One Tuesday Morning & Beyond Tuesday Morning Compilation (20 page)

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 both 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.”

Clay was right. She needed someone to hold her and tell her everything would be okay, someone who loved Eric as much as she did. “Please, Clay. Come quick. The waiting is killing me.”

****

Jamie sat frozen on the floor in front of the TV, convinced that at any moment someone from the fire department would call and tell her everything was okay. Suddenly, the image on the screen changed to a live shot of the blazing north tower. Jamie heard the sound of distant shouts and sirens, then, in a surreal almost slow motion, the outer walls of the building peeled back, and it began to collapse. Like a house of cards, in a matter of seconds, the entire structure disappeared, sending a rush of smoke and ash through the streets of Manhattan and causing the cameraman to run for his life.

Raw terror filled Jamie's heart. If a hundred firefighters had died in the south tower collapse, then …

She stood and knew she had only a few seconds. She raced across the room, tore open the bathroom door, and positioned her face over the toilet. With every heave of her stomach, she prayed the same thing.
Please, God … not Take!

When she was finished she wiped her mouth and stared at her face. It was pale and pinched, stonelike. As if she'd aged ten years that morning. She realized then that her mind-set had changed. The frantic sense she'd had until the collapse of the north tower was gone. There was no fire left to fight, no building left to evacuate. There were two possibilities. Jake had either been in one of the buildings, or he hadn't. If he'd managed to stay outside, Jamie was certain he would have found his way to safety. If he'd been in one of the buildings …

Fear placed its cold fingers around her throat and squeezed.

“No,” she whispered at her reflection. “Not Jake. Please not Jake.”

There was nothing to do now, nothing but sit by the phone and wait. Jamie couldn't inhale fully, couldn't will her heart to slow down. Instead, she shuffled out of the bathroom and took the chair closest to the phone. The TV played on in the background, and Brownie let out an occasional quiet whine. But Jamie didn't really hear any of it. There was only one sound that mattered, one sound that would give her permission to kick fear in the gut and send it on its way. The sound of the phone ringing, and a voice on the other end telling Jamie that Jake was all right.

She stared at the receiver, unable to fathom anything else, unable to blink. It would happen, it had to. Jake was okay. He had found a way to save himself, and Larry too. The phone call would come any minute, and that night they would talk about what could've happened.

They would order take-out Chinese food, and Jake could give Sierra horsey rides for an hour straight if she wanted. They would make love and hold each other, grateful that Jake hadn't been hurt. It was all going to be okay. It had to be; Jake had promised her.

And not once in all her life had Jake Bryan ever broken a promise.

T
HIRTEEN

S
EPTEMBER
11, 2001, 10:33
A.M
.

The dust was still thick, but Captain Aaron Hisel didn't care.

He was fifty-two years old, a veteran with mild asthma, but he was going back in if it killed him. There was no telling how many firefighters and civilians were trapped in the rubble. Most of them had to be dead, but as awful as the collapse was, someone might have survived. Every second counted, and he was desperate to make his way to the place where—only an hour earlier—the World Trade Center had stood. The past sixty minutes had been a series of terrifying nightmares, none of which seemed even remotely possible.

After arriving at the scene, Hisel and the men from Ladder 96 had reached the twelfth floor when they'd come across a group of handicapped people waiting alone in an office.

The firefighters had been able to get the disabled workers onto their backs, down the stairs, and outside to a transport bus half a block down from the World Trade Center. They'd been loading the people on the bus when the south tower collapsed.

“Run!” Hisel had shouted, and the entire unit scrambled into a nearby café.

“Our guys are in that building!” one of the men had shouted as they darted under tables. “The whole unit!”

The thunderous roar had echoed to the core of Hisel's being. When it finally stopped, he did a head count. Each of the eight men from Ladder 96 was accounted for. Their rescue of the handicapped workers had saved their lives.

“Okay,” Hisel had told the men. “Let's go find our guys.”

Lifting his shirt to cover his mouth, he led the others on a charge toward the collapsed south tower. But chaos reigned, and it was impossible to make progress. It took twenty minutes to reach West Street, and by then the warning was being sounded.

The north tower was about to go!

Once more Hisel and the rest of Ladder 96 ran for their lives and this time found shelter in a small flower shop a block away. Minutes later they felt the ground rumble and heard the same awful, unforgettable roar. The force of debris that followed the collapse of the north tower was like nothing Hisel had ever seen. It reminded him of footage he'd seen from Hurricane Andrew. Only this was worse, more like an atomic bomb, hurtling through the air waves of crushed cement, shards of glass, sections of walls, and automobiles. Even inside the store, each of his men had been knocked to the ground from the force of the collapse.

At one point a body had blown past them.

Then slowly, the air had cleared enough to barely see across the street. That's when Hisel had assessed his men one more time and ordered them to pair up.

“It's thick enough to get lost.” Hisel wasn't a barker like Maxwell, but he wanted to sound adamant on this point. He coughed twice. “The rubble will be unstable. There'll be pockets, some twenty, thirty feet deep or more. And remember, that jet fuel's still burning.”

Hisel didn't have to say the obvious. The death toll among firefighters was bound to be devastating. They headed once more toward West Street, where they'd parked their trucks just an hour ago. Hisel tried not to stare through the smoke at the sickening space in the sky where the towers had stood. Instead, he kept his eyes down, leading his men through a maze of debris and destroyed vehicles. Two inches of gray-white, siltlike ash covered everything, including body parts.

If Maxwell and the men from Engine 57 were still alive, it'd be a miracle.

Finally they reached the foot of a mountain of debris. Though the air was hazy and vehicles lay crushed all around them, Hisel had no doubt: This pile of broken cement and glass and crushed steel was all that remained of the south tower. He directed the men to spread out in pairs.

“Remember what I said.” He nodded at them and coughed again. “Be careful. Look out for each other. We need to get in there, find our guys, and get back to the station. I want every man accounted for.”

They set out, and Hisel thought about his words. No matter what the evidence before them suggested, he had to believe, had to hope. He nodded to one of the station's probies, Joe Landers, and the two of them took off together, walking along West Street.

“I want to find the rigs.” Hisel coughed again. “Just in case any of the men made it back to the engines.”

Landers nodded and kept his eyes on the ground.

As they walked, Hisel's cough grew worse. Acrid smoke burned his lungs, and he could taste the ash in his mouth. He stopped and bent at the waist, working to catch his breath. If he didn't find a way to filter the air, he'd have to turn back.

“You okay, Captain?” Landers was using a shirt to cover his mouth.

“Yeah.” He coughed again, this time until he could feel his blood rushing to his face. “Just slow.”

Why hadn't he covered his mouth earlier? He ripped his shirt open and grabbed the white T-shirt beneath. Shoving it up against his nose and mouth, he finally caught his breath, and they continued down the street.

Through the dense, smoky air they continued. Fire trucks—most of them destroyed—lined their path. But none of them belonged to Engine 57 or Ladder 96. They walked on, and then, up ahead, Hisel could just make out a pair of trucks. One was smashed to half its size, but the other … the other was still standing. “Those are the station rigs, aren't they?” He picked up his pace.

“Yeah.” Landers kept up, his tone excited. “Looks like it.”

Hisel was about to yell out, to see if anyone could hear him, when he saw something move beneath one of the trucks, the one that looked less damaged.

“Did you see that?” Landers stopped and stared at the spot where the movement had come from.

They were still thirty yards away, when a man crawled out from beneath the truck on his belly and then struggled to his knees.

Hisel and Landers ran to him, desperate to make out his face. When they were five yards away, Hisel stopped short. “Jake Bryan?” The captain let his head fall back and hooted out loud. “Jake Bryan! Yes! You made it!”