by Freya Barker
From the moment I unlock the door at seven o’clock, the place is busy. I’ve had to warm up my own coffee twice already, and never manage more than a quick sip, hoping it’ll tide me over until I can shove something in my face.
It was even a struggle to be patient with poor Mrs. Chapman who, as usual, took her sweet time with the menu, despite it showing the same things as last week. The widow comes in like clockwork on Saturday mornings. Her one weekly indulgence, she once told me. She turns it into this big production, pretends she’s at a fancy restaurant, even dresses up for it, and we usually play along.
“Thank you, Robin,” she says, smiling when I put the wineglass with tap water and a slice of lime by her plate. It’s little things like that—the linen placemat and napkin Kim keeps just for her, the cup and saucer for her coffee instead of our normal mugs, the fancy plating of her simple food—which make this weekly visit of hers special.
“My pleasure. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you. This is perfect.”
With a nod I head for the counter, where I grab a coffeepot to offer refills to some of the tables. In the far corner, by the window, I spot one of our regular patrons with a few of his buddies. Tank occasionally comes in by himself during the week—he owns a business in town—but on weekends during the summer he often shows up with some of his biker friends to grab a bite before they ride. I glance out the window where their gleaming bikes are lined up in the parking lot.
It always gives me a secret little thrill to imagine being on the back of one of those. I’ve never actually been on a bike, but have fantasized plenty.
“Hey, Robin.”
“Morning. What can I get you today?” After flipping over their mugs and filling them, I set down the coffeepot, and slip my pad and pen from my apron.
I take down their orders and am about to drop them off at the kitchen, when a hand grabs me by the wrist.
“Is today the day I can convince you to hop on for a ride?”
I grin down in the rugged but friendly face.
“Sorry, Tank. I value my life too much,” I joke, and the other guys chuckle. “Besides, we’re shorthanded today.”
He slaps his hand to his chest dramatically.
“You wound me, Robin. I swear I’d keep you safe.”
“I’m sure you’ll live,” I tease.
I dismiss the tingle of excitement I feel every time he asks me, wondering briefly if I’ll ever work up the courage to say yes. Instead I wink, grab my coffeepot, and head to the kitchen.
I’m pretty sure a ride on the back of Tank’s bike comes with some consequences and—nice enough guy as he is—I don’t think that would be wise.
It’s safer to stick with my fantasies.
Chapter Two
Gray
“Are you okay?”
I glance up to find a friendly flight attendant leaning over the empty seat beside me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
My hands are gripping the armrests so tightly my knuckles are white. I force myself to relax them. To my relief she just smiles and nods before moving down the aisle.
It’s not so much the flying as it is being cooped up in a relatively small cylinder with wings that has the spit drying up in my mouth. Aside from the wings part, it feels confining in here. No escape. I consciously steady my breathing before I pass out from hyperventilation.
The only good thing about traveling is no one knows me. They have no idea they’re looking at an ex-convict, which is something I can’t say for the few people I’ve been exposed to at home. I’m still keeping as low a profile as I can, even after two months back. At the shop I’ve become a little more relaxed, but I still do my groceries late at night to avoid more than the occasional late shopper.
I was lucky to be able to keep up my skills while incarcerated. Being a licensed mechanic gave me an advantage to get into the automotive program as a mentor, while staying up-to-date with changes in the industry. As a result, I feel I can carry my weight at the shop and am even working with the few apprentices Jimmy took on.
He claims business has been up since I started. I’m pretty sure he says it to make me feel better for accepting his help, but it doesn’t make me any less grateful to him.
Jimmy is also the one who pushed for me to make this trip when anxiety had me threaten to back out. I might have cowered in the small apartment above the garage, but he told me—in no uncertain terms—I wouldn’t be able to get on with my future if I didn’t get real with my past.
That’s why I willingly let myself be locked up with a large number of strangers in this flying tuna can—to get real with my past.
The sun is just coming up outside the small window as the engines suddenly roar, driving the plane down the runway. I can feel the exact moment we lose touch with the ground, our path suddenly smooth as I see the earth fall away below us. I realize I’m holding my breath.
I’ve only flown once before, when I was young and invincible. Jimmy and I took off to Mexico for one of those all-inclusive deals. I can’t remember much, just that there was a lot of booze and pussy involved.
This time I know all too well how fragile life is, especially at the mercy of an airplane.
There also won’t be any booze or pussy this trip. I’ll only be away for one night, which already costs a sweet penny; I had no fucking clue how expensive things have gotten. Tomorrow I get to do this again to get back home.
“Would you like something to drink?”
I glance up to find the flight attendant back, this time with a cart.
“Water, please.”
“Headphones?”
She motions to the monitor in the back of the seat in front of me.
“No thanks.”
“You need anything else, you just let me know, okay?”
I’m not an idiot, even if I were blind and wasn’t able to recognize the come-on in her eyes, I’d still be able to hear the invitation in her voice. But I’m not interested.
I fucked my way through my twenties pretty indiscriminately, but I have no interest in picking up where I left off. I have become quite familiar with my hand these past two decades. He and I get along fine. For now.
Instead of watching something stupid on that tiny little screen in front of me, I pull out the phone Jimmy made me buy. An iPhone X, whatever the hell that means. I had a flip phone when I went in, but those don’t work anymore, apparently. So now I have this sleek looking thing that doesn’t even have fucking buttons.
Kyle showed me how to work it. He even downloaded something so I could play Sudoku on it. I got pretty good at those inside. It’s a great way to kill time, I’ve discovered. So great, I don’t even notice an hour and a half has passed, when the pilot announces over the intercom we’ve started our descent and the seat belt light dings on again.
Instead of joining the slow-moving throng for the exit, I stay in my seat until the aisle is free before grabbing my overnight bag from the bin.
“Thank you,” I mumble at the flight attendant, who tries to grab my hand, but I’m too adept at avoiding physical contact and am already out the door. A quick glance over my shoulder shows her crouching down to pick up a piece of paper I’m pretty sure holds her phone number.
Without any baggage to collect, I make my way to the exit, flinching at the smells, sounds, and crowds. I flag down a taxi, and give the driver the address to the hotel.
It’s only seven fifteen in the morning and already I feel like I traveled to a completely different world.
The clerk at the hotel desk tells me it’s too early to check in, but I can leave my bag with the concierge to pick up later, which I do. Then I walk out into the street, following the directions I printed out in Jimmy’s office at the back of the shop.
There’s already a substantial crowd gathering around the monument. For a moment I contemplate heading back to the hotel, but I came here with a purpose. I owe Reagan a proper goodbye.
I make my way through
bodies to the edge of the first of the twin basins, cascading into the void left behind by the buildings that once stood here. I’d seen pictures of the memorial left in their place and know somewhere on the bronze parapet, lining the north pool, the name Reagan Bennet would be engraved.
Eighteen years too late, but I’m finally here to claim my sister.
Robin
“What are you doing up so early?”
Shit. I’d hoped to slip out and leave her a note.
Mom walks into the sitting room of the small two-bedroom suite I booked when she told me she was coming. Paige has a tiny spare bedroom that only fits a twin bed, so instead we’re in a hotel only a block away from her place.
“I was just going to head out for a bit, Mom.”
We arrived here the day before yesterday and had a chance to spend some quality time with Paige, who had to work today. My plan had been to grab a taxi downtown, just a twenty-minute ride from the hotel, and then come back here to take Mom out for lunch. Tonight Paige is supposed to join us for dinner and to see the Tribute in Light.
“You’re going there, aren’t you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Do you mind?”
“No, sweetheart. I understand you need some time by yourself. I have no intention of interfering in that. I’m happy to putz around here, maybe read a bit, until you come back.”
I walk up to her and wrap her in a hug.
“Thanks, Mom. We’ll grab a late lunch when I come back, okay? Maybe try out that Caribbean place down the street? They have a nice outdoor patio and it’s supposed to be a clear, sunny day.”
“That sounds wonderful. Be careful out there.”
I press a kiss to her cheek and throw her a smile before exiting the room.
Half an hour and forty bucks later, I’m let off at the curb and climb up the steps to the memorial. They’ve already started with the reading of the names and I find a spot sitting on the edge of a planter where I can listen. It’s a long process—a lot of names—and as much as I ache for those grieving around me, I can’t help closing my eyes and blowing out a deep breath when I hear the name I’ve been waiting for.
It’s the same every year, the pain of loss so thick around me a good reminder how fragile we are. Yet with each return to this place, I feel more blessed.
“It never gets easier, does it?” A woman around my age takes a seat beside me on the ledge. I don’t have the heart to disagree with her.
“It doesn’t.”
“Do you come every year?”
“Since they finished the memorial, yes,” I inform her.
“Me too. Powerful, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Your husband?” she asks.
“Yes. And you?”
“Me too. Firefighter.”
“My husband was here for a meeting.”
We share the details quite matter-of-factly, nodding at each other in acknowledgment. Something brings each of us back year after year, but I doubt our motivations are the same.
“Do you have children?” I ask, curious.
The woman smiles.
“Two boys and a girl. It was the boys’ father who died, I had my daughter with my current husband.” She tilts her head slightly. “What about you?”
“We had a daughter together. No other kids.”
“Did you remarry?”
Under any other circumstances these questions would be too personal for such a casual meeting, but somehow it doesn’t feel that way here.
“I never did.”
For some reason that makes me tear up, and the woman—whose name I don’t even know—briefly squeezes my hand. Little does she know, my emotions have little to do with the loss of the man who was my husband. I grieve for the years I allowed him to take from me long after he was gone.
That’s why I come here. To remind myself I’m still here, still breathing, still very much alive.
“Are you ready?” A handsome man I would guess to be quite a bit older ambles up, putting a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“I am,” she responds, getting to her feet. Then she swivels back to face me. “Good luck,” she says simply.
“Same to you.”
With a smile and a nod, she links her arm with the man’s and strides off.
I stay seated, waiting for the crowd to thin a little before I get up and amble to the edge of the north pool, where I know his name is engraved for eternity. I run my fingers along his name.
Then I lift my face into the sun and spread my arms, embracing the warmth it radiates.
The taste of freedom fills my senses and I feel a smile form on my lips.
When I take a last deep breath, before finally taking stock of my surroundings, I notice a handful of people trying not to stare. I turn a kind smile on them and navigate my way through the passage between the pools, to get to the other side, where I can grab a cab.
Someone in front of me suddenly steps aside and I almost run right into a man coming in the opposite direction. Strong hands grab me by the shoulders when I stumble and I lift my gaze up.
I notice his pale blue eyes first. They’re focused on mine, studying me with a deep frown between them.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his voice rough.
“My fault, I wasn’t paying attention,” I quickly respond, taking a step back.
I can’t help taking in all that is him. From the gray hair sticking up like he’s just run his hand through it to the firm mouth framed by a short, somewhat unkempt gray beard. A black leather jacket covers a white T-shirt over a pair of worn jeans.
I realize I’m ogling him, but he appears to be doing the same to me. I don’t look nearly as appealing as he does. Comfort was the name of my game this morning getting ready, so my hair is air-dried, I’m without makeup, and I’m wearing slouchy camo pants, white tennis shoes, and a white, long-sleeved shirt covered with my red, down vest.
I didn’t expect to be scrutinized the way this man is doing in this awkward standoff.
“I’m—” I start, but before I can lift my hand to introduce myself, he suddenly darts around me.
I pivot just to see him stalking off, ducking between bodies before he disappears into the crowd.
Weird.
Chapter Three
Gray
I’m not sure what first drew my eyes to her.
My fingers had just found the name I’d been looking for and traced them letter by letter, until I could feel my hardened heart crack and bleed all over what is left of my sister. The fist around my chest so tight I didn’t think I could ever find my next breath. The somber atmosphere, the air heavy with grief, the drawn faces around me…and her.
With her head thrown back she appeared to be worshiping the sun, her pose almost sacrilegious. In contrast to those around her, this woman looked unburdened.
My feet started moving on their own accord, until I literally ran into her.
I shake my head, clearing the memories of earlier today. For those few moments I forgot who I was. Idiot. I force myself not to scan the crowd for a glimpse of red, or that untamed mane of hair, and instead look up where two columns of light pierce the dark sky.
The chili dog I bought from a street vendor earlier is starting to burn a hole in my gut as I make my way back to the hotel. I’m wiped. Up at the crack of dawn this morning to get here, and overwhelmed by the crowds and the surprisingly raw emotions, this has been a long fucking day.
I spent hours in the museum this afternoon, touching the twisted columns of steel, staring at the original retaining wall holding back the Hudson River; my sister’s remains forever part of the landscape. I’m not a man of prayer, but I prayed for her there, sitting on a bench in the bowels of what once was the World Trade Center, feeling connected to her in a way that had the hair on my arms stand up.
Now I’m drained. I’ve done what I came here to do and still I know going home tomorrow those ghosts will be right there with me.
9/11 was a b
rutal catalyst for the dark path that followed.
“How may I help you?”
The young man behind the front desk smiles pleasantly when I walk up.
“The concierge has my bag. I arrived too early to check in.”
“Of course, your name, please?”
I give him my name and wait as he goes in search of my stuff, while I scan the luxurious lobby. Marble floors and columns, gleaming copper and shiny oak, and so far removed from what I know it’s not even funny. I can’t imagine sleeping a wink in what I’m sure will be a soft bed surrounded by this level of luxury.
I don’t belong here.
“Can you call me a taxi for Newark airport?” I ask the moment the hotel clerk appears with my bag.
He looks confused at my request.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Weren’t you checking in?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Sir, your room is nonrefundable at this point.”
Almost three hundred dollars for a room I never even set foot in and I don’t give a shit.
“I’m aware of that. It doesn’t matter, I have to go.”
All pretense abandoned, the guy looks at me with mild disgust as he picks up a phone. I listen to him order me a cab and nod my gratitude before walking outside to wait for my ride.
The airport is much quieter than when I arrived this morning. The United employee I spot behind the desk informs me I’m too early to check-in, so I make my way over to a coffee shop in the terminal, buy a bottle of water and look for a place to spend the night. It doesn’t take long to find an empty row of seats. All of them with armrests. Using my bag as a pillow, I lie down on the floor in front and close my eyes.
“Excuse me.”
Startled I shoot up in a sitting position, almost knocking the guard leaning down on his ass.
It takes me a minute to get my bearings. My first thought is I’m back behind bars, the man’s uniform reminiscent of the prison guards. They were never quite so polite waking us up, though. Usually that was accomplished by a sharp rattle on the steel door closing me in. Then my surroundings filter through and I realize I’m at the airport, waiting for my flight.