I’d say something completely
foreign, but it’s not. It’s something I’m intimately aware of, having lived with it all my life. Dad hides it well most of the time, and obviously Gabe does, too. In fact, he disguises it better, or maybe it only seems that way because I’ve known him for such a short while. But beneath his gentle exterior, way down
in the depths of those lizard eyes, roils a red-hot mantle of rage.
Maya
For Casey
Oh my God! What’s happening? We’re a long way from New York City, but if it could happen there, maybe it could happen right here. It seems like the whole world’s gone crazy. NYC. North Carolina. There. Here. Everywhere. Crazy. Who would do such a despicable thing? Who? And why?
It’s September 11. Your birthday. I got up early to see your daddy off to work and bake a cake for your party. It’s Tuesday, so I didn’t plan anything big, just a few of your playgroup buddies and their moms, who I can more rightly call acquaintances than friends.
Daddy said we should’ve waited until Saturday, but I think a girl should celebrate the actual day she was born, rather than hold off to accommodate other people’s schedules. But now your party is on indefinite hold.
Not too long after your daddy left, he called me. “Turn on the TV.”
“Why? What channel?”
“All of them. Just do it.”
Every channel showed the same thing. The twin towers of the World Trade Center, the biggest buildings in this whole country, were in flames. Smoking. Falling apart. Someone flew planes into them. On purpose. Big planes. Jetliners.
They showed it in slow motion.
I couldn’t stop watching. Still can’t turn it off, even though I know people are dead. They keep repeating footage of them screaming. Falling. Jumping. Jumping from so high up in the air they could never survive, but they preferred that to burning to death.
One of the towers crumbled. Crashed to the ground, nothing left but rubble, dust, and smoke. And bodies. In pieces. So much carnage. How do you escape when you’re seventy stories up in the air, only stairs to get you down, not knowing what’s below, or if what’s above you will crush you?
Then the second tower broke apart, too. There were—are—people trapped inside. Some are first responders—cops, firefighters. Trying to save the others. You don’t know, baby girl, you don’t know.
It’s like a scene from a movie. Some awful disaster flick. Only it’s real life. Real death. So many must have perished. Men. Women. Little kids. Babies. What if you and I were there in that building or on the ground, when it all came tumbling down?
Now they’re saying another plane crashed into the Pentagon, and yet another in a field somewhere. Hijacked, all of them. Passengers and crew, minding their own business, traveling to or away from home.
“Collateral damage.” That’s what the military spokesman called them. Not wives or parents or brothers. Cold as a mortuary slab. “Collateral damage.”
A pretty newswoman, coaxed not to smile as she usually would, says, “These are concerted acts of terrorism.”
Well, yeah. What else could they be? We don’t know who these terrorists were, or what motivated them to commit this kind of atrocity, and we won’t for a while. But our country is under attack. That means we—you and I—are under attack. This isn’t supposed to happen on American soil.
I’ve never considered myself patriotic. Definitely not a fan of the military. I married a soldier so I could divorce my mother, not because of his uniform or because I believed in some noble cause. But since this morning, love for my country has skyrocketed.
I don’t know a single soul in New York City, but as I sit glued to the television, watching them run for their lives or stand there, staring in shock, I’m crying for all of them, and for every American. We’re afraid. So very afraid.
The base is scrambling, all personnel on high alert, and I’m sure every active installation in the country is the same way. The threat feels foreign, and what might happen next, not to mention when, is anyone’s guess.
Four different people managed to fly four domestic jet aircraft into four separate targets. Well, the one that went down in Pennsylvania probably missed whatever it was aiming for. Even so, how is this possible?
“Don’t worry,” your daddy tells me. “Everything will be fine. You’re safe. I’ll see to it, no matter what.”
I wish I could believe him, but anxiety surrounds me like a prickly aura, vaguely electric. I work very hard to keep you from sensing it. You’ve played and napped through the whole thing, happily unaware.
While you were sleeping, Tati called, and we talked for a long, long time. One of her cousins is a New York City policeman. She doesn’t know if he’s all right. “Air travel will probably be tough for a while,” she said. “But when it eases up, I want to come visit. Think that would be okay?”
It was the best thing I heard all day, other than you trying out new words that you happened to overhear. “Pre-zi-den?”