Remember (22 page)

Ashley sucked in a quick breath. “What do you mean?” She had just helped Irvel settle into her recliner. All three women were tucked into their chairs, snuggled beneath blankets, and ready for their morning programs. Ashley flipped on the television, and immediately images of the flaming twin towers filled the screen. “How in the world . . . ?”

Kari sounded like she was crying. “I’m worried about Reagan.”

Then Ashley remembered. “Her father works at the top of one of those buildings, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. I’m gonna call Mom and see if she’s heard anything. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay.”

“Pray, Ashley. This is awful.”

“I will.” Ashley’s answer came before she had time to think. She hung up the phone and pulled an empty rocking chair up next to Irvel, a few feet from the television.

“Is this a movie, dear?” Irvel gestured toward the screen. “Hank doesn’t like me watching violent movies. Gives me nightmares.”

“No, Irvel.” Ashley turned and patted the old woman’s hand. “It’s not a movie.”

“Looks like
King Kong,”
Helen barked. She pointed to the television. “King Kong was on that building last time.”

“King Kong,” Edith muttered. She fixed her eyes on the screen.

“Yes, I think you’re right.” Irvel pointed at Helen and smiled. “King Kong did that in one of those violent movies. That’s what it is.”

The camera switched to a reporter standing on a New York City street. “We have word now that the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey has closed access to all bridges and tunnels leading into and out of the city. Triage centers are being set up in various locations around the twin towers. Fire officials say they estimate hundreds of people may be injured. There’s no word yet about casualties.”

From the corner of her eye, Ashley could see Irvel staring at her. “You know, dear, you have the most beautiful . . .”

Ashley tuned out the rest and patted Irvel’s hand again. It was all she could do to hear the report, but she was afraid to turn up the volume. The women were already on edge.

“Hundreds of firefighters have responded to the scene, but reports say the heat is too intense to reach the top floors. Thousands of people may be trapped inside and—”

Firefighters? Ashley held her breath. It was September 11. If Landon hadn’t been hurt, he would be there now. Right in the middle of the madness, rushing into a burning building more than a hundred stories high.

She caught her breath and stared hard at the screen. Landon was safe, but what about his friend? Hadn’t Landon told her Jalen’s company was stationed in lower Manhattan—near the World Trade Center? Certainly he would have responded by now.

Irvel leaned forward in her chair and glanced at the other women. “Does anyone know when Hank’ll be back? I don’t like him gone this long.”

“Spies.” Helen slapped her hand against the arm of her recliner.

“Hank’s not a spy, dear.” Irvel sent Helen a simple smile. “He’s been checked.”

Helen pointed to the television screen. “Spies. King Kong has a whole army of spies. None of them have been checked.”

A sound began to come from Edith. Her chair was situated at the far end of the room because she didn’t often participate in the conversations between Irvel and Helen. “No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .” The words were mumbled together in a fluid stream, but they were loud enough to understand.

Ashley stood and crossed the room. “It’s okay, Edith. Everything’s okay.”

Edith moved her head back and forth in small, short shakes. She raised a trembling hand and pointed to the television. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

“Would you like a nap, Edith?”

The woman froze and then nodded. She had the eyes of a frightened child as she took hold of Ashley’s hand and followed her down the hall to her bedroom. “Everything’s okay, Edith. You get some sleep.”

Ashley returned to the living room as quickly as possible. Helen and Irvel were still debating whether King Kong had set the fires, and if so, whether spies were involved.

Meanwhile, the news continued to pour in. A different reporter was updating the public, saying that President Bush had announced the country was under an apparent terrorist attack. All airports in the United States had been shut down.

The country? Did that mean something else was about to happen? Something worse? Ashley folded her arms tightly in front of her and clutched her sides. Her stomach hurt. What if Reagan’s father was still in one of those buildings?

Ashley felt a tap on her arm. “Excuse me, dear. My name’s Irvel. My husband’s fishing with his friends. Can you tell me when he’ll be home?”

Ashley sighed. “It won’t be long, Irvel. Everything’s fine.”

“What about King Kong?” Helen gripped the edges of her chair and slid forward. She waved an angry hand toward the television. “Look at that mess. Who’s going to check those people?”

Ashley ignored the question. She fixed her attention on the pieces of news she could hear: “. . . reports that the fires are out of control in both buildings . . . hundreds of firefighters racing to the scene . . . command posts set up on the seventieth floor . . .”

“Excuse me again.” Irvel took gentle hold of Ashley’s hand. “Hank shouldn’t be fishing today. I’m worried about him.”

“He’s okay, Irvel. Everything’s okay.” Ashley was desperate to talk to Landon, but she wasn’t his wife, and she wouldn’t call him at work.

The reporter’s voice changed tone and grew louder. “We’ve just learned that another plane has crashed into the Pentagon. Officials are evacuating the White House. We’ll take you live to a reporter on the scene.”

Ashley’s eyes grew wide as the image changed. The massive Pentagon complex in Washington, D.C., was masked in thick clouds of black smoke. An entire section of the building was missing, and balls of fire erupted into the sky.

The Sunset Hills women were silent for a moment, staring at the screen.

“It looks violent to me, dear.” Irvel shook her head.

“You see!” Helen pounded her fist against her thigh. “It’s King Kong! I knew it. My mother told me to look out for King Kong.”

“Hank doesn’t want me watching violent movies.” Irvel made a polite coughing sound and tapped Ashley’s arm once more. “Is this a movie, dear?”

Ashley covered Irvel’s hand with her own. “No, Irvel. It’s not.”

“Oh.” Irvel managed a weak smile. “Well, then . . .” She hesitated. “You know, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Irvel.”

* * *

Today was not a day for business as usual.

That was rapidly becoming clear in Dr. John Baxter’s medical office, where patients and staff alike sat glued to the lobby television set and very little clinical work was getting done.

John Baxter had decided to simply finish with the patients who were there and cancel the rest of his appointments for the day. He was giving instructions to the office manager when Brooke burst through the glass doors of the office.

“Dad, have you seen it?” Brooke was rarely emotional. Intelligent and self-sufficient, she usually handled her feelings with the same precise care as she had once handled studies. But here, in light of what was happening in New York and Washington, D.C., she took his hands, her face frozen with fear. “They’ve hit the Pentagon too.”

“I know.” He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back. “We need to pray.”

“I have been praying—like crazy.”

John resisted the urge to act surprised. Brooke and her husband, Peter, were doctors. Though both were from families where faith was a mainstay, neither clung to those beliefs now.

At least not until today.

John led Brooke to the staff lounge, where two of his partners and several nurses were gathered around the television screen. In all his life John had never seen such horror. Hundreds of people were dead. Thousands more were probably injured. America was under attack.

But even now, John was certain God hadn’t abandoned them. The Lord was there in those burning buildings, just as he was here beside them. God reigned even at a moment like this, and he would work all things out for the good of those who loved him. In the process he would cause the entire nation to remember what mattered in life—what really mattered.

Brooke jerked her head in his direction. “Have you heard about the switchboards at the hospital?”

“No. What’s happening?”

“The phones are ringing off the hook.”

John shifted his weight, confused. “Why are they calling the hospital?”

Brooke met his gaze straight on. “They’re looking for a place to give blood.”

* * *

Bloomington Fire Station #2 was thick with tension. Landon and five other firefighters sat in a tight circle around a small television in the lunchroom. They’d been there for nearly fifty minutes, ever since one of their wives had called with the news. Landon was the quietest of all—not because he had nothing to say but because he couldn’t stop praying for Jalen.

He had no doubt that somewhere in one of those towering infernos, his best friend was trying to save lives.

“How many firefighters you figure are in those buildings?” one of the men in the circle asked.

“Gotta be hundreds.”

“Hey, Landon, don’t you have a buddy at FDNY?”

“Yeah.” Landon’s mouth was dry. There was nothing else he could say. He stared at the screen, unblinking. He’d talked to Jalen a few days ago. This was his shift, Landon was certain, and his station was in the vicinity.
Hurry, Jalen.

The conversation around him continued.

“You have any idea how hot jet fuel burns? That place is a furnace by now.”

“The whole building must be feeling it.”

Their voices grew, filled with a knowing fear for their fellow firefighters.

Come on, Jalen . . . get out.
A building that hot wasn’t safe. Landon had been thinking about that since the first plane hit. At a certain temperature the integrity of steel would be compromised, and if that happened. . . .
Get out of there, Jalen. Come on, buddy . . . get out!

“Look at ’em.” One of the guys rose to his feet. “Firemen are still pouring into the building. Must be fifty companies by now.”

“What’re they doing?” One of the others pounded his fist on the table. He motioned to the screen. “Someone get those men out of there!”

A reporter’s voice cut through their dialogue. “We’re getting reports that the south tower is shaking. Windows on the lower level are breaking out from the movement.”

“Come on, people!” The fireman next to Landon shoved back his chair and swore out loud at the television set. “The whole thing’s gonna come down! Get out! Go! Leave!”

Adrenaline shot through Landon’s veins. Jalen was somewhere in one of those buildings. He could feel it. But there wasn’t a thing he could do to help.
Leave, Jalen! God, make him get out of there.

At that moment there was a strange shuddering sound, and in a matter of seconds, the south tower disappeared in a volcano-size cloud of smoke and dust and debris.

Landon could feel the blood draining from his face as he watched in disbelief. A hundred floors of steel and glass, tons of office equipment and people—all gone. Completely gone.

“The south tower just collapsed!” The reporter shouted the news against a backdrop of screaming people, all of them scrambling for their lives, trying to outrun the blast. “I repeat, the south tower of the World Trade Center has collapsed to the ground. There’s nothing left standing.”

“Jalen!” Landon was on his feet. He raised his arms and dug his fingers into his hair. The scene was complete madness. A wave of nausea gripped his belly. What had they just witnessed? Hundreds of people—maybe thousands—killed right before their eyes. How many of them had been firefighters, racing up the stairs while everyone else raced down?

The building wouldn’t contain a single survivor after the force of the collapse.

No, it isn’t possible.
If Jalen was in the building when it collapsed . . . Landon closed his eyes and uttered the only prayer he could think of:
God, take care of my friend. And whatever happens, please . . . don’t let him suffer.

* * *

Luke had been in the middle of a ninety-minute economics lecture when a student tore into the classroom and shouted something about a terrorist attack. Immediately the professor had flipped on the television.

Every moment since then, Luke and his classmates had been glued to the screen.

All around him students were whispering, talking about the tragedy, commenting on the situation. But Luke was utterly silent, caught in a moment of prayer so deep and intense he could barely concentrate on the steady flow of news reports.

For thirty straight minutes, he’d been begging God to let Reagan’s father live. He worked on the eighty-ninth floor of the north tower. By the looks of it, the plane had hit lower than that. Could Tom Decker make it down past the burning wreckage? And what about Reagan? Wherever she was, she had to know by now.

Luke remembered the phone call her father had made last night, and the knots in his stomach tightened. She hadn’t answered it because they were . . .

Please, God. I’ve never asked you for anything like this before. Please let him live . . . please.

The harder he prayed, the worse the fire seemed to get.

There were reports of the buildings shaking, giving way. And then, in a single surreal motion, the south tower collapsed, plummeting to the ground. The students gasped, and an eerie silence came over the room. At first, Luke wasn’t sure which building had fallen.

He held his breath while the reporters shouted the news. The south tower had collapsed. Some people were trapped; others were fleeing the scene. All federal office buildings in Washington, D.C., were being evacuated. The news was terrible. But Luke couldn’t help the sense of relief flooding his body. The building Reagan’s father worked in was standing. He still had a chance.

I beg you, God—not the north tower too. Please, God. Get Reagan’s father out. She didn’t get a chance to talk to him yesterday because . . . I’m sorry, God. It was my fault. Please don’t punish her for my mistake.