Authors: Faith Sullivan
It’s Friday. Three days later. The Lincoln Tunnel has reopened, and I finally have a chance to try to make it home.
I haven’t left my apartment since venturing out after the attack. I’ve seen no one. My phone is back up and running, and I’ve heard briefly from family members and friends, but that’s it. Too bad a hug can’t transmit over a wireless signal. At this point, I’m willing to do anything for live human contact, so I’m taking the first opportunity to get the hell out of here.
The past few days are a blur. Waiting to get word of survivors. Enduring false threats against the Empire State Building. Hearing the name Osama bin Laden. Debating whether or not there are more terrorists out there waiting to strike. Seeing travelers stranded in airports. The news media is scrambling to sort out a story whose details don’t fit in a nice, neat package.
These are the lost hours of my life. Ones I’ll never have a clear memory of. Trying to keep my wits from scattering has taxed my brain to the limit. I don’t know much about nervous breakdowns, but I think I had one. Living in solitary confinement during a terrorist attack is not something I recommend. It’s not good for one’s mental health.
Normally, right now is the morning rush hour, but the building is quiet. No one is hurrying to get to work. Everyone is staying at home, glued to the TV. I’m the only fool setting foot outside. I can’t get away from this place fast enough.
On the street, there is not a single person in view. Already on edge, I lengthen my stride. A large portion of Lower Manhattan is experiencing blackouts, but the power is still on in the West Village. Yet nothing’s open. Even the McDonald’s is closed, and there’s no one at the basketball court on the corner. Usually someone’s always there. The vibe is surreal. It’s too quiet, and New York City is never quiet.
Stopping at the entrance to the West Fourth Street subway, I catch my breath after practically jogging the entire way. If mass transit isn’t running, I’m screwed. I’ll have to walk these deserted, post-apocalyptic streets all the way to Forty-Second Street. Thirty-eight blocks. And there’s not a cab in sight.
Crossing my fingers, I descend the cement steps. Nobody’s on the platform, but the lights are on, and I can hear the screeching brakes of an incoming train accompanied by the familiar
tha-thud-tha-thud
of its cars hitting the track. Seconds later, the A train pulls into the station. Moving quickly, I rush aboard as the doors open.
I’m surprised that it’s crowded. This is the first mass gathering of humanity I’ve come across. There aren’t any available seats, so I grip the metal bar, sharing it with three other people. I place my bag down and plant my feet to withstand the jolt as the train departs.
I don’t usually look at people while riding the subway. Most riders zone out by reading a book or listening to music. It’s an unwritten rule not to engage others via eye contact. Look down at your feet. Read the advertisements above your head. But don’t even think about staring at the person across from you. But today, I chance it.
The impersonal veneer has cracked. Signs of emotion are peeking through. Many are wearing an ‘I can’t believe what happened’ expression. It’s like we all escaped some terrible fate, but the question still remains—what happens now?
Others look genuinely frightened. God only knows what some of them have seen. They got on the train before me, which means they were farther downtown when they got on, closer to Ground Zero.
The car begins to sway, and I try with all my might to hold on. A guy wearing a construction outfit covered in dust takes pity on me. Getting up, he gives me his seat. This has never happened to me before, and his act of kindness touches me. I manage to get out the words, ‘Thank you,’ but my voice squeaks. I’m a little rusty as it’s the first time I’m speaking to someone face to face since the attack. He offers me a tight smile. I’m grateful for the stability the seat affords as the train comes to a sudden stop. The doors release and the construction worker exits as more people get on.
Two stops later, I arrive at my destination. Even though we’re crammed in like sardines, people try to move out of the way so I can pass. Once again on solid ground, I watch the train disappear into the tunnel. That was by far the strangest subway ride I’ve ever taken. In some small way, people are trying to help each other. Random strangers are looking out for one another. I’m by no means a native New Yorker, but I’ve never seen anything like it. But now is not the time to stop and ponder the state of the universe. I have a bus to catch.
I head for the lower level of the Port Authority. From the escalator, I can see the terminal and there’s already a line to board. Luckily I have a pre-paid ticket that’s good for the entire month. I was going to come home for a visit at the end of September, but my well-crafted plans have run amok.
I prop myself up against the glass facing the underground garage. My bus is here, but the driver isn’t letting passengers on yet. I’m off kilter being thrust back into everyday activities like waiting in line and checking departure times. Daily life grinds on, whether I’m ready for it or not.
Reentering reality sets my thoughts adrift on other topics besides terrorist attacks. Deep down, I have my doubts. Do I want to come back to this? Once I make my escape, am I really going to feel like returning to an apartment that now holds nothing but traumatic memories? Do I want to live in a city where I no longer feel safe?
I haven’t thought it out. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Nothing feels right. No matter what decision I make, all I know is, it’s not going to be easy. Do I give up on my dreams and walk away from New York? Do I even want to be in New York anymore?
Catching my image in the glass, I don’t even recognize my own reflection. Eyes glazed over in fear. A face drained of color. A spirit shattered. Who is this girl? She’s not me.
It’s New Year’s Eve, but I don’t feel like celebrating. Instead, I pop open a pill bottle and swallow an antidepressant. There’s nothing left to look forward to. That part of my life is over now.
I’m back in my childhood bedroom. Yeah, I gave up on New York. Call it survival of the fittest. The city chewed me up and spit me out. I was found wanting, not strong enough to cope.
But I did try. For about a month, I gave it my best shot. I went back, stumbling to find my footing. I attended class, but I couldn’t concentrate. For the first time in my life, I became a miserable failure within an academic setting. In an area where I always excelled, I found myself at the bottom of the pack, sinking fast. My ability to focus was compromised, and I struggled to complete reading assignments and write papers that were up to par. But it just wasn’t happening.
Nervous enough about living in the aftermath of a terrorist attack, I found that my problems compounded when my schoolwork began to suffer. No matter where I turned, I was vulnerable. I didn’t feel at home in my apartment. I didn’t feel safe on the street. I didn’t feel at ease in the classroom. I longed for some sense of security, but there was none to be found.
There were signs up everywhere of families searching for missing loved ones. They were posted on chain link fences, mailboxes, and traffic signs, and the faces of the dead filled my consciousness. I couldn’t get them out of my head. As time passed and the calendar turned to October, those holding on to the tiniest shred of hope began to realize there was no longer any possibility of witnessing a miracle. Night and day, rescue teams combed through the rubble, sacrificing their own health by breathing in the toxic dust. But at this point, no one was found alive.
The attempt to return to normalcy was staggering. The local news added the conditions at Ground Zero to its daily weather report. Yankee Stadium started incorporating ‘God Bless America’ along with a moment of silence into all of its home games. The stars and stripes took on a new significance as American flags sprouted up in every available nook and cranny.
But I just could not find my reset button to take what happened and force it into the background. I guess I’m not built that way. Anger consumed me as a lot of my professors treated the interruption in classes as no more than an unexpected break caused by snow or some other innocuous occurrence. The pressure to tune it all out and get back to normal was overwhelming. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready.
Some students thrived. They dutifully went on taking pop quizzes based on the day’s headlines, jotting down the names of terrorists to increase their grade point average. Others became reporters-in-training, interviewing cab drivers and transit cops for stories that would never see the light of day beyond a professor’s red pen. In the wake of what happened, it all seemed ridiculous to me, like they were acting out a charade in order to maintain the manner of living they were used to, regardless if it meshed with the new reality thrust upon us. They were almost frantic in their desire to uphold the status quo, even though it no longer applied to the world we found ourselves in. While the general reaction was to soldier on, mine was to retreat.
The hardest thing for me was to admit defeat. I couldn’t go on, and I knew it. The best thing was to cut my losses and put things on hold for a while. Mentally, I was in no state to continue on my present course. I needed time to pull myself together in an environment where I was able to feel protected, where I could actually sleep through the night. It was imperative that I step back and rethink things. What did I really want out of life? What was truly important to me?
From elementary school on, I was always Michelle Rhodes—the overachiever, the A+ student, the valedictorian. But that pumped-up version of myself didn’t exist anymore, and I had no idea how to reconcile who I was with who I am now, a broken down imitation of the original.
My parents are worried about me. They know I’m damaged, but they don’t know how to fix me. It’s moments like this when being an only child sucks. Their belief in me is what drives them, and I let them down big time. They’ve never seen me fail before, and they don’t know how to handle it. I’ve shaken them to their core, and I didn’t mean to do that. It’s almost cruel. All of the sacrifices they’ve made on my behalf—were they worth it? I’d have to say no.
Tonight, they really want me to go to the New Year’s Eve party my friend, Heather, is throwing at her parents’ house. She’s home on break, and they think it’ll be good for me to get out and socialize with people my own age. I’ve kept myself pretty isolated since I ran home with my tail between my legs. I wasn’t up to rehashing things over and over again. But maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get out—at least for a little while.
I admit that tending to my appearance is no longer on the top of my priority list. I’ve really let myself go. I never regained the weight I lost, so I appear gaunt instead of thin. I haven’t gotten a hair cut since the summer, and I haven’t even worn makeup in months. I guess I can twist my long brown hair and pin it up, and maybe I’ll wear a simple black sweater with a pair of jeans that I can belt. With some industrial strength under-eye concealer, I might look presentable. But I can’t summon any feeling of excitement. I feel nothing.
The party is already in full swing when I arrive. There’s no way I’ll be able to slip in unnoticed. I’ll be on everyone’s radar as soon as I walk through the door—something I’m not exactly looking forward to. I’m ‘the 9/11 girl,’ the only person from our small town who was there that day. And of course, people can’t wait to hear all about it even if all I have to say is that I was scared shitless in my apartment for three days. But still, their insatiable curiosity doesn’t make me want to talk about it. They weren’t there; they don’t know.
I can hear ‘I’m Real’ by Ja Rule and J-Lo all the way down the street. It doesn’t get more ghetto than a party in the suburbs. Judging by the familiar cars parked outside, a lot of people I graduated high school with are here. On the landing, I pause with my finger on the doorbell. Do I really want to face these people? Am I ready for this?
“Having second thoughts?” a voice asks out of the darkness.
The front porch swing is moving slightly. At the end of it, I discern the silhouette of a guy. He bends forward to light a cigarette, and I catch a glimpse of his face. He’s not somebody I know. Relief washes over me. Maybe I can stall for time out here.
Taking a step back, I put my hands in my coat pockets and move away from the light emanating from the window. I’m more comfortable hiding in the shadows.
He doesn’t press me for a response, but I can sense him watching me. Hopefully, he’ll keep his distance.
The swing creaks as I sit on the opposite side. My movement interrupts his steady rhythm, but he doesn’t reproach me for the intrusion. Flicks of ash hit the wooden floor as he inhales again.
“Is that weed?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, breaking the silence.
His only response is a chuckle.
The swing remains in motion. The shared responsibility of keeping it going creates a sense of familiarity, even though we’re complete strangers.
He shifts his position to face me, studying my profile. Rising to the challenge, I turn my head.
Our eyes lock.
I want to look away, but I can’t.
He doesn’t appear stoned. His gaze is focused, steady.
Taking one last hit, he tosses what’s left of the cigarette, putting it out with his boot. Placing his hands on his knees, he glances at me over his shoulder. “Michelle, I think it’s time you came back to New York with me.”
“W…what?” I stutter despite myself.
He gives me a crooked grin. “All night, I’ve been freezing my ass off out here waiting for you. I didn’t think you were gonna show.”
If his first remark didn’t floor me, the second leaves me utterly confused. “Whoa, slow down, buddy. How do you even know my name?”
Again, he laughs. “Does it really matter? I’m here to talk some sense into you.”
The dimples in his cheeks distract me. He has such a cute smile. But I’m not letting him off that easily. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m done with New York.”
“Really? You could’ve fooled me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you should never run from something that scares you.” His hazel eyes catch the moonlight as they bore into mine. “And this time, you won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”
This whole conversation is getting way too intense. Standing up, I wrap my arms around myself. I have to get out of here. This guy is crazy.
I jump as the front door opens and my ex-boyfriend Tony emerges, giving me a hopeful look. We broke up after our senior year. He understood I wasn’t planning on sticking around, so I set him free. He met someone else over the summer, and I only talked to him once on the phone when I got back. But with the way he’s looking at me now, I can tell he feels sorry for me, and that’s something I won’t tolerate.
Inching closer to the steps, I attempt to play it cool. “Oh hi, Tony. It’s good seeing you. I wish I could stay and chat, but I was just leaving.”
“I don’t think so.”
I whirl around. That’s it. Who does this guy think he is? “Listen, you little…” I begin, but Tony interrupts by grabbing my arm.
“Michelle, calm down. There’s no need to freak out,” Tony says, slowly releasing his grip on me. “Do you remember me telling you about Sal, my roommate at school, the one from New York?” I nod, but I can care less at this moment. “Well, this is his older brother, Connor. I kind of told him all about you, and I thought it’d be a good idea if you two met.”
I shake my head and sigh. “So you made him wait out here alone in the cold?”
I can tell Tony’s nervous. He’s running his fingers through his hair. “I thought you’d bolt otherwise.”
“She nearly did,” Connor chimes in.
Frustrated, I slam my fist on the porch railing. “The both of you just stop it, right now! I knew it was a bad idea to come here. I don’t need some random guy from New York giving me advice on how to live my life.”
Pushing off the swing, Connor gets to his feet. “Well, what are you doing with your life then? What’s plan B?”
I advance toward him. “I don’t have a plan B, asshole. I don’t have all the answers, but apparently you do.”
Connor closes the gap between us. “I wish I did, but I think you can figure it out. You were brave enough to take on the big, bad city once. Why not try it again under different circumstances?”
Tony clears his throat, and for a moment, I forgot he was there. “Michelle, Connor owns a bar downtown. He thought you could go back and work for him. Give it another go.”
“I’m no bartender,” I retort.
“You sure aren’t,” Connor fires back.
Tony holds up his hands in an attempt to keep the peace. “Just hear him out, Michelle.”
“Fine,” I say glaring up at him.
“Go on, Connor. Tell her about it,” Tony urges, knowing I may flee at any moment.
Connor’s eyes find mine again, but I look away as he starts speaking. “My family’s owned a pub on Beekman Street for years. Not too long ago, my dad had a heart attack, so I took over. I can offer you a waitressing job plus room and board above the bar for as long as you want it.”
For a minute, I stop and consider the possibility. It actually doesn’t sound that bad, and it’d be a welcome change from my original intention of becoming the next film school prodigy. It would be fresh start, and I wouldn’t be alone. But can I really go back there?
Sensing my trepidation, Connor pats me on the shoulder. “Listen, I know it’s not what you imagined. Tony told me how smart you are and how you were hoping to make it big at NYU. I can understand how working in a bar sounds like a letdown after that. But honestly, I think it’d be good for you.”
“And why do you care about what happens to me?” I ask, raising my eyes to his.
“Because I was there that day, and so were you.”