn’t one of the guys they rescued, she said that others being found only gave her
more
hope.”

“Well, as long as they keep finding survivors, I guess there is
some
hope,” my mother said.

“Some, yes … but for her it’s not just a hope, it’s a certainty. She’s positive it’s just a matter of time.”

My mother pulled the car away from the curb. “Back when I was a social worker, I helped many people going through grief. We all deal with it in different ways.”

“And pretending is one of them?”

“Not pretending. Denial. Until she knows for sure, James’s mother has to believe in the best outcome. Maybe she feels she has to be strong for her children.”

That did make some sense. Especially for Amanda’s sake. She was pretty young, and it must have been even harder for her than it was for James.

“One theory says that there are five stages of grief and dying,” my mother said.

“There are stages?” I asked, in disbelief.

“Death has been a part of life as long as there’s been life, so we as a species have had to learn to deal with it.”

“What’s to deal with?” I asked. “You’re alive until you’re dead.”

“That’s about it for the person who dies, but not for the people who are left behind. According to the theory, denial is the first stage.”

“What comes after that?”

“Anger, bargaining, depression, and then, hopefully, acceptance. How do you think James is doing?”

After the whole TV thing, he had gone back downstairs. I’d tried to talk to him, but he’d just said that he wanted to be alone.

“He’s fine, I guess.” Then I thought. “Maybe he’s moved a little further on that stage thing,” I said.

“Do you mean to anger?” she asked.

“Yeah.” I wondered if she’d heard James smashing his guitar, but I didn’t want to ask. I understood the smashed guitar, but I didn’t necessarily think my mother would.

“Boys—men—often express their sorrow as anger.”

“He is angry.”

“That’s okay, as long as he doesn’t get stuck there.”

“I don’t think he will. He understands.”

“And?”

“And he’s doing what you’d expect. He’s upset, crying, scared.” I thought for a minute, then added, “James also said something about how he felt guilty.”

My mother nodded her head. “He felt it was some how his fault?”

“He thought that if he’d gone along with the crew instead of staying at the station he could have somehow changed how things happened for his father. Could that be part of that ‘bargaining’ stuff?”

“It almost sounds like a middle stage between anger and bargaining.”

“What exactly does ‘bargaining’ mean?” I asked.

“It’s sort of making a deal with God, or whoever. ‘If my father lives, I’ll try to be a better person,’ or ‘Take
my
life, not his,’ or ‘Let me have another five years and then I’ll go peacefully.’ Things like that.”

“I don’t think that’s it. He just thought that he should have been with him, that he should have gone to the towers when his father went. And maybe now he feels like he should be down there.”

“At Ground Zero?”

“Yeah. Maybe searching or helping, or maybe just being there.”

“That makes perfect sense. It’s part of making it more real. You remember Grandpa’s funeral?”

“Of course.” I was only nine then, but I certainly would never forget it.

“Do you know why we had an open casket?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Back then, I’d thought it was just to spook me out. I’d never seen a dead person before. He was all pasty- white, and people kept saying stupid things like “He looks so natural.” Unless they thought my grandpa wore makeup on a regular basis, there wasn’t much that was natural about it at all.

“It’s a common practice. Many people feel a need to see the deceased. They know in their heads that they’re dead, but by seeing the body they can know in their hearts.”

That did make sense, I guess.

“And it’s still early for James’s family, so I understand the difficulty accepting, but still …” She didn’t need to finish the sentence because I knew what she was going to say.

“Do you know what I wish for James and his family?” she asked.

“That his father is okay?”

“Well, of course, but if he isn’t, I just hope they find his body.”

“You want him to be dead?” Now I really didn’t understand.

“I pray that he’s alive, but do you think he is?”

“How should I know?”

She turned slightly toward me just for a second and gave me that mother sort of look, like she knew I wasn’t exactly saying what I knew.

“Okay, I know he’s probably dead, but if they
don’t
find the body there’s still hope,” I said.

“Hope is good. False hope isn’t. Sometimes it’s much better to know, to have closure and start the grieving process.”

“But why wouldn’t they find the body?” I asked.

“So far they’re not finding a lot of bodies,” she said. “The same force that twisted beams and pounded concrete floors into dust would cause a body to disintegrate.” She shuddered. “I can’t even U think about that, though … not when it could have been you and your father.”

I tapped her on the arm. “I’m here. Dad’s in the house. We’re fine.”

“I know you’re fine. It’s just that there are other types of denial—”

“Whose car is that in the driveway?” I asked, cutting her off.

We pulled into the driveway. A car was parked right in the middle, partially blocking both lanes.

“I don’t recognize it,” my mother said. “Maybe it belongs to somebody from your father’s office.”

“Whoever owns it should learn how to drive … or at least park.”

My mother carefully eased past to get up the drive and to the garage. She pulled the car up snug to the garage door and stopped.

I went to get out, but my mother placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Going to see James was a very caring thing to do,” she said.

“He’s my friend. My
best
friend.”

“Sometimes people don’t know what to say or how to act when there’s a tragedy, so they just try to avoid the person, sometimes even good friends. James needs you to be there. So thanks for being able to do that.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I went to climb out again, and again she took my arm. “Just so you know, I’m here for you and for your father. Any time, twenty- four seven. If you need to talk you can call me or get me or wake me up in the middle of the night.”

“Sure, twenty- four seven. I’ll find you. I’m fine.”

“You’re going to be fine, but don’t you get caught in denial either.”

“I’m not in denial!” I protested. “I know that Mr. Bennett isn’t going to be coming home.”

“I mean about you and your father.”

“What?” What was she talking about?

“About what happened to you and your father.”

“It’s just some stitches,” I said, holding up my hand. “A few cuts. I got hurt worse than this when I broke my nose playing basketball.”

“It was more than that. You two almost died.”

“Yeah, and
almost
is the important word in that sentence. We
almost
died. But we
didn’t
.”

“But you
could
have.”

This was starting to get really frustrating—why did she keep saying that? Was she
trying
to scare me? “Listen, Mom—we didn’t die. I’m fine. Dad’s fine. We’re alive.”

“That sounds like denial.”

I tried to answer calmly—I figured if I sounded as irritated as I felt, she’d probably change her opinion and decide that I was all the way into the anger stage.

“I’m not denying anything,” I argued. “I was there. I came down the stairs. I saw the buildings fall down. I know they could have killed us, but they didn’t. I’m
fine
.”

“Will, denial isn’t necessarily about what actually happened. It’s sometimes about what
could
happen in the future, or what might have happened but didn’t. You almost died.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“You did, but it’s as if you’re downplaying the possibility, how close you came to dying.”

“It doesn’t matter if the bullet misses you by an inch or a mile, as long as it misses.”

“No, I disagree. There’s a big difference,” she said. “And to not see that is to deny the reality.”

“You’re so wrong. If a bullet hits you, then the wound is there for everybody to see. If it misses you, no matter what the margin, you’re just as
unwounded
. To think anything different is to deny the reality. Look, Ma, no bullet wound.”