96 Hours

by Georgia Beers

  Abby nodded, wishing there was something she could say to ease his heartbreak.

  “Can you believe this shit?” he asked her, waving a finger at the television. “How does this happen? Four different planes. How the hell does this happen?”

  Abby shook her head as her eyes were pulled unwillingly towards the screen. Live shots ran nonstop, the spot where the twin towers once stood now just a pile of concrete and debris. Though the scene was calmer than two days ago, there were still people milling around behind the reporter, looking lost and wandering aimlessly. Some cried. Some looked blank. Flyers with photos of the missing had begun to appear in the background of every shot—covering fences, telephone poles, and the sides of buildings like wallpaper. The whole thing was still surreal to Abby. “I don’t know,” she finally said in response to Mr. Baker’s question. “I just don’t know.”

  They watched together for a few quiet moments, neither registering that he still held tightly to Abby’s hand. She was happy to give him that contact, even if it helped only a little. When a commercial break finally came, she squeezed his big fingers. “Hey, a little birdie told me you haven’t eaten anything today. Am I going to have to spank you?” She winked and got a small chortle out of him.

  “I’m just not hungry.”

  “I’m sure you’re not. I get it. But you should try to eat something anyway to help keep up your strength. Even if it’s just a banana or an apple.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll go find you something, all right? Wait here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said as she stood. “Unfortunately.”

  After delivering a banana, a granola bar, and some orange juice to Mr. Baker, waiting for him to eat some, and tossing a thumbs up toward his wife, Abby took the opportunity to snag an empty seat at the phone bank and call her mother. This time, she tried the office phone first. Michelle Hayes picked up on the second ring.

  “Is everything okay?” The worry in her voice was apparent, given she’d just spoken to Abby the previous night.

  “Everything’s fine, Mom. I just—” It came upon her without warning. Emotion. Sadness. Anger. Her voice stuck in her throat and she said in a whisper, “I just wanted to hear your voice. I needed to hear your voice.”

  “Oh, baby. My sweet baby.” Michelle knew her daughter well, knew when something was weighing on her, and wanted nothing more than to wrap her up in a warm, safe hug. “It’s going to be okay, Abby.”

  “I know.” Abby sniffed, pulled herself together, embarrassed to be seen crying. She swiped at her eyes. “It’s just so horrible. There are people here who can’t get a hold of their families, people who have friends in New York that they can’t find.” She quickly and quietly relayed the story of the Bakers, her eyes filling in sympathy as she did so.

  “Oh, those poor people,” her mother said, and Abby could envision her shaking her head, her fingertips against her chin in her usual pose of concern. “I’m afraid New York is going to lose a lot of her people. Even her emergency crews. Cops, firefighters, EMTs. It’s so hard to fathom, Abby. We were all trying to wrap our brains around it last night as we watched the news. Thousands of people. Thousands. It’s almost beyond comprehension.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, mostly about the confusion and inability to understand why somebody would do such a thing. Michelle told her New York was still a mess, people running around like chickens with their heads cut off (one of her favorite expressions) and that it would be weeks, maybe months, maybe longer before anything was even close to resembling “the way it was” before the eleventh. The sorrow in her voice was heartbreaking. For somebody who had grown up in New York, who considered the city to be in her blood, the recent events were akin to a death—or more accurately, a murder. Michelle and so many others like her had been plunged into a state of horrified, disbelieving grief.

  Aware of the people waiting for the phones, Abby bid her mother goodbye, promising to call again soon. “I love you, Mom.”

  “Love you, too, baby. Stay safe.”

  Across the front lobby, Abby could see Corinne scurrying about like a small animal, handing out supplies, hugging a small boy, smiling reassuringly at a haggard-looking older woman. Shaking her head in awe, Abby wondered how the Gander native did it, how she kept smiling, kept helping, kept calm amidst the chaos that had become her quiet little town. If ever there was a walking, talking inspiration, Corinne MacDougal was it.

  “Can I help?” Abby asked as she approached and took a large box of fruit out of Corinne’s hands.

  “Oh, Abby, thank you, dear. How are you today?”

  “Hanging in there. What about you? Did you get any sleep last night? I barely saw you this morning before you were off again.”

  “I know. I’d napped a bit here yesterday, so I was fine. I wanted to get an early start because I knew Bill was bringing by more eggs and Bill Rigby is the earliest riser I’ve ever known.” She said this in an affectionate tone and Abby absently wondered if anybody ever rubbed Corinne the wrong way.

  “I hope you know how much we all,” she made a gesture encompassing the whole area, “appreciate what you’ve done for us. I don’t know what we’d all have done without your help.”

  Corinne scoffed and waved a dismissive hand, just as Abby expected she would.

  “Listen, we’re going to cook you dinner tonight.”

  “What? Oh, no.”

  “No arguing,” Abby said. “You’ve been so great to us, it’s the least we can do.”

  She fished around a bit about likes and dislikes, got directions to the nearest grocery store, then collected Brian and Michael and filled them in on her plan to make the MacDougals dinner. They both agreed heartily, not only because it was a nice thank you gesture but because it also gave them something to focus on for the rest of the day. Boredom was beginning to set in for all of them.

  “Let’s stop back at the house first and see if Erica wants to go with,” Abby said from the backseat.

  Brian snorted from his spot behind the wheel. “Really? She didn’t seem to want anything to do with us earlier. Why do you think she’d change her mind now?”

  Abby shrugged, looked out the window. “I don’t know. I just think we should ask.”

  “I think she’d just as soon wish us all away. She’s cold, that one.”

  “I don’t know,” Abby said again, leaving the rest of her thoughts unvoiced.

  Michael spoke up from the passenger seat. “You know, Erica is very much like my younger sister, Claire.” He was soft-spoken, causing Abby to sit forward in her seat to hear him, his accent almost musical. “She gets that from a lot of people who make snap judgments about her just from being around her for a day.” He glanced at Brian. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Claire just isn’t good around a lot of people. It drains her. She likes to be alone. She craves silence. It doesn’t mean she’s cold or a bitch or any of the other myriad things people label her. It’s just who she is and those who know her and love her understand that. I think Erica is the same way. We just don’t know her well enough to realize it.”

  Brian shrugged, making it clear what he thought of the analysis. Abby pursed her lips and absorbed Michael’s words, nodding slightly.

  “I’ll just run in,” Abby said as they pulled into the MacDougals’ driveway. “Be right back.”

  She didn’t know why she half-expected to find Erica on the couch in the living room watching TV. Maybe because that’s where Abby herself would be? But the first floor was quiet. It wasn’t until she entered the kitchen that she heard the strange hum and the rhythmic pounding sound—a steady thump-thump-thump filtering up from the basement. Her shoes made no sound as she descended the stairs and peeked around to her left. The sight stopped her in her tracks, sent her heart racing, and stole all moisture from her mouth.

  The pounding was caused by Erica’s sneakered feet hitting the base of Kate MacDougal’s underused treadmill a
s she ran. Running wasn’t something Abby had enjoyed in her life. Ever. She felt that it took all the fun out of an activity. She avoided sports like basketball and field hockey because they required too much running. She preferred volleyball. Maybe a little badminton. Golf was a good one. No running required. She never understood the “runner’s high” her jogging friends spoke of, but looking at Erica now, she thought she almost got it. Her face was relaxed. Her body was working hard, but damn if she wasn’t almost smiling. Navy blue shorts from Walmart hugged that muscular behind of hers and her simple white T-shirt was nearly soaked through. All the rich copper hair was pulled back into a ponytail and it flounced from side to side with each stride. Erica’s pale skin glistened with perspiration, her arms pumped in an easy rhythm, and Abby realized that Erica ran often. She looked so at ease, so relaxed that Abby hated to interrupt her. Instead, she stood quietly and watched for several moments, wondering if, in Erica’s mind, she was running from something or to something.

  Then she tried to remember the last time she’d seen anything quite so sexy.

  Back in the car, she told the guys, “Nope. She’s busy. Let’s go.”

  Brian wanted to ask why her cheeks were all flushed, but thought better of it.

  Chapter 10

  Erica felt reborn. De-stressed, centered. She often forgot how much a good run could reboot her system. Something about the adrenaline, the pumping blood, the sweat made her feel alive again. And with the feel of life came the perception of control, whether real or imagined. Running always left her feeling grounded and in charge. She came up the basement steps, ready to face people again, just as Brian, Michael, and Abby were hauling grocery bags in from the car. Abby took in the black workout pants and the baby blue shirt and blurted, “How many outfits did you buy the other day? Wasn’t I with you the whole time?”

  “This is my last one,” Erica said. “Remind me to ask Corinne if she’d mind if we did some laundry tonight. I can throw all of our stuff in together and I’m sure we’d have a good-sized load.” She noticed the bags and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “I thought we could make dinner for Corinne and Tim,” Abby said, trying hard not to stare. Erica had obviously showered, her ponytail still damp, and she smelled like baby powder. “As sort of a thank you, small as it is, for all they’ve done for us.”

  “That’s a great idea. What are we having?” She peered into the bags as the guys deposited them onto the kitchen counter and went to grab the last of the bunch.

  “Chicken, potatoes, corn,” Abby rattled off.

  “Cool. How are we cooking the chicken?”

  “No idea.”

  “What?”

  “I have no idea, but I think Michael does.”

  “You decided to cook for somebody, but . . .”

  Abby nodded sheepishly. “I don’t cook.”

  Erica burst into laughter. “Why am I not surprised?” She shook her head, then began taking things out of the bags and setting them on the counter, checking her resources and seeing what she had to work with. She opened a few of Corinne’s cupboards, the fridge, checking for spices and seasonings, then gave one nod of approval as the guys set down the last two bags. “What time will the MacDougals be home?”

  “I said we’d be ready to eat by six?” Abby phrased it as a question, her expression hopeful.

  “Okay. We can work with this, no problem.”

  “Wait, you can cook?” Abby asked.

  “I can.”

  “Why am I surprised?”

  Erica shot her a mysteriously sexy grin, shrugged, and began gathering her ingredients. Michael offered his assistance, promising he knew his way around a kitchen, so Erica took him up on it. Abby and Brian would be sous chefs. It was after four, so Erica decided there was plenty of time to bake the chicken. Mashed potatoes and seasoned corn rounded out the menu. There were also ingredients for a salad.

  “All right. Abby, you are the Salad Queen. You can make one big one or six individuals. Up to you. Brian, you get to be Mr. Potato Head. Can you peel and dice those potatoes? They need to go into a big pot of water, which you’ll have to find first.”

  “I’m all over it.” He began searching cupboards and pantries.

  “Michael, I’m pretty sure there was some fresh rosemary wrapped up in the fridge and I need the butter in the door.”

  “Right-o.”

  “And correct me if I’m wrong, but did I see a bag that had wine in it?” She raised her eyebrows in hopeful question.

  “You did,” Brian responded, finding said bag.

  “All chefs need to have a glass while they work,” she instructed.

  “My mom always has a glass while she’s cooking,” Abby confirmed with a nod.

  Brian pulled out four bottles, two red and two white. “And if it sucks, blame the British guy. Abby and I were at a loss.”

  Michael grinned at Erica. “I assure you, it will not suck. Trust me.”

  “How do I not trust a guy who sounds like James Bond?” Erica asked, feigning bewilderment.

  The four of them worked like a well-oiled machine, Brian peeling and chopping, Abby slicing and tossing, Michael following Erica’s instructions regarding the corn, and Erica treating the chicken to a savory-smelling rosemary and olive oil rub. They talked about their afternoons, teased one another playfully, and essentially felt like one big family, akin to siblings home for the holidays. By the time Corinne walked in at five-thirty, the kitchen was filled with delicious aromas, laughter, and lively conversation.

  “Oh, my, it smells divine in here,” she exclaimed, setting her purse on the bench by the side door.

  “Where’s Tim?” Michael asked her.

  “Oh, I decided I could use some fresh air after being inside so long, so I walked.”

  “You walked? We could have come to get you.”

  Corinne waved a dismissive hand. “Not at all. It did me good.”

  Brian held up two wine bottles for her to see. “Red or white?”

  Erica laughed and shook her head. “He means Merlot or Pinot Grigio.”

  “White,” Corinne replied.

  “I’m surrounded by Neanderthals!”

  Corinne laughed and took the glass Brian poured for her. “How are things at the Club?” he asked.

  A sip of the wine seemed to visibly relax her and she exhaled heavily. “People are restless. Of course. They want to go home. And those poor Bakers.” She tsk’d, her expression sympathetic.

  “Still nothing about their son?” Abby asked.

  “Not a word. Nobody’s been able to get in touch with him, though their daughter did find out that some of his colleagues are safe.”

  “That’s good,” Brian said.

  “I think so, too.” They absorbed that quietly for a moment before Corinne changed the subject. “It’s so wonderful of you to cook for us.”

  “Please,” Abby said. “It’s the least we can do. You’ve been so amazing to us.”

  “This whole town has,” Michael added. “Did you know we had to force the gentleman at the grocer to take our money?”

  “You did?” Erica asked, surprised.

  “He wanted to just give it to us.”

  “My god,” she said, utterly awed by the generosity. “The phone company, the pharmacy, now the grocery store.” She turned to Corinne, hoping she could see the gratitude she felt. “The people of Gander are something else. Truly. I’m stunned by the kindness and generosity we’ve run into here.” With a half-grin, she added, “And I’m not easily stunned. By anybody.”

  Corinne shrugged, her expression telling them it was no big deal, like this was how her fellow townsfolk were all the time, like it would never occur to them to handle the situation any differently.

  Tim arrived about ten minutes later, forgoing a glass of wine for a beer and by 6:15, the six of them were seated around the dining-room table, a veritable feast laid out in front of them.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” Michael announc
ed, raising his glass. “To the MacDougals, for taking in four complete strangers at a time of crisis and providing them with beds, showers, food and drink, and the comforts of home while they’re all so far away from their own. Your hospitality is so much more than ‘appreciated.’ Thank you.”

  “Hear, hear,” Abby added.

  They clinked glasses as Corinne and Tim blushed at the praise, and then dug into the food—which was delicious if the moans of pleasure were any indication.

  “Oh, my god, Erica,” Brian said around a mouthful of chicken. “This is incredible.”

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you could cook,” Abby said with a wink. “Wow.”

  A little self-conscious, Erica smiled at the compliment. She’d forgotten how satisfying it could be to cook for others. Maddie had loved to throw dinner parties and Erica found cooking to be a good way to not have to socialize with the six or seven people in her living room; it was a built-in excuse to stay in the kitchen, and she used it whenever she could. The fact that she got good at cooking—and also began to enjoy doing it—was simply a bonus.

  They ate and talked and laughed. They shared wine and stories of their lives and Erica was shocked at how much they felt like a family. How could that happen in three days? How could she feel so close to these people—people she essentially knew nothing about? She was not a person who settled in easily. She was uncomfortable more often than not and when they’d first arrived at the MacDougal house, she’d been sure she’d be certifiably insane within twenty-four hours. Yet here she sat, breaking bread at the dinner table of a couple she barely knew and feeling more comfortable than she had in weeks. Months even. It was as close as she’d felt to being at home with her family in longer than she cared to think about. The realization brought an unexpected surge of emotion and her eyes misted even as a gentle smile crossed her lips.

  Abby had not allowed them to leave the grocery store without dessert: ice cream. Four kinds, as she didn’t know who liked what. Chocolate, vanilla, mint chocolate chip, and black cherry. They all protested that they had no room left after such an incredible dinner, but they all ate a bowl. By seven, the six of them were slouched in their chairs.