Chapter Nine
Nine
Thomas
September 2001
My rental, a silver Audi, smells like stale cigarettes and something lemony and artificial emanating from a pine tree hanging on the rearview. The sky is almost absurdly blue, and I open the windows to the fresh air as I turn off the highway. I hate rental cars, having to acclimate to new dials and switches, fumbling for levers to adjust the seat, but it doesn’t make sense to own a car in the Upper East Side. I told Ann we could more than swing it, hell, Goldman would probably get me a car if I asked. But it’s easier to rent one the rare weekends we disappear upstate, or for those times we drive to see specialists, like today.
I tell Ann, we’re in New York City. People travel here for the best doctors. But she found some neurologist outside Greenwich, specializing in migraines, and I finally conceded and moved some meetings around. I’ve been putting her off for years. Climbing the ladder so quickly, the youngest executive director in the history of the company, grinding eighty-hour weeks, I’d be more concerned if I didn’t get headaches. Who has the time to take a day off to drive to Connecticut for a bunch of tests, only to find out that they can’t tell me what’s wrong? Or that there’s something wrong, but they can’t fix it? Like my heart murmur. Or Ann’s eggs. So many waiting rooms, months after months of needles, the bolts of her exposed spine turned away from me, leaning on the pedestal sink in our bathroom, braced for impact. Hating myself each time I drove the tip into her exposed flesh, knowing the jabs could be futile, the hormones relentless, for putting her through all this, only to be dev-astated when the embryo didn’t take. For what? Year after year of trying. Ann’s face tightening when well-meaning colleagues asked her when we were going to have kids. The nights I held my sobbing wife in our bed while we grappled with the reality that it wasn’t going to happen for us.
I hoped for kids, too, but more than that, I wanted Ann to be able to be a mother, to give her everything she wanted. We knew couples who adopted, who jumped through hoops for years, who had false starts, birth mothers who changed their minds. In the end it was Ann who called it all off, she couldn’t take any more, we had been through enough. We kept our struggle private, let people assume what they wanted, our heartbreak a secret we shouldered. We committed instead to our work, to each other, to making the most of the life we built, to the freedoms a child-free existence could bring. Late nights at the office without coordinating sitters, after-work drinks with clients, jetting off to the Hamptons. We commented on how our colleagues’ careers stalled after their priorities shifted, our friends frazzled and exhausted and unrecognizable. We celebrated our promotions with expensive bottles of wine and fresh sushi rolls, things she couldn’t enjoy if she were pregnant, consolation prizes we offered each other, reasons it wasn’t meant to be.
But sometimes I imagine what it could’ve been like. Ann hand in hand with her little blonde miniature, pointing at seals at the Central Park Zoo. Chasing after their cousins on Bernard Beach. She would be a bit like my own mom, the clear matriarch, me relegated to the background, like my dad. I wouldn’t mind; Ann was built to run a company, a family, the world. She left the Midwest as soon as she could, her acceptance to NYU her ticket to a new life. She moved into the dorm across the street from mine, we met swapping clothes at the laundromat around the corner that reeked of wet socks and Chinese takeout. We bonded over our embarrassing lack of local knowledge and kept each other company during marathon study sessions in the library.
New York City felt like mine, like me. The organization of a planned city grid, subway lines, people walking with purpose, how easy it was to get around, find your way, and I was taken with Ann, how forcefully she navigated her own path. There was nothing keeping me in Stonybrook. I had no interest in inheriting the Oyster Shell, and in fairness, my parents never pushed it on any of us. They hoped I’d fall for some girl in town, always urging me to go out on Saturday nights. But all I knew about love is that it was a reason people stayed put, that it was measured by what you gave up. It never seemed worth it. Until Ann.
We were together for nearly five years before I proposed. I never had any doubt she was the one, never needed to date around to be sure. But Ann’s parents are divorced; she and her sisters grew up bouncing between houses on weekends and holidays, so she wasn’t sure she believed in the institution. So I waited, let her lead. A piece of paper binding us legally wasn’t important to me, we were as committed as anyone could be. Then her younger sister got married, a big wedding in Boise. I never thought of Ann as the type of girl who needed permission for anything, never mind something as big as marriage, but that’s what that wedding was to Ann, with its buffet overflowing with mediocre Midwestern fare, poufy bridesmaids and an overzealous band. Permission to make our own mistakes, to try. She drank a ton of champagne and confessed she wanted to get married, too, that she felt like she could, that we should. The next morning, sober and emboldened, she confirmed it was still true. She basically proposed to me. I bought a ring the next weekend.
We went into our marriage with eyes wide-open. At some point, as hard as it is, you have to be realistic; dreams don’t come true because you want them to, and nothing lasts forever. This plan my parents concocted is so twisted, the same way love is glamorized by books and movies, something to die for, love proven through sacrifice. It’s cowardice, disguised as devotion. Love is giving the injections, it’s the spots knotted black and blue from the needles, it’s knowing I could live without Ann because she would want me to go on, rather than to martyr myself in her name. How much stronger they would be to stay, to eke out every last second of their life together.
I tune the radio, try to redirect my thoughts as I near the doctor’s office. The only thing I miss about driving is listening to the news, calming in a different way than reading a folded paper while crammed on the subway. My BlackBerry starts pinging, probably an analyst needing to check something. Or another voicemail from Mom.
Ann says I have to stop avoiding them, that it won’t fix anything, or make them change their minds. But I’m furious that they’ve put us in this position to be their conspirators. Nothing about this is okay. I am not shocked, knowing how they are. Jane said pretty much the same, though I didn’t want to hear her let them off so easy. I wanted her to be pissed like I am, riled up and ready to fight, like the old Jane. But she’s not wrong, it is something they would do.
Their relationship embarrassed me growing up. The way Mom would perch on Dad’s lap after dinner, or sit between his knees on a shared towel on the beach, instead of keeping their distance like normal parents. Jane is convinced Mom is the one we need to sway, and Dad will go along with whatever she decides, and she’s probably right. Dad has always been putty when it comes to Mom. I gave him a hard time about it one night when I was young, something about him being on a short leash, a phrase I heard a guy say at school that I didn’t fully understand, but repeated for effect. He stopped what he was fixing, and looked at me, more serious than I had ever seen. Your mom gave things up for me, son. To move back, to raise you kids here, to reopen the inn. I have never forgotten that. You shouldn’t either .
I didn’t understand them then, putting each other over their own individual happiness. And now, dying for each other. I’d do anything for Ann, anything but this. I can’t condone it, and at this point even the knowledge of their plan feels reckless, complicit.
Which is what I tried to tell Violet, but she’s even worse than our parents. She reaches for justification, trying to convince me to make the most of our time left, like I’m the one who set the ticking clock. I thought I had Jane on my side. She can be a lot, but at least she’s logical. Or so I thought, until she emails me an invite to some show four months from now, in January, at the Boston Symphony Orchestra. She wrote that her coworker Marcus pitched the idea for a community outreach event, “a performance to highlight local pianists,” and she and Mom would be one of many to perform. Marcus arranged the whole thing, got us all tickets. She’s mentioned his name—even to me, and we barely talk—more often than is normal for any colleague. So obviously, they’re sleeping together. She’s weird about relationships, and it’s none of my business. I don’t really care what she does as long as it doesn’t create issues for the family again. But this move took me aback. She’s usually unyielding, especially when it comes to Mom.
I don’t want my mom to suffer, of course I don’t. I hate everything about this. Her prognosis. The pain she kept from us. That a mother’s illness could possibly be divisive. My anger that won’t allow me to be there for her, for them both, because they’ve forced us to choose sides. The idea of losing her in little ways then all at once...but doctors aren’t psychics, they can’t predict the future and sometimes bodies respond in ways we don’t expect. New treatments could become available, clinical trials, experimental drugs. Ann and I tried to the brink of breaking, contorted our hope and followed its faintest shadow until we had nothing left. It was the only way we could live with ourselves. There is no way to know what the future holds, not really, if you cut it off at its knees. I can’t believe Jane is indulging her in this way, fulfilling a dying wish based on an arbitrary death date Mom chose. I don’t know, in my mind the only leverage we had over them was holding out together, a united front that condemned this decision, and now I feel as powerless as I am.
Another series of buzzes. We pushed that meeting, what possibly can’t wait a few hours until I get back? I try to peek at the screen and miss my turn, throw the phone into the console, ignoring it as it rings, circling back around, so I don’t catch everything the broadcaster says.
“...plane...crashed into the World Trade Center...”
I brake without meaning to, turning up the dial. The hell?
“...something devastating has happened. There are unconfirmed reports of a plane crashing into the towers. We are trying to get more information. There is smoke billowing out of one of the towers, a very disturbing scene on the ground, we are trying to figure out what happened, all we know so far is a plane flying lower-than-normal altitude, appears to have crashed into the middle of one of the towers...”
I pull over. Call Ann and get an error message: Your call cannot be completed, please try again later. Call again. Your call cannot be completed, please try again later, your call cannot be completed, please try again later. Call the office. Your call cannot be completed, please try again later, your call cannot be completed, please try again later. Call Ann again. Nothing.
My meeting this morning. In that very tower. Postponed.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.
Panic rises. Was the pilot drunk? My hands shake on the wheel. I know some of those people, their poor families... I try to take deep breaths, the coverage on the radio drowned by the thud in my chest. Ann is uptown. I’m okay. I’m sitting here, somehow, in this car.
The near miss of it. Oh my god. A freak thing.
Then the second plane hit.
I nearly break down the front door wrenching it open. My mom and dad leap up from the couch, news blaring. I rush in white-faced and unsteady and lean down to grip Mom in the tightest hug. Between sobs I stammer, “I’m sorry, Ma. I’m so sorry.” She almost falters under my weight, the shock of it all.
I turn toward Dad and clutch him, desperate. “Dad, I’ve been awful to you. Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, son. It’s okay.” He is at a loss, and speaks in a low voice, patting my back. “You’re safe, thank god...we’ve been losing our minds, trying to reach you. Where’s Ann?”
I pull away and stumble, trying to explain, rubbing my forehead raw. “I don’t know. I can’t reach her. Phones are down. I don’t know.” My legs are about to give out; I sink onto the coffee table, my head in my hands.
“I don’t understand. How are you here?”
I shake my head. “Ann...she has been begging me to go see this specialist not far from here. I’ve been having really bad headaches, but I never have the time. But she kept bothering me about it. She made an appointment for me this morning... I was supposed to be at the North Tower today. I rescheduled my meeting for tomorrow. Because Ann didn’t want to lose me .”
“Oh, Thomas.” Mom crumples beside me.
“And when I heard it on the radio, I tried to get back to the city, to Ann, but they’re saying everything is shut down. Trains, the bridges, there’s no way in. Phones are all out of service. I’m freaking out.” My breath is raggedy, unstable. “I don’t know where she is, if she’s safe... I couldn’t be alone, I didn’t know what to do. So, I drove here... I think I sped the entire way. I don’t know if I stopped at one red light. I can’t remember.”
Dad’s voice breaks, and he puts his arm around me. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
The tragedy plays out on loop on TV, surreal footage I can’t wrap my head around. Smoke billowing out of offices I was supposed to be inside, the Twin Towers engulfed. Mom grips my hand. When was the last time I held Mom’s hand? I don’t know what is happening, but I’m terrified. I’m terrified and feel my throat closing, I can’t breathe. Ann.
We watch the banners screaming across the bottom of the television screen, “Planes Crash into World Trade Center.” We watch, frozen where we sit. We watch, waiting for answers. None of this makes sense. Nothing makes sense as the news team pieces together scattered information, but there are no answers and their anchor masks fall away. They weep as the cameras roll, the rules we once played by shattered. All I can think about is my wife, racking my brain for any hint of where her meetings were, what she may have told me, anything that will cut through my panic. All I can see is the crumbled towers, the debris and ash filling the streets. The black smoke billowing. The endless blue sky, stained.
We watch as the South Tower collapses into ash and smoke.
I feel my scream, but nothing comes out. Mom’s hand flies to her open mouth. Dad doesn’t move, rapt by the horror on the screen. On the table there is a vase of sunflowers from the garden, the sky through the window still cloudless and impossibly blue.
I call Ann’s cell and her office, over and over, even though it won’t go through, furious with myself for being so far away, for how futile it is pushing these buttons when I should be running to her, but I am stuck here, powerless, desperate to hear her voice, replaying our rushed goodbye this morning. Did I even kiss her before she left? What was the last thing I said as she slipped out the door?
“Let’s try Violet and Jane again. Tell them you’re safe, at least.” Mom says they tried calling me as soon as they saw the news but kept getting my voicemail, probably directed there while I dialed Ann on repeat. When they spoke to Violet she was home, staying by her phone. She hadn’t been able to reach her kids and she didn’t want them to get the answering machine. Connor has gone to pick up Patrick from school. They leave another message for Jane, likely summoned to the news station.
We watch the ash-filled sky overtake our screen.
We watch the collapse of the North Tower.
Dad puts his arms around Mom. I’m frantic, pacing.
We keep dialing. Your call cannot be completed, please try again later.
All these people...all their families.
Ann . Where are you?
My phone rings and we all jump. I rip it off the table, nearly dropping it. “Ann?” My shoulders collapse in relief. “Oh my god. Thank god.” My nose runs, and I wipe it on my sleeve. “I love you. I love you so much.” I can barely hear her through the crackle and noise, something about a pay phone, people waiting, she walked to Brooklyn, across the bridge, she’s okay.
She’s okay. The call drops, and I hang my head, my relief nearly unbearable. “She’s safe.” My breath ragged, voice choked, I tell them, “She’s safe. Oh god, oh god, she’s okay. I thought I lost her... I thought...” I sob, hiding my crumpled face in my arms.