“That’s okay,” I say, because there’s only one of me.
“It’s a standard transmission.”
“What does that mean?”
“A stick shift.”
“I can’t drive a stick-shift car. I can barely drive a regular car. My boyfriend was in the South Tower and I’m driving there to look for him.” This means I will have to find another car-rental place and start over. I sit down right there on the floor, because my legs feel wobbly, and the Hertz man leans over the counter and looks down at me. “Miss?”
“I’ll switch with you,” the man who had been in front of me in line says. After he received his car keys he stayed to make a call on his cell and I guess he’s overheard our conversation. “I can drive a stick. You can have mine.”
Impulsively, I throw my arms around him. He does not recoil or go rigid the way I would if a stranger ever did that to me. He briefly returns my embrace, pats my back a couple of times, and says, “Be careful out there. I hope you find him. Godspeed.”
* * *
I leave Chicago a little after one o’clock and head east on I-90 to begin the twelve-hour drive to Hoboken. For the most part, I’ll stay on I-90 or I-80. I don’t mind driving on the interstate. I’m getting passed a lot, but I stay in the right lane and keep going. I don’t even mind when I come to the first toll, because I know how they work and made sure I had plenty of dollars and coins on hand before I left. The only time I get nervous is when another car is trying to merge onto the road. Two people have honked at me because there was a car to my left and I couldn’t get over in time, but nobody crashed or anything. Depending on how many stops I make, I will be in Hoboken sometime tomorrow afternoon. My mom made me a hotel reservation in Pennsylvania, where I’ll spend the night. If I weren’t leaving so late in the day, I would try to drive straight through, because I am doing something and I feel energized by that, but my parents had a fit when I mentioned it, and they made me promise to stop at the hotel and call them when I get there.
* * *
I’m not as confident driving in the dark. It’s also raining a little, and that puts a weird glare on things. I’m only going forty-five now. I’ve needed to pee for about ten miles, and as much as I’d like to avoid the whole pulling-off-the-interstate thing, I have no choice. There’s an exit up ahead, so I put on my blinker.
At the end of the ramp, a man is sitting by the side of the road. He’s wearing a jacket with the hood up, but he’s not holding a sign asking for food or money. When the car in front of me stops, the man shuffles to the driver’s-side door so he can accept whatever the driver is offering. It’s then that I realize that there are legs wrapped around the man’s waist, and that he’s shielding a child with his coat.
The light turns green and I follow the car ahead of me through the intersection and down the street to the gas station. I still have half a tank, but since I’m here I decide to fill up. As I wait for the pump to shut off, I think about the man and child. Why are they out in the rain? What happened to their car? Where will they spend the night? They must be cold. I fidget like crazy, because I should have peed before worrying about the gas.
I finally put the cap back on the gas tank and run inside to the bathroom. I’m not paying as much attention as I should, because I can’t stop thinking of the man and child, and when I stand up to zip my pants, my phone flips out of my pocket and falls into the toilet. I’m not sure if it’s ruined, but I imagine how it will feel to reach in and pluck it out of the dirty gas station toilet bowl.
I can’t do it, so I leave it there.
* * *
I’m still thinking about the man and the child two miles down the road. There have been horrible stories in the news about all the bad things the terrorists caused, but there have also been stories about people coming together to help other people. People inviting strangers into their homes in New York to shelter them, feed them. Give them clothes and shoes. I want to be a part of this. I want to show I can help people, too.
If I give this man and child a ride, it will probably be one of the few good things that’s happened to them today, so at the next exit, I pull off and turn around to go get them.
The man doesn’t really want to get into my car. He tells me that the last person who gave them a ride made them get out when the little boy threw up. “I don’t think he’s got anything left in him, but I can’t be sure,” he says.
I say I don’t mind even though I will certainly have trouble with the smell if it happens again. They’re on their way to stay with the man’s aunt in Allentown so he can look for work and she can watch the child. Their car broke down a few miles back and he has no money to fix it.
“I’m on my way to Hoboken. My best friend and I are going to look for my boyfriend who was in the South Tower on Tuesday. He’s missing. I have a hotel reservation just across the Ohio-Pennsylvania border. That’s as far as I’m going tonight.”
“Your boyfriend was in one of the towers?”
“Yes, but he got out okay because his name is on a list. I just have to find him because he hasn’t called.”
“I … I’m sure you’ll find him. I can call my aunt and have her pick us up at the hotel. We just need to get out of the rain tonight.”
His name is Ray and the little boy is Henry. He looks feverish and pale as we strap him into the backseat.
“I had to leave his booster seat on the side of the road. Henry couldn’t walk anymore and I couldn’t carry everything. I sure hated to leave it behind.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I say, although I have no idea what the rules are about this kind of thing and had no idea Henry even needed a special seat.
Ray doesn’t look like a serial killer or anything. I caught a glimpse of his face when the door was open and the interior light came on. He looks close to my age or maybe a few years younger. I’m not good at guessing that kind of thing. He has a scar on his chin. It’s so hard to know what a person is like by looking at them. People are either kind or they’re not. Some people look shiny on the outside but are rotten to the core. Some people pretend to be kind, but they’re only faking it. Janice and Jonathan taught me a lot of things, but I don’t think there’s any way to truly know whether someone is kind until you put your trust in them and show them kindness of your own.
“You’re gonna be okay, buddy,” Ray says to Henry. “You’ll be warm now.”
“I’m thirsty, Daddy.” He closes his eyes. Maybe he’ll sleep. I wish I had something for him to drink, but I don’t.
Ray doesn’t comment on my jerky acceleration or the fact that I consistently drive five miles under the speed limit. We travel in companionable silence. Even if I enjoyed small talk, I’d have trouble keeping up a conversation. I have to concentrate on the road and the fact that I’m now responsible for the safety of two more people.
From the backseat, Henry begins to whimper. Maybe there’s something left in his stomach after all. Ray turns around. “Do you think you’re going to throw up?”
“I’m thirsty, Daddy,” Henry says again. “I want some juice.”
“Shh,” Ray says.
“I can stop.”
“I don’t have any way to pay for it. I gave the last of my cash to the other driver that stopped for us. I wouldn’t have if I’d known they were going to make us get out.”
“Don’t worry. I have plenty of money.”
I get off at the next exit and pull into a gas station. It occurs to me as I walk down the aisles placing crackers and apple juice and water in my basket that it was wise of me not to give Ray my cash or credit card and let him be the one to go inside. What if he didn’t want to give it back when he came out? What if he told me he would and when we got to the hotel he pretended he’d forgotten? But maybe I shouldn’t have left them in the car, because what if he takes off with it? I push those thoughts away and pay for the groceries and when I come back out, there they are, right where I left them.
Ray gives Henry a few sips of wate
r and when it doesn’t come back up immediately, he gives him a little more. Henry wants to drink it all down because he says it tastes so good. Ray doesn’t want to try the juice yet, but he gives Henry one of the saltines to nibble on.
“Would you like me to drive?” Ray asks.
“Do you want to drive?”
“Yes, but only if it’s okay with you.”
“Sure.” I climb into the backseat and as Ray drives us down the dark interstate, I recite for Henry the play I’m currently writing, the one about the blue duck who knows he could be a good friend to the yellow ducks if they’d only give him a chance. Henry takes sips of the water I offer and eats another cracker. I sneak him some of the juice, because I can’t say no to him when he asks. He does not throw up, which is good, because if he does, there’s a one hundred percent chance I will, too. I’ll feel bad about it, but I won’t be able to help it.
We cross the state line into Pennsylvania at midnight. I read off the directions for Ray so he can find the hotel, and we pull into the parking lot. Ray lifts a sleeping Henry from the backseat. “His forehead’s cool,” Ray says.
They have another available room, so I slide my credit card across the counter and tell the man we’ll take it. Ray doesn’t protest. Instead he says, “Thank you,” in a voice so soft I can barely hear him. He probably doesn’t want to wake Henry.
“I’ll call my aunt and let her know where she can pick us up,” Ray says when we get off the elevator on our floor.
“Okay.” I’m beyond exhausted and I’ve reached my limit for interacting with people today. It has been a good distraction from worrying about Jonathan, but I’m fading fast. I slide my key card into the door of my room and go inside, leaving Ray and Henry in the hallway.
My parents say they have never been so happy to hear from me. They’ve been calling my cell phone for hours, and I tell them it’s at the bottom of a gas station toilet. Then I tell my mom about Ray and Henry, and all she says after that is “Oh my God,” over and over.
“It’s okay. Henry is fine now. He didn’t throw up again and Ray said his fever was gone.”
“You can’t take risks like that.”
“Everything turned out fine.” My mom probably thinks she was right and I’m not capable of making a trip like this on my own without someone to guide me and keep me safe. But someday they’ll be gone, and I’ll have to live my life without their guidance. Maybe without Jonathan’s, although that thought fills me with immeasurable pain and sadness. This road trip isn’t my first or only attempt at independence, but it’s an important step toward laying down a foundation for the years to come. And I’m not so dense that I don’t know that most people are younger than thirty-two when they achieve it.
I’ve lagged behind everyone my whole life, so why would my adulthood be any different?
“I spoke to Janice. She’s been frantic with worry because she couldn’t reach you on your cell phone. I’ll call her and let her know you’re okay. Do you know what time you’ll reach Hoboken?”
“I’m going to leave here by nine. Tell her I’ll call her right before I get back on the road.”
“Okay.” My mom sounds really tired.
“I need to go to bed,” I say.
“I’m so happy you’re safe. Don’t pick up anyone else. Please be careful and call me the minute you arrive at Janice’s.”
“I will. Bye.”
There’s a knock at the door, and when I open it, Ray is standing there, alone. “Henry’s asleep. I locked the door in case he wakes up and tries to leave.”
I’m not sure what this means. Am I supposed to invite him in? I don’t want to. I’m too tired.
“I just wanted to thank you.”
“Oh. You’re welcome.”
“Annika. Listen to me. Don’t pick up anyone else, okay? You have a wonderful heart and your kindness astounds me. But what you did was very dangerous and there are people in this world who would not have cared about your safety.”
“I know that.” I mean, I know that now.
“Could I have your address? I’ll pay you back when I get on my feet.”
I tear a page from the notepad on the dresser and write it down for him.
He takes the piece of paper, folds it, and puts it in his pocket. “I better get back to Henry. I hope you find your boyfriend. No one deserves a miracle more than you.”
41
Annika
SEPTEMBER 14, 2001
I leave the hotel an hour later than I planned, because I was so exhausted I somehow shut off the alarm and fell back asleep, although I have no memory of it.
It’s hard to follow the MapQuest directions, because I don’t want to take my eyes off the road and Janice’s urban neighborhood has a lot of streets. She’s waiting for me in the driveway when I pull in, Natalia on her hip.
“Thank God,” she says when I get out of the car.
“I did it,” I say. “No one thought I could, but here I am.”
Janice squeezes me tight and says, “Yes. Here you are.”
* * *
Clay and Natalia accompany us as far as they can, and then Janice and I head toward lower Manhattan on foot. Clay made us take surgical masks, and as we draw as close to Ground Zero as they’ll let us, which isn’t really close at all, I finally understand why. The smell of acrid smoke is overpowering, and ash fills the air like we’re walking around near some kind of smoldering urban volcano. It coats our skin and hair, and I cough uncontrollably. Soldiers stand on corners with assault rifles slung over their shoulders. There are shrines and missing-person posters. We make the rounds of the hospitals closest to the World Trade Center, but we don’t find Jonathan and I blink back tears because I’ve made it too far to just give up now.
We go uptown, to the hotel where Jonathan’s company has set up an emergency center in the grand ballroom on the second floor. No one is wearing a tuxedo or fancy gown, but there are bottles of water and soft drinks in buckets on buffet tables; waiters circulate with trays of sandwiches no one wants. The round tables for eight are all numbered, and it takes me a moment to realize these are the floor numbers where the missing had been seen last.
“Do you know what floor he was on?” Janice asks.
“No.” We pick a table at random and introduce ourselves to the people standing next to it. We share what we know, which isn’t much, and in return we receive snippets of information, most of it things we already know: They tried to leave the building. They went down, were forced back up. A man from New Hampshire draws a diagram for us on a paper napkin showing the possible routes they could have taken. “If someone is strong, they could have survived if they made it low enough. We can’t give up hope.”
The people in this room are wearing the same clothes they’ve worn for days and many of them have shadows under their eyes. Jonathan’s company has lost approximately seven hundred of its employees. We are just two out of hundreds, all despondent and desperate for information.
A long table near the front of the room holds information packets. There are phone numbers for surrounding hospitals, and we check them against the list Janice typed up, making sure that we’ve been to them all. We stand in line to fill out a missing-person report; it’s eight pages thick. Unfortunately, Jonathan has very few unique identification markers. No tattoos, piercings, or facial hair that will separate him from all the other dark-haired, blue-eyed clean-shaven men who shared his fate. He does have a scar on his knee from a torn ACL he suffered during his sophomore year of college when he went skiing, but it’s a common injury and is hardly worth mentioning. I list it anyway.
On the walls, people are putting up pieces of paper with pictures of their loved ones and their names and details. Janice made one for Jonathan with her computer using a photo I brought, and we tack it up with pushpins we take from a box on the floor. There are so many pictures, and I feel compelled to look at each one and read the information.
Someone lays a hand on my arm, and I flinch. “I’m
sorry,” she says. The middle-aged woman wears a name tag that says Eileen. “I’m a grief counselor if you’d like to talk.”
“I don’t need a grief counselor,” I say, because I don’t. “That’s for people whose loved ones have died.”
She pats my arm again and drifts toward a sobbing couple standing a few feet to my right.
A man steps up to the podium near the front of the room. “Please, if you haven’t filled out a missing-person report, you need to do that now.”
The crowd murmurs their assent, but then angry voices overpower them. “Why isn’t the company trying harder to rescue the survivors?” a woman yells from somewhere in the middle. “Bring in experts. People trained to comb through the rubble.”
“We are a financial services company. We are not in the business of search and rescue,” the man says.
“But the company has considerable financial assets at their disposal. Why aren’t they using them to help the people who made all this money for the company?”
The crowd erupts into shouting and the man leaves the podium. No one knows what to do after that, including Janice and me, so we do the only thing we can.
We pray, we talk, and we listen, and for as beneficial as that is, I can’t help but feel that we’re wasting precious time.
42
Annika
SEPTEMBER 15, 2001
We return to the ballroom at the hotel early the next morning, because we don’t know where else to go. Shortly after ten, as Janice and I sip Styrofoam cups of lukewarm tea, a man steps up to the podium and introduces himself as the head of the company. Then he announces that they’re no longer looking for survivors. Four days after the attack, hopes are waning that anyone else will be pulled from the rubble alive, but hearing someone say it out loud causes a swift and heartbreaking reaction from the crowd. The keening sobs and cries of despair drown out whatever the man is still trying to say. Janice puts her arm around me and holds me upright, as if she’s afraid my knees will buckle, but they don’t, because I don’t believe what this man is saying. It may be true for some employees, but not Jonathan.
The Girl He Used to Know Page 22