“Take it easy,” a rotund man behind the table said. “Just take it easy. There’s time for all of you to use the phones, but let’s not trample one another, okay?” He managed to sound kindly rather than condescending and Erica wondered again if every resident of this little Canadian town was required to take Congeniality 101 or something as they grew up. If this many people had invaded her space, she’d be less than polite, she was certain about that.
Abby hadn’t spoken since they’d left the TVs, something Erica found to be odd behavior for somebody who’d never shut up on the plane. She looked shell-shocked, moisture still pooling in her eyes and her face drained of all color. Before Erica could think about what she was doing, she grabbed Abby’s arm and caught her attention.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“My mom. I need to get a hold of my mom. She works in Manhattan.”
“Come with me.” Without letting go of her arm, Erica pulled her away from the throng of people crushing against the telephone table and led her back to the cots. She rifled in her bag, pulled something out, and tugged Abby by the hand to a secluded corner. Once there, with Abby looking at her questioningly, she handed over her cell phone. Only a dozen and a half or so people on the flight had cell phones and they’d been swarmed by others begging to be allowed to use them. Erica had kept hers under wraps. Now, she simply shrugged at Abby’s questioning expression. “I don’t want everybody and their brother hounding me to use it. Call your mother.”
Abby held Erica’s gaze for a long moment before she took the phone from her hand and dialed her mother’s house. When there was no answer, she tried again, her fingers trembling as she tried not to think about why her mother wasn’t answering the phone at this hour.
Erica hung out in front of Abby, trying not to eavesdrop, but not wanting to move too far away and leave her open and visible to everybody in the place.
Abby hung up a third time and muttered, “I’m going to try her office.” Erica simply nodded.
“Hayes. Michelle Hayes.” Abby spelled her last name slowly. The direct line hadn’t worked and she was trying the main switchboard. It took her nearly a dozen frustrated hang-ups before she finally made the desired connection. Erica caught bits and pieces of the conversation, unexpectedly relieved to hear Abby finally talking about where she was and repeating over and over, “I’m okay, Mom. I promise I’m okay.”
On her way to the bathroom, Erica noticed a clock on the wall, round and industrial, like one you’d find in a school cafeteria. 1:17 a.m. She squinted at it, then looked at her watch, which read 11:47 p.m., Eastern Standard Time. She looked up again, then back at her wrist, as if the discrepancy would suddenly explain itself to her foggy brain.
“That one’s right.” The voice was kind, female, softly spoken. Erica turned to see the heavy woman with the graying hair who’d been wandering around the building since they’d arrived—a Gander native, apparently. She was gesturing at the clock on the wall.
“It is?”
“We’re an hour-and-a-half ahead of Eastern Standard Time.”
“You are?” Apparently, I’m so tired I can’t form a sentence longer than two words.
“Yep. People always have a hard time wrapping their brains around it. We’re actually the only area of the world in this time zone.”
“That’s weird.”
The woman laughed, a hearty, deep laugh that made Erica smile despite her weariness. “My name’s Corinne.”
“Erica.” She shook the proffered hand. They spoke quietly, since a good percentage of the people in the building were sleeping fitfully.
“Is there anything you need, Erica? Anything I can get for you?”
Erica looked around the lobby area, where rows of boxes and plastic containers held any kind of toiletry imaginable, along with donated clothing, linens, and food. How about my suitcase from the plane? Can you get me that? No longer concerned about smearing her mascara, she rubbed hard at her eye, her eyelid feeling like low-grit sandpaper. “No, I think everything I need is right here. I’m just going to go try to wash up a bit.”
“Well, help yourself. Towels are in the bathroom. Don’t hesitate to ask if there’s something missing, okay?”
“Thanks, Corinne.” Erica barely stifled a yawn as she took her leave.
“And try to get some rest.”
Under her breath, Erica muttered, “Yeah, fat chance of that happening.” In a huge room with more than a hundred strangers? On a cot? In her suit? Probably not. Snatching up trial size packages of toothpaste, soap, lotion, and a toothbrush, she slipped into the ladies’ room, relieved to find she had it to herself and knowing that wouldn’t last long. Corinne wasn’t kidding; there was a large pile of clean, neatly folded towels on the counter, used ones tossed into a couple of laundry baskets on the opposite wall. Seeing the variety of patterns and colors, Erica realized that these must have been brought from people’s homes, collected by the local volunteers who were still making the rounds in the main part of the club, checking to see who needed what.
Studying her face in the large mirror, she groaned. She looked like hell, her hair doing its best to escape the clip she’d so carefully fastened this morning. Dark circles outlined her eyes and what makeup wasn’t smeared was simply gone. God, what she wouldn’t give for her flannel pants, ratty T-shirt, and falling-apart slippers. And a glass of wine. And a shower. But a glass of wine first. And if only she could take off her freaking bra! She’d looked damn good that morning for her breakfast meeting—which now felt like three days ago—when she’d donned her brand-new, six-hundred-dollar suit, but now she just looked like she’d slept in it. She might as well have. Wrinkles creased the jacket in strange places. The sexy clinginess of the skirt now felt like constriction instead. Her feet, still trapped in the godforsaken pumps, hated her with a passion and if she didn’t get the pantyhose off in the next three minutes, she might very well have to kill somebody.
A middle-aged woman entered the bathroom, followed closely by a college-age girl. Both looked utterly exhausted, each smiling weakly at her reflection in the mirror.
When she finally exited the bathroom, she carried her jacket and pumps and tossed the stockings right into the nearest trash can. Her blouse was untucked from the skirt and her hair was hanging loose; she scratched at her scalp and almost purred. She knew it probably looked awful, but she didn’t care. Padding along in her bare feet, a plastic bin caught her eye and she nearly wept with joy.
Flip-flops.
“Oh, thank god,” she whispered, grabbing a pair of red ones marked with her size, separating them, and slipping them on. They were less than quiet and she tried to stifle their cheerful slapping, but she was so relieved to not be barefoot on public linoleum that she didn’t really care.
A few insomniacs were milling around. Erica kept her eyes down, not up for chitchat. Some looked as wiped out as people who had just finished a marathon but couldn’t now manage to relax. Some seemed utterly lost. Others looked panicked, all darting eyes and jerky movements. Erica put her jacket and shoes neatly on her cot near her computer bag, then glared at it, wishing now that she’d been more practical in what she’d chosen to keep with her on the plane. From here on out, clean underwear would always be in her carry-on. Always.
Abby’s cot was empty, her beaten-up backpack sitting alone. Erica spotted her down the row, in a change of clothes that made Erica narrow her eyes in a moment of envy. She was sitting with the African-American woman, their heads close together, Abby’s arm supportively around the woman’s shoulders. Something about the pose, about the way they were sitting, made Erica’s heart tighten in her chest and without thinking, she grabbed her cell and headed outside.
The night was warm. She’d heard more than one person during the day talk about how unseasonably gorgeous the weather had been, that it was usually quite a bit cooler in the early fall. The sky was clear now, stars visible to the naked eye. The salty smell of the ocean clung to the
air and Erica inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.
On the insides of her eyelids, horrific images repeated: exploding windows and crashing planes and screaming people. She opened her eyes quickly, blinked rapidly to erase the visual, and dialed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Erica! Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been calling your apartment, but you didn’t answer. Did you get my messages?”
“No. No, I didn’t. I’m . . . I’m not home.” The relief she felt at hearing her mother’s voice was so unexpected, it brought tears to her eyes. “My flight was diverted.”
“But you’re okay? You’re sure? Oh, thank goodness. Did you see the news? Oh, isn’t it just awful? What is this world coming to? You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Jim! Jim, it’s Erica. She says she’s fine.”
Erica could hear the muffled sound of her father’s voice in the background, the two of them talking over each other.
The phone changed hands and her father’s gruff voice came on the line. “Erica? Where are you, baby?”
“Believe it or not, I’m in Newfoundland.”
“Newfoundland? You mean in Canada? What the hell are you doing there?”
As she explained, she could almost see her father nodding along, listening intently to her. He’d always been a good listener, even when he was doing something else. He never babbled, not like her mother. He listened and nodded and used his words sparingly. She loved that about him. She pictured him now, in his jeans and flannel shirt even at this late hour, smelling like the outdoors. He would have taken off his baseball hat at this point, his graying red hair shockingly thick; he’d probably been sitting on the open front porch listening to the sounds of the night, sipping from his travel mug of coffee, ever present no matter what the hour.
“It’s the strangest thing,” he said quietly after they’d talked for a few minutes. “There’s not a plane to be seen. I can’t remember ever sitting out here and not being able to pick out at least four of ’em in different parts of the sky. Tonight? Not a one. It’s just eerie.”
His words made Erica lift her face to the sky and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to be there with her parents in Illinois, tucked into her childhood bed, the sound of cicadas chirping outside the window.
“When can you get home?” he asked, pulling her back to him.
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know when they’ll let us fly again.”
He grunted his acknowledgment of that, then asked, “How did things go on the trip?”
“Ugh. Lousy. Apparently, there are too many side effects. It was a big, fat ‘try again,’ just like I knew it would be.”
“Aw, sweetie, I’m sorry about that. Well, you called it.”
He was right, but that wasn’t what she wanted to hear and she still ground her teeth at his words. She was a scientist in the research division of an international pharmaceutical company, heading one of their teams. She’d felt good about the work her group had done. In trying to come up with a drug to prevent migraines, they’d created one that at least took the edge off the worst symptoms more reliably than the drugs already on the market. Erica saw it as a breakthrough but needed more time to iron out some details. The company hadn’t wanted to wait any longer, though, and sent her to pitch it to the U.K. division, against her better judgment. As she’d expected, they were worried about the severity of the side effects. Really, she had said, was a rash so bad if it allowed you to come out of the darkened, silenced room you were stuck in? Was blurry vision that big a deal? She knew how ridiculous she had sounded, had chastised herself about it but tried to remind herself she was just doing her job, doing what her boss had asked her to do. The problem was that the minor side effects got worse when the drug was used long-term, something she’d told him. The U.K. division had done a year-long study and when she’d flown to meet with them about it, they had given her the thumbs down. Of course.
“I did,” she said with a sigh. “I guess I just hoped it would work out differently.”
“Shake it off. Back on the horse.” It was Jim Ryan’s way of getting her to buck up, to not wallow. Always had been. Skin your knee? Shake it off. Back on the horse. Fail a class? Shake it off. Back on the horse. Broken heart? Shake it off. Back on the horse. Those words could really get under her skin at times, but tonight, they just warmed her inside and again, she felt the pull to be home.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Any time, kiddo.”
She promised she was safe, told them she’d keep them posted, then hung up.
“You really should try to eat something, Mrs. Baker.” Abby held the energy bar out to her. “You need to keep up your strength. What good will it do you if you’ve fainted from hunger?”
Her weak joke was met with an equally weak smile, but somehow, she thought Mrs. Baker appreciated the attempted humor. She patted Abby gently on the knee. “You’re a good girl, Abby. Your mama raised you right.”
“You and my mama would get along great. Now eat.”
She gave Mrs. Baker’s shoulders a squeeze as her eyes registered Erica coming back into the room. She’d ditched the suit jacket and pumps—finally. Her blouse was no longer tucked into her skirt, her stockings were gone, and her hair was down. Loose and tousled, it was absolutely gorgeous and made Erica look younger and much more approachable. Whether or not that was the case remained to be seen, but she was devastatingly sexy and Abby itched to tell her so. Of course, as uptight as Erica seemed to be, Abby would probably get her face slapped for such a statement. Could the woman lighten up a bit? As she padded back to her cot, Abby could hear the flap, flap, flap of the flip-flops she now wore and couldn’t help but grin at the overall picture. Erica turned then and caught her eye. And glared at her.
Serious was one thing—and given what had happened, it was to be expected. But Abby got the impression that Erica Ryan was always serious, that having fun wasn’t high on her list of priorities. What a rough way to live.
She took her leave from Mrs. Baker and headed back to her cot. Erica sat on hers against the wall, eyes closed. She yawned widely.
“Ugh,” Abby said. “I can’t begin to imagine what she’s going through.”
A moment passed and Abby could almost hear the internal sigh, manners winning out again. Erica might have been overly serious but she’d been raised to be polite. “Who?”
“Mrs. Baker. Her son, Tyson, works at a brokerage firm in the north tower and she hasn’t been able to get a hold of him. Nobody else in the family has either, so she’s worried sick. She has no idea if he was able to get out in time.”
Erica opened her eyes and looked in the Bakers’ general direction. “That’s awful.”
“Do you have anybody in New York?”
She blew an auburn lock of hair out of her eyes and shook her head. “Thankfully, no. I wasn’t even leaving the airport. Just changing planes and continuing on.”
“To?”
“Raleigh.”
“North Carolina. Great state. Love it there.”
Erica closed her eyes again, leaned her head back. Abby wanted to ask her if she was from Raleigh originally, but knew she was tiring of the conversation. Still, she was happy she’d gotten her talking a little bit. She decided to ease up for now, though she had to make one more comment after scanning Erica’s figure and stopping at her feet.
“By the way, I think the flip-flops make the outfit.”
Well, I’ll be damned, she thought as a ghost of a grin turned up the corners of Erica’s mouth. She can smile.
September 12, 2001
Wednesday
Chapter 4
Sleep came fitfully and sporadically to just about everybody in the Gander Lions Club that night—if it came at all. Abby could usually drop off to sleep anywhere if she was tired enough, but that night, her mind was having none of it. At 4:47 a.m., she was still awake, her brain still racing. She continually tried to catalog the p
eople she knew, wondering if any of her friends could have been in the World Trade Center that morning. She hadn’t grown up in New York; she’d gone to school in Connecticut and her close friends and family were mostly there. But her mother had worked in Manhattan for almost ten years and she was bound to know people affected. Killed even.
Finally giving up on any kind of meaningful sleep, she sat up in her cot and looked around the darkened hall at her fellow passengers, wondered what was going through each of their minds.
A good portion of them were also awake—wandering, sniffling, sitting, staring. Mr. and Mrs. Baker had pushed two cots together and sat huddled side by side—trying not to think the worst and failing, probably. A young couple was walking up and down the aisles, an infant cradled and sleeping against the woman’s shoulder. A middle-aged, balding man sat in front of one of the two televisions, though Abby wondered if he saw anything. The people began to blend into one another until they all looked the same: like aimlessly wandering souls condemned to some sort of purgatory with no idea what lay ahead for them.
Several of the volunteers were still milling around. Locals. Abby was stunned by their generosity. They’d brought food, clothing, linens, and toiletries from their own homes and had done nothing but smile, sympathize, and try to help since they’d arrived. Their patience with the tired and cranky travelers had been unending. She’d heard through various snippets of conversation that she had been lucky to get off her plane within six hours, that it had taken much longer for others.
To Abby’s left, Erica slept soundly—or as soundly as one could sleep in a skirt and blouse on a strange cot in a large, over-populated room. She heard the comedienne Paula Poundstone in her head, doing part of a favorite routine: “She’s such an angel when she’s sleeping.” Erica looked infinitely more relaxed. Her face was smooth, scrubbed free of makeup. Abby noticed a light dusting of freckles across the pale skin and smiled, figuring that Erica probably burned red as a lobster if she was in the sun for too long. There was no divot between her eyebrows from scowling, no lines at the corners of her eyes from squinting with suspicion. She looked utterly at peace. It was funny to Abby that she’d already concluded this was not a common expression for Erica. Some people were just that easy to read.
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