Chapter 4 Eloise #4
The reflecting pools—-each one set on the footprint of a tower—-are reverse fountains. Instead of sending plumes and jets into the air, the water falls thirty feet, and then another twenty feet into a deeper void. It’s a man--made cascade over dark granite, and it feels like absence.
Molly shows me the way to the South Pool.
On the lip around the edge are brass panels, engraved with the names of those who died in the South Tower, on Flight 175, at the Pentagon, on Flight 77, and on Flight 93.
The companion pool, set where the North Tower once stood, lists those who died in the North Tower, on Flight 11, and in the 1993 bombing.
She stops about halfway along the granite lip and points.
eloise ambrose
“I used to come here with Tabs, on the anniversary,” Molly says. “Did you know that the brass has its own heating and cooling system, so it’s never too hot or too cold to touch?”
“How do you know that?”
I watch her unravel her braid. “I made it a point to learn. For a long time, this place was all I had of you,” she says simply.
She lets the ribbon flutter between her fingers.
With her free hand, she digs some coins from her pocket and uses them to wedge the ribbon into the grooves of my name. “I left you a ribbon, every year.”
I look around at the others regarding the memorial pools. Some of them, too, are leaving bits of themselves behind.
“I think a part of me did die that day,” I confess.
“I think a part of all of us did.” She turns to me. “Are you glad? That we came?”
I draw in a breath. The outdoor memorial pools are so expansive, the antithesis of the walls closing in on you belowground in the museum.
“I feel dirty,” I say finally. “An event which ended so many lives was what allowed me to start over.” I understand now why the victims’ families lashed out when the news story about me broke—-partly in anger, for using a tragedy to save myself; partly in grief, because I was the only one who came back.
I touch the corner of my engraved name. “This doesn’t belong here,” I murmur. “I don’t belong here.”
“Come.” Molly grabs my hand, tugging me away from the pool toward a tree festooned with white blossoms, and protected by a circular railing.
“This is a pear tree that was planted in the concourse of the old World Trade Center. After the attacks, it was burned and buried in rubble and its branches were all snapped off. But when rescuers found it, they brought it to a nursery where it was coaxed back to life, and then eventually brought back here. Every year, they send pear seedlings to places that have been turned inside out by something tragic: Uvalde. Ukraine. Parkland. Haiti. You have to see hope to have hope.” Molly reaches in to touch the bark. “It’s called the Survivor Tree.”
I flatten my palm next to hers, so close that our pinkies cross.
“You see?” my daughter tells me. “You belong here, too.”
When we arrive back at the hotel, Molly says she is going to nurse Adie. I tell her I am going to walk to clear my head. I start wandering aimlessly down Fifth Avenue. I figure I will turn in to the first park I pass, maybe sit on a bench and collect my feelings.
But instead, I find myself staring up at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Gothic spires rising like stalagmites from the sidewalk. Like every other former New Yorker, I have passed this church a thousand times, but I have never gone inside, until now.
I sit in one of the pews. I fold my hands in front of me, bow my head, and pray for the first time in decades. “We do not weep for the deceased,” I whisper, “for they are resting in their Father’s arms.”
I feel a tickle along my chin and shoulder as a shaft of pink light streams from the stained glass to fall on me.
From the corner of my eye, I am certain I see my sister with her head bent, her hands pressed together in prayer. Focusing, as always, unlike me.
Adie turns to me as that rosy glow strokes my forearm.
I miss you.
I hear her loud and clear.
Molly texts me when I have nearly gotten back to the hotel, after walking back feeling lighter and freer than I have in years.
Molly: Jesse’s visiting a friend at a fire dept.
Molly: Adie and I are being ladies who lunch.
A picture pops up: the baby with her hands clenching a Venti Starbucks drink like it’s a bottle. I laugh out loud.
Georgia: Where are you? There are 12000 Starbucks in this city.
. . .
. . .
Molly: You’re getting warmer. Keep walking.
I grin, glancing around to try to find that familiar Starbucks logo.
Molly: I can see you.
Georgia: That’s not creepy at all.
I walk another half block and then see it—-catty--corner across the street is a Starbucks, and parked at one of the two outside tables are Molly and Adie, in her stroller. My phone buzzes in my hand.
Molly: Ding ding ding.
I think of how normal this feels, to be with her and Adie. To pick up where we left off, even with that massive gap between us. I think of how unfortunate I have been, but also how lucky.
Across the street, Molly stands up and waves. I wave back. The Walk signal turns, and I take that first step, momentarily blinded by the sun, or maybe by my future.