96 Hours

by Georgia Beers

Erica wondered if others on the plane were feeling similar emotions. As she looked around, she could swear the atmosphere felt different somehow. Charged. True, most people were almost visibly vibrating with the anticipation of finally being on their way, but there was something else. She suspected she might never be able to put a finger on it, to define it in some tangible way; but to break it down into its simplest form, she liked the way she felt.

  She liked the way she felt.

  She hadn’t thought such a thing in a long, long time.

  Chapter 16

  Erica had lost track of time. She had no idea how long the flight was. Which time zone she was in was a mystery to her. What she did know was that Bob was a widow who was on his way back from visiting his first grandchild, a boy named Cameron, who was born a month before. His daughter and son-in-law lived in London and Bob puffed up like a peacock when he talked about his grandson. He had his camera with him and showed pictures of a tiny little infant with a shock of black hair. Erica was engrossed, ooo-ing and ahh-ing over the itty-bitty fingers and toes.

  To Erica’s right sat Joan and Sylvia, two sisters in their sixties who’d taken a vacation to Ireland, something they’d been planning for over a decade. They laughed and blushed and regaled Erica and Bob with stories of all the shopping they’d done (having to purchase an extra suitcase in order to fly their purchases home) and the many pubs they’d visited.

  It eventually occurred to Erica that her behavior on the plane ride to New York was the complete opposite of how it would have been just five days ago. She absently wondered if she should start labeling her life in terms of B.G. and A.G.—before and after Gander. B.G., she would have kept to herself on the plane. She would have made it very clear to those around her that she was not interested in conversation, that she did not care where anybody else was going, and that she had no intention of sharing where she was going. Headphones were very good for making this point and she vaguely remembered that she had a small set in her laptop case, but made no move to get them. Now there was nothing she wanted to do more than converse with the people around her, listen to their stories, and ask them questions. She shook her head in wonder. A.G. life was bizarre.

  When the landing gear of the plane hit the pavement, bounced once, then settled into a loud, speeding roll, the entire crowd in the plane cheered. While nobody wanted to think about what had happened here—and while many of them were about to experience the aftermath—there was something about being on American soil, something about being on the soil of New York that had the passengers swelling with pride. Erica’s eyes filled and when she glanced at Bob, his were wet as well. They both gave embarrassed chuckles.

  “We’re home,” he said softly.

  “Thank god,” Erica replied, and sniffed.

  Deplaning was more difficult than most people expected and it crossed Erica’s mind that such might be the case on every plane that had been stranded in Gander. Each flight’s passengers had been accommodated together in Canada (at first, at least), so each manifest contained a list of people who were bonded, tied together forever by the people of a generous town. E-mail addresses were exchanged. Phone numbers were recited and written down. Street addresses were given. Though anxious to be on their way, few found it easy to get off the plane and go.

  They lingered in their seats, in the aisle. They meandered down the walkways and loitered around the gate. They moseyed through Customs. They dawdled at the baggage claim even though many of them had connecting flights or no baggage to grab. Erica exchanged e-mail addresses with Bob and promised to keep an eye out for more pictures of Cameron. Joan and Sylvia vowed to send her the names of the best Irish whiskey they’d had so she could pass the name on to her friend at work, who loved any and all whiskey. She hugged all three of them tightly and promises to keep in touch were spoken one last time.

  The tug at her heart surprised her as she watched them walk off in different directions.

  When she turned back to the crowd, she looked right into Brian’s sparkling green eyes. Michael and Abby stood nearby.

  “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?” he asked with a wink.

  “Of course not,” she said truthfully.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d like contact information for all three of you,” Michael said, pulling a small notebook from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “I feel like you’re all part of my family now.” He shrugged as if saying he had no explanation for it, it just was.

  Abby reached into her backpack. “I’ve got some paper, too.” She looked tired, Erica thought, but her eyes were still beautiful and her skin was still creamy and her disheveled dark hair only made Erica want to reach out and brush it back. She let out a quiet breath instead.

  Information all exchanged, the four of them stood looking from one face to another, nobody wanting to be the first to leave. After a few moments, they all laughed and Brian spoke up.

  “I have a connecting flight to catch, as do you two, I think.” He nodded at Erica and Michael. “And I’ve had more than enough good-bye in my life recently, so I’m not going to say it to you guys. Instead—” His voice cracked and he glanced down at his shoes as his eyes welled, then his cheeks flushed. “Jesus, look at me.” Erica touched his shoulder as Abby rubbed the opposite arm. He steadied himself. “Instead, I’m going to say thank you for keeping me sane over the past four days. I’m going to say that I love you all, and I’m going to say I’ll catch you later.”

  He reached a hand out to Michael, who took it and pulled him into a heartfelt hug.

  “Take care, man,” Brian said, his voice muffled against Michael’s shoulder.

  “You, too.”

  Erica was next. She tried to keep herself together, but then wondered why. A single tear spilled over and down her cheek. “You take care of yourself, gorgeous,” he ordered her.

  “You do the same,” she said back, her throat threatening to close on her.

  He didn’t even look at Abby; he simply turned and she was in his arms. Erica watched as they held each other, whispering, squeezing. When they parted, Brian sniffled, shifted his bag on his shoulder, and gave them one last smile.

  “Catch you later.”

  They watched him disappear into the crowd.

  “I can tell you for certain that I won’t last if we drag this out,” Michael said with a self-deprecating grin. He reached out for them and pulled them both into a group hug. “It was my honor to spend time with you two wonderful women. Please be good to yourselves and to each other. And if you’re ever in London again—or Dallas, for that matter—you’ve got a place to stay and a friend with whom to dine. All right?”

  Both women nodded against him, neither trusting themselves to speak, neither able to stop the free flow of tears now.

  When they parted, his eyes were wet, too. He pushed a strand of Abby’s hair behind her ear, then reached to stroke a tear from Erica’s face with his thumb, as if he was comforting his daughters.

  “Keep in touch.”

  Erica and Abby stood shoulder to shoulder as he walked away. Similar scenes were occurring all over the airport. The two of them looked around, seeing people hugging, crying, scribbling notes. Their gazes eventually met and held for long moments.

  “And then there were two,” Abby said. When Erica didn’t reply, she began, “Erica, listen—”

  “No. It’s okay.” Erica cut her off with an upheld hand. She’d rehearsed this in her head during the bus ride and again on the plane and during those rehearsals, she’d realized something that surprised her: it was true. “Look, you don’t owe me anything. I don’t owe you anything. The circumstances were certainly extenuating.” She said the last line with a gentle laugh. “And we both enjoyed ourselves. You’re right. It doesn’t have to be more than that.”

  Abby blinked at her as if wondering when Erica had been body-snatched and replaced with a look-alike. Before she could say anything else at all, she was engulfed in Erica�
��s arms.

  They stood like that for what felt like hours, holding tightly to each other, each of them knowing that what they’d experienced together went beyond even the bond that most of the Plane People felt with each other, and they didn’t want to let go. But Erica had a connection to make and Abby needed to grab her bag and find her mother, so they eventually managed to separate.

  “You’re an amazing woman, Ms. Ryan,” Abby whispered, toying with the ends of Erica’s hair.

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Ms. Hayes,” Erica responded as she looked up into those breathtaking eyes.

  “I don’t know what else to say. I feel like there’s so much, but—” She shook her head. “It’s probably too much, so I don’t know what to say.” Her tone was gentle and her expression was both apologetic and uncertain.

  “Then don’t say anything,” Erica told her softly. “Just kiss me and we’ll go. Okay?”

  Abby stepped close. Erica inhaled, trying to take in the scent of her and sear it into her memory. Abby touched Erica’s shoulder, slid her hand down her arm and entwined their fingers. Erica tipped her head up and when their lips met, suddenly there was nobody else. There was no bustling airport crowd. There were no announcements over the PA. There weren’t people jostling them to get to the baggage carousel. There was only Erica and Abby and the sweet tenderness of their kiss.

  They stepped back from each other a little breathless, separating yet keeping eye contact. Abby adjusted her backpack on her back; Erica hefted her laptop case on her shoulder and shifted her grip on the tote bag, each continuing to step backward as they did so. Finally, Erica lifted one hand and gave half a smile.

  “Bye, Abby.”

  Abby returned the wave. “Bye.”

  Erica turned and headed toward her gate.

  She tried to ignore the hot tears streaking her face.

  She didn’t look back.

  October 15, 2001

  Monday

  Chapter 17

  Exactly four weeks after departing Gander, Newfoundland, Abby had yet to leave Connecticut. She’d had plans to; she was going to stop in and visit with her mother, stay with her for two nights, then hop another plane and zip across the country to San Francisco. There was going to be partying and reminiscing with her friend Gina from high school. Then she was going to catch a bus and ride up the coast to Portland to visit her cousin, Derek.

  All those plans fell away upon her return when her mother wrapped her in an embrace and began to cry. Abby felt like she was ten years old again and wanted nothing more than the safety and security of her mother’s arms at that moment and for several days afterward. It was only during that hug, during that physical connection, that it occurred to her it was really just luck that had kept her mother—or her father or her uncle or any number of her friends—from being anywhere near Ground Zero on September eleventh. Anybody could have gotten caught in the horror. Anybody did.

  Abby’s parents were divorced, had been since Abby was ten. Her father had been traveling for work on the eleventh and had ended up stranded in Phoenix. He returned from his exile a day after she did and they met for dinner soon after. He was as emotional as her mother, without the tears. He looked at her, touched her, kept stroking her hair as if he was uncertain she was really there with him.

  Friends called constantly, checking on one another. They got together much more often than normal. Abby heard from friends she’d lost touch with and instead of being suspicious, she was touched. She called her college roommate who lived in New Jersey, even though they hadn’t spoken in almost a year. All the spontaneous contact was strange, but somehow comforting.

  The attacks on the towers had changed the attitude of the entire country. A full month later and it was still first and foremost on the minds of the majority of the American population, especially those in and around New York City. The country had been sucker punched, and she was confused, angry, and devastated by the loss of over 3,000 of her people. New Yorkers who weren’t enraged walked around in a zombie-like state, wandering and bewildered, some still posting flyers and searching for loved ones who had yet to be found, holding out hope that they weren’t buried in the rubble of the towers, despite knowing that was the most likely place. Television news finally started to cover other stories, but there were still pieces running on the victims of the attacks. You didn’t have to look hard to find nonstop reporting, and Ground Zero had become a hub of endless activity: debris being moved, shifted, rifled through; body parts being catalogued and—hopefully—identified.

  Keeping in touch with the Bakers was hard, but important to Abby. In fact, she had been visiting them at their home in Brooklyn two-and-a-half weeks after their return from Newfoundland when the call came in that rescue workers had finally found and identified the body of Tyson Baker. By then, the entire Baker family had accepted that Tyson was probably lost to them, but the confirmation was devastating. Abby took her leave right away, reluctant to intrude upon a scene that should be limited to family. She’d managed to hold it together for most of the train ride home, but her shields crumbled quickly and she’d spent the rest of the day in her room, crying and heartbroken for a family that didn’t deserve such pain.

  And then her brain went on a rampage for the umpteenth time about how no family deserved such pain, and she was angry and upset about the situation all over again.

  Such was the life of a New Yorker a mere month after the attacks.

  It was exhausting and depressing and yet Abby couldn’t bring herself to leave.

  When she wasn’t busy being upset or trying to comfort friends who’d lost family or family who’d lost friends, Abby’s thoughts always returned to the same subject: Erica.

  They hadn’t spoken since the airport. They hadn’t e-mailed. Abby had dialed the first six digits of Erica’s cell phone on at least five occasions, but had never been able to follow through with the call. What would she say? How would she open? What could they talk about that wasn’t the one night of incredibly passionate sex they’d had? Because that’s what was most prominent in Abby’s mind: the sight of Erica’s naked body beneath her, the smell of her arousal, the sound of her climax. Sure, there were a lot of other things and she had the unfamiliar desire to learn more about the beautiful, sexy, quiet, confusing and moody woman with whom she’d shared a room for three nights, but the sex . . . Jesus, the sex. She couldn’t get it out of her head. The connection they’d made was new to Abby, unfamiliar and impossible to ignore.

  E-mails from both Michael and Brian had arrived on a fairly regular basis since they’d parted in the airport, the first from each coming within a day or two of Abby’s return home. After that, every few days and no less often than once a week. Both men were doing fine, Michael back in England and Brian thinking of asking out a woman in the office building across the street from his. Abby wondered if either of them had been in contact with Erica, but felt weird asking because they’d know right away that she had not been and they’d want to know why. Well, Michael would want to know why. Brian would already know why and he’d get all over her about it. So she kept quiet.

  Inexplicably restless on that Monday morning, Abby had two sharp thoughts hit her out of the blue. One: she had to do something. She had no desire to run off to the far reaches of the country again—she was surprisingly happy just being at home and close to her family—but she was feeling useless, like dead weight, and decided she’d laid around long enough. It had been a long time since she’d felt like she was contributing to society and, just like that, she knew that it was time to get back to it. She vowed to look into ways she could help. Right after she accomplished the other thing taking up too much space in her brain: the need to contact Erica.

  She’d waited long enough. She’d been a coward long enough. She’d thought about Erica long enough. She’d missed her long enough.

  Abby stopped and examined those thoughts. She’d missed Erica? Was that true?

  There really was no question; she had. Ad
mitting it to herself felt strangely liberating. Yes, I’ve missed the woman I spent a whopping ninety-six hours with. So sue me.

  She rifled through some papers on the small computer desk in the corner of her mother’s dining room and pulled out the one with contact information for Michael, Brian, and Erica. Then she stared at the telephone for a long while as she tried to formulate in her head exactly what she’d say. After twenty frustrating minutes, she muttered, “Fuck it,” and dialed.

  On the fourth ring, Abby glanced at the clock and realized it was mid-morning and Erica was probably at work, like most normal people. Still, her breath caught as Erica’s calm, smoothly recorded voice came on the line.

  “I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.”

  The most generic of generic messages, but Abby still called back three more times to listen. Bits and pieces of things Erica had said during their short time together began firing through her head like race cars zipping past at exorbitant speeds.

  “ . . . there’s only one bed.”

  “You couldn’t afford me.”

  “I’m going to hate myself in the morning. And you.”

  “Keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “It’s okay, Abby. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

  Abby didn’t allow herself to let it go any further. She didn’t want to recall Erica telling her how careless she was, how she didn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody but herself. Instead, she gave up on the phone and went to the computer. Maybe an e-mail was the better way to go.

  But just as she had been stuck on what to say over the phone, she was equally puzzled by what to type in an e-mail. Should she keep it general, impersonal? Hi, how are you? What’s new? Or should she dive right into the specific? I can’t stop thinking about you and I know it’s weird, but I miss you.