Authors: Faith Sullivan
I glance at Connor’s profile. He’s intently looking at the woman sitting across from us in the circle as she tells her story. Chewing gum, his jaw moves rapidly. His left leg fidgets. He’s so tightly wound, I’m afraid he’s going to explode. But he’s here, and it’s a start.
I don’t think he’s going to speak to the support group, at least not tonight. We walked through the door of the YMCA thirty minutes ago, and he’s still here, which is a good sign. I wasn’t sure if he was going to bolt, but he took a seat and hasn’t said a word since introducing himself. This is agonizing for him, but he’s hanging with it so far.
I’m debating whether or not to address the group. I can’t remember anyone’s name for the life of me, but if Connor isn’t going to chime in, I should fulfill our obligation. I want us to be able to come back. Maybe it’ll be easier the next time if I open up for the both of us. We’re the newbies, and I need to make some kind of effort if we’re going to move forward with this.
The leader conducted phone interviews with us prior to letting us join since members are sorted into particular groups based on the level of trauma they experienced. There’s a circle for those who were at the World Trade Center that day. There’s another for the family members of deceased victims, and yet another for those currently working at the site. Finally, there’s a miscellaneous grouping for those without any direct ties to the tragedy.
Miguel is a regular in the workers’ circle. He comes every week. When setting up our placements, he recommended that I stick close to Connor until he has a chance to loosen up a bit. He didn’t think it was a good idea to split us up, and judging by Connor’s body language, neither do I. He needs me with him—that much is certain.
But I feel uncomfortable talking about how scared I was watching these things happen on TV when the people in front of me have lost someone. The magnitude of pain doesn’t match up. I’m like an imposter attempting to impose on their grief. It isn’t right.
The woman speaking now is talking about how her sister worked that morning in the Windows on the World restaurant on the top of the North Tower. The young man who spoke before her can’t get the final phone message from his father out of his head. Our group leader is the widow of a police officer who lost his life. Listening to their testimony is gut-wrenching, but if I can sit here and show my solidarity, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything in my power to alleviate their suffering.
As the woman recounts reading a newspaper article on what the final moments were like for her sister, she stops mid-sentence as her lip trembles. She apologizes that she is unable to go on and collapses onto her chair. The group leader tells her it’s all right, and the rest of us nod in agreement, trying not to look at her as she breaks down.
If there is any danger of Connor fleeing the scene, it’s now. Slowly, I turn my head in his direction. His breathing is unsteady and he is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. I rub his back and whisper his name, but he doesn’t respond. It’s like he’s closed himself off behind some internal barricade. I can’t bear to watch him like this. It’s too much.
“Connor, c’mon. Let’s go,” I urge, tugging his arm.
Hoping to get the meeting back on track, the group leader asks if anyone else would like to share a story. I want to get out of here before the next person begins, but I’m startled when Connor stands up.
“Hi, my name’s Connor Donnelly, and I lost my best friend, Danny, on 9/11.” His voice quivers, but he gets it out.
In a sing-song voice, everyone responds, “Hi Connor.”
“Tell us about Danny.” The group leader smiles, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Connor responds to her encouragement.
“He was a part of the FDNY. He went into the South Tower, but he never came out.” He stops, clearing his throat. “I don’t want to go into detail about it, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine, Connor. You have the floor. Say whatever you want to say, no more, no less.” The group leader’s good. She knows what she’s doing.
“Danny was a good guy, the best. All he ever wanted to do was help people. And if he gave his life in order to save others by getting them out of the building, then I think he’d be all right with it. Even if I’m not all right with it. Even if I’ll never be all right with it.”
All of the people are riveted to what Connor is saying, and even the woman before him has stopped crying.
“I’m here today with Michelle.” He points at me and I raise my hand. “She was just starting off as a freshman at NYU, locked in an apartment by herself. For days, she didn’t have another human being to talk to. She was so new to the city, she didn’t know anybody.” I blush to the roots of my hair as everyone’s attention switches to me.
“Yeah, it’s a different kind of trauma than losing someone you care about, but the events of that day screwed her up too. She had to drop out of school, give up on the dream she worked so hard for. When I heard about what happened to her, it infuriated me. And you wanna know why? Because the far-reaching effect of that evil scares the shit out of me…”
Connor and I haven’t really talked about what happened to me since New Year’s Eve. It’s an out-of-body experience hearing him tell my story and what it means to him.
“How that poison spread so far and affected so many people, I knew I had to stop it. I had to help someone the way I knew Danny would want me to. That his death wasn’t in vain, and that evil would never win.”
Without another word, Connor sits down. Our group is silent, taking in what he said. It’s a powerful declaration with so much meaning behind it.
My back is turned, but I can hear the other circles dispersing for the night as chairs scrape across the floor and people shuffle out the door. But our group remains where it is. When we’re the only ones left, the group leader rises to her feet.
“Connor, I want to thank you for joining our group, and I hope you’ll come back again next week.” He gives an imperceptible nod, and she continues. “And I want to thank everyone who shared tonight…”
But I miss the rest of her announcement as the implications of Connor’s response sink in.
He not only opened up. He wants to come back.
It’s a Friday night, and once again the bar is packed. A sweltering heat wave has settled upon the city, and tempers are short. Everyone’s looking to cool off. But as luck would have it, the air conditioning system hit the fritz yesterday. And it’s as hot as hell in here.
I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, something Connor doesn’t ordinarily allow, but the conditions warrant a change in attire. Tammy takes it a step further, wearing a short black skirt over a one-piece bathing suit. It figures that tonight’s crowd is predominantly male. The majority of my tables are taken over by a bachelor party that’s getting more raucous by the minute. Customers are lined up at the bar three deep, and if I need assistance fending off their advances, there’s no way Connor’s going to see me.
Balancing eight shot glasses and a pitcher of beer, I hoist my tray above the jabbing elbows, pushing through any opening I can find. Thankfully, I manage not to spill anything. The groom helps me distribute the shots of tequila to his friends. Thinking the danger averted, I’m startled when his hand gropes my ass.
“Honey, the stripper can’t make it. Why don’t you be our entertainment tonight?” The bleary eyes of the groomsmen zero in on me.
I pry his hand off my backside, and the others laugh. As I’m walking away, I hear the groom shout, “Baby, c’mon. We just want to have some fun.”
Too bad they only just arrived. It looks like they got started somewhere else but intend to spend the rest of the night here. I’m not going back without Tammy in tow. I’m going to need backup in case the situation continues to unravel. And seeing that they’re drinking tequila, their behavior is only going to get worse.
I snap the strap of Tammy’s bathing suit to get her attention over the noise of the crowd. “What the f—? Oh, it’s you, Michelle.” Her wadded fist was headed in my direction. Luckily she turned around before throwing a punch. “What’s up, chick-a-dee?”
“I’ve got a bunch of assholes trying to feel me up. Think you can help me out?” Nothing gets Tammy going like intoxicated men with wandering hands. Her eyes narrow as she searches the room for the culprits.
“Those freaks in the corner?” she asks, assessing the situation as one of them tipsily tries to stand on a chair.
“How’d you guess?”
Tammy sighs in response. She’s beyond swamped keeping up with her own tables. I feel like a jerk asking her to babysit me in addition to everything else.
“I get the tip?” It’s not really a suggestion, and I nod emphatically. That is, if they’re coherent enough to leave a tip. It doesn’t look promising. We’ll probably bust our butts for nothing. At this point, it’s not about the money.
Samuel, the short-order cook, rings the bell on the kitchen counter. Their order’s ready. I hope they don’t puke it up in ten minutes. I’m pretty sure Tammy draws the line when it comes to mopping up vomit.
I signal her to follow me, and we stack the plates on our trays. Burgers, fries, nachos, hot wings, mozzarella sticks—it’s enough to feed an army. Tammy cuts through the throng like a pro and I’m right on her tail. Without inquiring who ordered what, she automatically starts transferring the dishes onto the table.
“And who might this lovely lady be?” the groomsman perched on the chair inquires, leering at Tammy. “I’m all about doubling up.”
Depositing the last of her load, Tammy kicks the chair out from under him. He stumbles, falling right onto my tray. His momentum sends me flying to the ground with him on top of me. My face is splattered with a combination of marinara sauce and melted cheese. But what I’m most aware of is that the bar got a lot quieter as everyone’s attention focuses on the source of the crash.
Within seconds, Connor is at my side, pulling the guy off of me. “What the hell is going on over here?” His tone is lethal. This isn’t going to end well.
“That bitch of yours assaulted me.” It’s the climber, and he’s whining like a little girl. It doesn’t help matters that he has a greasy hamburger patty stuck to the front of his shirt.
Connor turns his back on him to help me up, and the guy grabs the collar of his shirt. “You listen to me when I’m talking to you.” Enraged, Connor swings around, landing a blow to the guy’s jaw.
I scuttle out of the way as they go at each other. As the other groomsmen start to gang up on Connor, Tammy runs to the phone behind the bar. Two of them are holding Connor’s arms while another mercilessly punches him in the face. I can’t let this happen. They’re going to kill him. I lunge from a crouched position, throwing my arms around his assailant’s waist and push him to the floor. We take a table down with us. The force leaves the guy lying on his back, momentarily stunned. I hoist myself off of him, but he grabs my ponytail. I struggle to get free, but he backhands the side of my face, sending me reeling.
It’s bedlam in the bar as the other patrons either engage in the fight or try to break it up. Police sirens sound outside as flashing red and blue lights ricochet off the window. Making the most of the situation, people scatter out the front door without paying their tabs. A logjam forms as the cops trying to enter the building halt the impending stampede.
A stranger picks me up and carries me to one of the barstools. Blood is dripping from my mouth. I run my tongue across all of my teeth, and thankfully I’m not missing any. It’s only a split lip. I reach for a soggy napkin under an abandoned gin and tonic and apply pressure to stem the bleeding.
Twirling the stool toward the melee, I search anxiously for Connor. Luckily, the fighting has stopped and he’s propped up against the wall talking to one of the cops. The climber, shackled in a pair of handcuffs, is vehemently protesting that Connor started it to anyone who will listen. Unfortunately for him, his fellow groomsmen aren’t saying a word. It’s funny how they sobered up in a hurry. I guess the threat of spending the night in jail does that to a person.
An authoritative voice cuts through the commotion. “That’s right, officer. I saw it all with my own eyes. That guy attacked my boss, and that’s all there is to it.”
Involuntarily, the muscles in my face attempt a smile. I wince as the gash on my lip widens, but it’s all worth it to hear Tammy set the record straight, knowing she’s the one who started the whole thing.
Connor and I are finally alone. After dealing with the cops and attempting to clean up the worst of the mess, we sent everyone home, closed the bar, and headed upstairs. Connor refused to go to the hospital so the paramedics stitched him up as best they could. But there’s still a lot of dried blood covering his face. Urging him into the bathroom, I flick on the light. He turns down the seat cover and sits on the toilet. I rummage through the counter under the sink to search for first aid supplies. Finding some gauze, I twist the knobs on the faucet until the water temperature is lukewarm. Running it under the tap, I squeeze out the excess and kneel down before him.
His face is a mess. There are six stitches above his right eyebrow, and a yellowish green bruise is forming underneath. His lip is swollen and there are scratch marks on his chin. I can’t stand seeing him like this. It makes my heart ache to think this happened to him because of me.
Nervously, I run my tongue against the bandage covering the left side of my bottom lip. It’s throbbing. Good. I deserve it. After the beating Connor endured on my behalf, I’ll wear it like a badge of honor.
Raising his hand, he gently runs his fingers across my mouth. He releases a sigh. Weaving his hand into my hair that’s no longer in a ponytail thanks to that asshole, he gently pulls me forward. Bending down, he carefully places his lips on mine. Lightly caressing the side of my face, he reluctantly breaks away. Gazing up at me through his eyelashes, he wraps his arms around my waist and buries his head against my chest. His body trembles. Reassuringly, I stroke the back of his head.
“It’s okay,” I murmur against his neck, my breath warm on his skin.
Releasing me, his eyes meet mine. “I’ll never forgive myself for putting you in danger, allowing you to get hurt…”
“Connor, it’s not your fault. Those guys were out to cause trouble the moment they walked into the bar.” His battered appearance is cutting me up inside. I struggle to keep my voice under control. “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”
Mad at myself, I stand up to apply more water to the gauze, but Connor grips my knee. “Don’t leave.”
That does it. I can barely breathe. I can never leave this man, not now, not ever.
Pivoting around, I drop before him cradling his face. Feeling the stubble of his cheek beneath my fingers, I begin to slowly clear the dried blood away. Placing my lips to his ear, I whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”