Without a second glance, I allowed my feet to carry me toward the airport shuttle. At the last minute, I decided to take a more scenic route. When the shuttle stopped at the waterfront, I found a water taxi to drive me across the Charles River into downtown Boston.
“Hey, man,” the driver said. “You need a lift?”
Wordlessly, I pulled a twenty from my wallet. It grew damp in my still-wet palm. He stepped back, pulling my suitcase into the tiny watercraft. I settled into a seat, my eyes skipping over the water. In the morning stillness, the quiet waves soothed me.
“I hate to disturb ya, buddy, but where we goin’?” the driver asked.
“Anywhere,” I said. “I just can’t go home yet.”
“Downtown it is.” Once we pulled away from the dock, the driver left me alone with my thoughts.
When my flight took off without me at 8:14 a.m., I sat on the boat, letting the waves relax me. My body finally unclenched, the shaking stopped. A plane flew over the water, a streak against the morning sky, and I waved, pretending Dan and his family could see me.
The water taxi dropped me off downtown, near a sea of office buildings. Living in a suburb, I didn’t spend enough time in Boston proper to have a destination in mind. All I knew was that I didn’t want to get on the T and go back to Jess. How do you say, Honey, I don’t want to come home, to the person you love most in the world?
This life was all wrong. I was all wrong. But the last thing I wanted was to hurt Jess. I simply didn’t know what to do. My feet carried me up and down the streets until I spotted a coffee shop next to a hotel, with waitresses pouring coffee at a long bar and televisions playing nothing more earth-shattering than the latest Red Sox recap.
After I settled onto a stool, a waitress brought me a menu. Although not hungry, I ordered scrambled eggs and coffee. My plane wasn’t expected to land for about six hours, so that left time to get my thoughts in order before Jess would start to wonder why I hadn’t called yet.
At 8:46 a.m., phones started beeping and whispers spread through the room. Someone changed the television on the wall from ESPN to CNN. On the screen, plumes of smoke billowed out of the World Trade Center. Was it a trick? Something like Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds? For a long minute, the only sounds in the room were forks clattering against plates, glasses thudding onto tabletops, and the reporters on the television, saying horrible words, filling me with terror yet failing to penetrate my brain at the same time. No one spoke.
Everyone in the room sat in collective horror, eyes glued to the TV. We watched, transfixed, a dozen people watching as one entity. What was going on? The word “live” in the bottom told me this wasn’t some horrifying dream.
At 9:03 a.m., another airplane flew into the second tower. An older lady in the corner shrieked and fainted. A waitress ran to help her. A child started crying, then another. Water streaked my cheeks, but I didn’t know when the tears started.
Some people pulled out their cell phones and started making calls. Scattered mentions of friends, family in New York flew about the room, interspersed with the questions, the fear.
“The signal is jammed,” the woman next to me said. “I can’t get through. Of course.”
“Do you have friends in New York?” I asked, more out of reflexive politeness than a desire to swap stories.
“No, but my sister flew out of Logan this morning.” She barely looked at me as she kept hitting redial. “Nothing. Dammit.”
“I’m sure your sister’s fine,” I said. “Those planes probably came from JFK.”
“Sure, but I won’t be able to relax until—” Her phone beeped in her hand, cutting her off. “Oh, thank God! It’s her. Still at the airport. Her flight was delayed due to a mechanical issue.”
Before I responded, the woman bolted from her stool, gathering her belongings and rushing toward the door, presumably headed for the airport to hug her sister. The scene must be madness. I hoped she made it safely.
I turned back to the TV, but my mind went back to the people on the plane. Where did the planes come from? Who were the passengers on board? No one could’ve survived a plane hitting a building at hundreds of miles per hour. Had I seen any of those people at Logan before I left? The man in line ahead of me at Starbucks, the woman buying a book where I picked up gum from the newsstand? What about the other passengers on my flight? Were Dan and his family still in the air, blissfully unaware of what was happening and planning their first trip to Disneyland?
The room buzzed with whispers, but no one moved. When the news reported a third plane crashing into the Pentagon and a fourth crashing in a field in Pennsylvania, some sick, tiny part of my mind envied the people who’d managed to escape their miserable lives to find something better in the world beyond.
What kind of asshole was I, thinking about myself in the middle of a national tragedy?
I wasn’t hungry anymore, but since I didn’t know what else to do, I stayed in the coffee shop, soaking in other people’s reactions. Waitresses moved like zombies, no one knowing what was happening or why. Rumors flew around the room. It must be terrorists. Such a thing couldn’t be an accident. Were we in danger? What if someone attacked Boston? More planes were missing, someone said, and they were headed for the state capitals.
The place slowly filled with people, everyone in a similar state of shock. People who were afraid to get on the T in case terrorists struck again. Meanwhile, horror continued to unfold on the screen. We were powerless to tear our gazes away from it. I should go home and hug my wife, tell her what I did, apologize. She’d be so happy I wasn’t in the air, nothing else would matter. Until I told her why I’d run away.
Nearly three hours later, indecision still glued me to my seat when the newscasters released information about the four hijacked planes: American Airlines, Flight 11. American Airlines, Flight 77. United Airlines, Flight 93. United Airlines, Flight 175.
My flight.
Chapter 2
Shock waves racked my body, causing me to double over. Tears streamed down my face, beneath the collar of my shirt. I couldn’t breathe. I choked, clawing at the top button until it popped open.
The woman in the seat beside me at the airport, dead. The flight attendant chatting with the gate attendant before going to prepare the plane, dead. The cute kids in the corner, dead. Everyone on the plane plunged into the south tower, their lives extinguished in an instant. Everyone except me.
Dan. Holy fuck, I killed Dan. He never would’ve been on the plane if it weren’t for me. His death was my fault. Despair overwhelmed me.
I should be dead. Brett Cooper was supposed to be on Flight 175, sitting in seat 23A. Brett Cooper is dead. I’m dead.
With a gasp, I shoved myself away from the counter, dropping a twenty into the soggy mess that used to be my eggs. In a daze, I wheeled my suitcase to the attached hotel, plunked cash on the counter, then asked for a room. Mechanically, I followed the clerk’s instructions to the elevator, stepped off at the third floor, and staggered down the hall. Finally, I dropped onto the bed and allowed CNN to fill my brain with information.
A couple of hours later, I turned it off, unable to watch anymore. My entire body shook. My thoughts whirled.
Jess wrote down my flight information. I should’ve been on the flight. The only person in the world who knew I didn’t board that plane was dead. Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of how easily I could’ve been among them.
The media would release passenger lists from all of those flights. My name would be on one of those lists. I’d checked in for the flight, shown my driver’s license. Dan only showed my boarding pass—no one checked ID at the gate. My parents and brother would see my name, think I was dead. They’d never learn the truth about me.
As soon as she verified the flight number, Jess would think I died on that plane. She’d call my parents, and she would grieve. My parents and Brad would comfort each other; they’d be fine. One day, Jess would move on. She’d find someone more open, less
conflicted. Calling her now, telling her I was okay, felt like the most selfish thing I could possibly do. She was so much better off without me. They all were.
Our marriage could never last, but if I went home, we’d try. I’d pretend nothing was wrong, we’d even have kids to see if that helped fill the void inside me. What was worse: the pain of losing me now, in a heartbeat, or the pain of losing me slowly over the next twenty-five years? She deserved to be free, to find someone who was free to love her. Jess’s future children deserved a better father. I couldn’t love a family when I didn’t know how to love myself.
For weeks before the interview, I was tense. I’d thought being married would make me feel like I fit in, like I was the man my brother Brad always told me to be. I wanted to be what Jess needed, but my unease with myself—with my body—kept growing. Faking contentment it didn’t help. Starting over somewhere new might be the answer, but deep inside, I doubted it.
As we’d driven up I-93 to Logan airport, Jess had remained quiet, lost in her thoughts. Part of me wondered what she was thinking, if she realized our marriage was wrong, if she ever noticed I was wrong. But mostly I’d wondered what would happen if I got on the plane, got off in Los Angeles, headed for Mexico, and never turned back. She’d be better off without me.
Jess wasn’t happy. She pretended things were good, and I knew she wanted to make it work, but her posture told me she sensed my weirdness. She didn’t understand it, but she reflected it back at me, anyway. Things kept getting more awkward.
She deserved better.
She’d snuck a glance at me, which I saw reflected in the passenger’s side window. I waited. If she had something to say, we had another five miles for her to get around to telling me.
“I got a letter from UCLA’s School of Medicine yesterday,” she said finally.
“Oh, yeah?” My heart sank, although I tried to sound excited for her.
I didn’t want to move to Los Angeles, didn’t want to live in the land of perfect beach bodies, glowing tans, and tofu. I also didn’t have the slightest idea how to tell my wife that I had been hoping not to get the very job I’d been about to fly out to interview for. But if she got into medical school, everything changed. It would be much more difficult to stall and avoid the move without pissing her off. I might have to make a decision I’d been terrified to make.
“Yeah. I’m in!”
“That’s amazing, Jess! I knew you’d do it!” Although a pit was growing in my stomach, I grasped on a tiny strand of hope. “What about the financial aid package?”
Jess furrowed her brow, attention suddenly very intent upon the road. “They offered me a small scholarship.”
“How small?”
“The cost of living is lower in Los
Angeles—”
“—than in New York City and Boston and San Francisco and virtually nowhere else in the United States. We’ve been over this. How much, Jess?”
Jess cleared her throat. “Five thousand a year.”
“That’s it?”
“We may qualify for low-cost student housing, but otherwise, yeah. That’s it.”
What a shitty financial aid package. Okay, we wouldn’t have to move. A wave of relief hit me before I realized it made me a total ass for being glad we couldn’t live out my wife’s dream. Maybe I should encourage her to go without me. She’d be happier in the long run.
“That’s less than Boston University offered. And if we stay in Boston, I have a job and we have a place to live and we have friends and—”
“We’re buried in snow every winter and we forget what the sun looks like and, God, I’m sick of having this same conversation. I want to move to L.A., Brett. Whether you get the job or not. I want to go to UCLA and get an M.D. and get a change of scenery at the same time. We’ll figure everything else out once we get there.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I focused on the city skyline drawing near, my gaze planted on the window as we curved down the ramp connecting I-93 to the Mass Pike. What if I told her how I felt? Would it make anything better?
“Please say something,” Jess had said.
No, it wouldn’t.
The car entered the Ted Williams Tunnel. We’d be at the airport in less than ten minutes. I didn’t want to leave for three days after telling her how scared I was that our fledgling marriage might be over already. Or telling her how messed up I was.
When I got back, I’d make an appointment with a therapist and find a way to work everything out. It was the only solution. Otherwise, this awkwardness between us would continue to grow until one of us snapped.
“I’m sorry, Jess. Just nervous about making the flight. We left the house late, and I’ve never flown before.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said for the four hundredth time. “I’ve been having trouble getting out of bed in the mornings.”
“It’s not you. It’s fine. It’s hard for me to make life-changing decisions when I’m afraid I won’t even make it onto the plane. I don’t know what I want. But I don’t think racking up a ton of debt is the best way to start married life, do you?”
“Do you think being poor and miserable is the best way to start married life? Working at a crap nine-to-five job knowing I’ll never make anything of myself?”
The car pulled off the highway, so I didn’t answer while she maneuvered through the cloverleaf making up the airport, other than to point at the exit for my terminal.
Jess took a deep breath. She sounded much less pissed when she spoke again. “One thing at a time, okay? I’ll look into grants and scholarships while you’re gone. This job is a huge jump for you. If you get it, that’ll make our decision much easier. Let’s see what happens.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said dully. “Let’s wait and see.”
My flight took off in less than an hour. Getting to my gate in time wasn’t guaranteed if the security lane got backed up.
“Do you want me to park and walk you to the gate?”
The last thing I needed was to argue about our future while waiting to board. “No, I’m fine. I’ll see you when I get home. Pull in over here and I’ll jump out.”
Before she shifted into park at the curb, my door flew open. I jumped out of the car, hoping it looked like I was worried about being late and not trying to escape our conversation. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, then leaned through the front driver’s window to kiss her cheek, almost as an afterthought.
I started to walk away, well aware that she held her head rigid, didn’t turn to let me kiss her lips. She must be really angry. Poor Jess. She deserved better.
“Brett!” she called. I stopped and turned around. “I love you!”
“I love you, too, Jess!”
I blew her a kiss, turned, and disappeared into the crowd. If I’d known I would never see her again, I’d have stood watching until she drove out of sight.
As terrible a tragedy as the crash was for the rest of the world, for me, a golden opportunity presented itself. This was my chance to start a new life, without hurting Jess any more than absolutely necessary. My wallet held cash for the trip, not a ton, but some. I could walk away. Jess could be free. I could be free.
∞ ♡ ∞
A couple of hours later, I made myself get up and leave the hotel. Nearby, I found a consignment shop where a forty-year-old woman with blood-red nails and a black bob stood behind the counter. She offered me a hundred bucks cash for all three suits in my suitcase.
“That’s it?” I asked.
She rifled through them a second time. “If you wanted to leave them here until they sold, you could probably get more, but you said you need the cash now.”
My eyes met hers in a silent plea. Mascara caked her lashes, muddying, rather than enhancing, her hazel eyes. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the make-up tip, though.
“Okay, fine,” she relented. “I’ll give ya fifty cash and a hundred in trade if you throw in the suit you’re wearing. Plus another fifty for the suitcase.”
The carry-on sized roller bag I’d packed to take on the plane served no purpose in my new life. Jess’s parents bought us this gorgeous leather set for a wedding present. Intact, the whole set must’ve cost them a couple grand. At the time, it was a much better gift than the life insurance policy my parents gave us. But I didn’t need the reminder of my old life, and I no longer owned enough clothes to fill it.
The woman coughed, derailing my train of thought. “It’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
I rolled the bag around the counter, handle pointed toward her. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”
An hour later, I wove through a sea of pedestrians on the sidewalk, carrying a slightly-worn red backpack full of jeans and T-shirts and wearing a brand-new fake Boston Red Sox cap bought for ten bucks from a street vendor, pulled low over my now beardless face. The extra cash in my wallet added a spring to my step.
Someone shoved a microphone under my nose. “Sir, what do you think about today’s shocking terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center?”
Behind a fake-tanned, overly-made up woman with perfect hair stood a man holding a camera displaying a solid red light. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Oh no. I couldn’t afford to get caught on video while fleeing from my old life.
I pulled the cap lower over my face and planted my gaze firmly on the sidewalk. “No comment,” I mumbled before I took off into the crowd.
Block after block passed in a blur before I stopped to catch my breath. I had no way of knowing how much time passed. What if they used the footage? What if Jess saw it? Would she recognize me?
Something in the backpack dug into my hip as I walked. I welcomed the pain, the chance to feel something for the first time in days.
It was time to come up with a long-term plan. Staying here forever wasn’t an option. Too expensive, too close to home, too much chance I’d run into someone who knew me or Jess.
Finding Tranquility Page 2