Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Empty your mind.
She scooches back on the bed, pulling her feet up and sitting cross-legged. With her elbows she presses down on her knees until she feels the stretch in her inner thighs. That’s good. She presses harder. Focusing on her body. Fingertips propping up her temples. Eyes closed.
Inhale. One, two, three.
Allow thoughts to enter, acknowledge them, then usher them out.
Kindly, firmly show them the door.
Thanks for stopping by, thoughts.
Thank you, but you can…
Thank you…
She’s terrible at this.
She uncrosses her legs and lies flat on her back. Meditation won’t work now, when it’s never worked before. Not even when she subscribed to the app everybody said was foolproof. Sorry, guys—it’s no proof against this fool!
Her thoughts don’t leave. They loiter. The FDNY struggles, it struggles, why is it struggling, please don’t struggle. And now Nick is scared. But it’s no triumph, having a partner in dread. It’s a little sickening, in fact.
She stares up at the blinking smoke detector. She went after him too hard about his so-called disappointment. See, there, she still doesn’t take it seriously— so-called— even though it’s obviously a big deal to him. He’s right: she’s upset about the book thing. She wasn’t at first, but the more she thinks about it…all his little jokes, his superiority, for years. And now he thinks he can praise her, show a little interest, and it’s fine?
But she also genuinely wants to understand. Why didn’t he persevere, instead of renouncing what he wanted in a huff? He doesn’t read his beloved poetry anymore. What a man. He couldn’t just love it, he had to win it, conquer it. Possess it on his terms. And when he didn’t get his way? It reminds her of nothing so much as when she offers the boys a cookie, and they demand two, and she holds firm at one, and they storm off, insisting that if they can’t have two they’ll have none. Nick did that. Rejected one cookie because he couldn’t have two. Hurting only himself, because guys? Nobody gives a shit if you don’t have any cookies.
It’s sad. But also interesting. The kind of thing he’d have examined endlessly, had it been someone else under the microscope. Her, for example. Oh, he’d have had a field day, delving and probing! But she asks a few questions and she’s attacking him?
He needs to get his story straight. Either she’s an extraordinary person or a scheming emotional terrorist. She can’t be both.
Seventeen people are confirmed dead, including three members of a New York One news crew stationed where the majority of the debris hit the ground.
Oh, Juliana! Here she is thinking about her books, and cookies, while people are dead. She needs to move. She jumps off the bed and nearly loses her balance. Easy now. She begins to walk toward the window. Heel, toe, heel. Small, careful steps, the length of her feet. When she gets to the window, she’ll turn and come back the same way.
She watches her feet. She used to have to move like this in dance class when she was a girl. Her mother had signed her up, hoping to cure her clumsiness. She loved it. The feel of the wood barre, polished by decades of eager little hands. Watching the older girls slip on their candy-pink toe shoes, crisscrossing the satin ribbons up their calves.
She didn’t last long enough to get those shoes. She was a terrible dancer. But she did stop falling on her face so much.
Now she steps. Steps again.
This is her.
She is here.
Nick storms back into the room.
This is a disgrace, he says. I’m calling again.
He finds the phone on the bed. She’s made it to the window. She turns and begins heel-toeing back.
Busy, he says. Of course!
He hurls the phone down, but instantly picks it up again.
—hearing rumors from numerous sources concerning a lax permitting process and numerous violations of the city’s building code during construction—
How do I search Twitter? he asks.
She looks up from her feet. Tap the magnifying glass at the bottom of the screen—
What are you talking about? he snaps. What magnifying glass?
Go to the browser. Tap the button at the bottom right of the screen. You’ll see all the pages I have open.
He taps. Taps again. Jesus, Jenny. What is all this?
Choose Twitter, she says, refusing to be riled by him, as he so obviously wants her to be. You’ll see a magnifying glass icon at the bottom. Tap it, and a search bar will pop—
Fine fine fine. What do I typein?
There are a couple of different hashtags. Do manhattanhotelfire. All one word.
He types. She continues her slow walk toward the bed. She curls her toes, feeling the carpet. Barely lifts her feet, so her soles brush along the plush surface as she steps.
Jesus, have you read some of this shit?
She inhales. Steps. Exhales.
You didn’t tell me people were making jokes.
Questions are also being raised about what appear to be a series of systemic failures, particularly concerning the building’s sprinklers, which, if they have been functioning at all, have completely failed to extinguish—
Nick? Do you think maybe we should make some calls?
They’re not answering, he mutters. The line is completely tiedup.
I mean, should we call Tom and Caroline?
He looks up, outraged. Why the hell would we do that?
I think it might be timeto—
No. That’s—that’s just dumb, Jenny. It’s a dumb idea. Why are you walking like that?
I’m sorry I upset you, she says. But there’s no need tobe—
Upset me? Please. Nothing you could say would ever…oh, for fuck’s sake.
He’s looking at the television now. She follows his gaze.
CNN is showing another TikTok. This one is of a girl dancing to a pop song. The screen splits, showing footage of the fire beside her. The explosion on the twenty-fifth floor repeats in a loop as she dances, her moves synchronized to the song and the blooming fire.
…provoked outrage, prompting calls to improve their content moderation regarding—
Unbelievable, he says. We’re fucking entertainment.
She resumes her walk toward the bed. Deep breaths. In and out. Avoiding looking at him, though she can feel the agitation vibrating off him as he gets up. Sits down. Rakes his fingers through his hair. He jumps up again, grabs the phone.
CNN is condemning it, but they’re still showing it, he says. This is…people are amused . They’re cheering.
He predicted that himself, not so long ago. The world wants to see us suffer. She doesn’t remind him. It wouldn’t help.
And the conspiracy theories, he says, shaking his head at the phone. Migrants set the fire, China did it. George Soros is behindit.
Did you see the one accusing PETA? she asks. They don’t get blamed for much anymore. It was a nice throwback.
Jesus, Jenny! How can you be joking right now?
She’s trying to be patient with him. She’s been scared for longer, she’s more used to the feeling. But comeon.
I guess it’s a reflex, she says.
He scowls and returns to the phone. You’ve got me pegged, don’t you? I’m a failed clown. You and your husband can agree on that.
Nick, I don’t agree with him—
Whatever, he says. I don’t care. He can think what he wants. So can you.
Put the phone down, she says. Let’s lie on the bed a minute.
I’m fine.
Come on. I’ll rub your back.
Fuck off, Jenny! You think you can comfort me? Because you’re calm now? How do you think you got that way?
Because of you, she says gently. You helped me, Nick.
You’re goddamn right I did. So you can’t be all serene now, okay, and hold that over my head, all that power, and—
Power? she says. How is this about—
He drops the phone—almost throws it onto the bed. He puts his handsup.
Why am I getting worked up? He waves his hands at the phone, the television. Humanity, sinking to a new low—it shouldn’t shock me. I’m wasting my energy. Being angry won’t change a goddamn thing.
He walks past her, not even looking at her. He stands at the window, arms crossed.
She resumes her careful tread across the room. Going diagonally now, toward the desk.
So what if it won’t change anything? she says. You’re still entitled to your feelings.
Can you be quiet? Can you—what are you doing? Why are you walking like an idiot?
She stops. I know you’re scared, Nick, but don’t be an asshole.
I’m not scared, he says.
She can’t help it. She laughs.
I’m not, Jenny! I’m furious. Thisis—
It does appear from here on the ground that the fire, far from being contained at the twenty-fifth floor, is spreading upward.
They both turn to the television, which is showing a wide shot of the building.
Counting the floors, we believe the highest level to be breached, where I’m seeing flames behind the windows on the left-hand side, is the thirty-third floor.
Bye-bye, Barbara, he says.
Jesus, Nick!
Contrary to earlier reports, the FDNY has stated that no rooftop rescue plan is in the works. According to a department spokesperson, current weather conditions, specifically significant wind gusts, would make such an operation highly dangerous.
Well, we’re dead, he says. We’re dead!
She crosses to the sofa and sits down. She feels sick.
No rescue from above. Fire creeping up from below. Nine floors away now.
Her mouth tastes sour. She swallows, forcing the nausea back down.
—insists there is at least one feasible route down what is still a structurally sound edifice, which will be available when—and if—the fire is contained and the smoke cleared.
Structurally sound, he says. That’s what they called the World Trade Center.
Nick. Please.
Remember? They insisted on its structural soundness . Right up until the moment the South Tower went down.
She has pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them. She’s rocking slightly.
We shouldn’t have come, she says. We shouldn’t have come. We should never have come.
He turns on her now. She can almost feel it, a whipping around of his body as he trains his rage and his fear on her.
What are you talking about? We did come. We’re here. So, conditionals? Counterfactuals? They’re pretty fucking pointless right now.
Listen to him. Her protector. Her savior. He’s drawn close, he’s looming over her. If she raises her head, she’ll find him looking down at her with an expression that matches his contemptuous tone. So she doesn’t raise her head.
We’ve been over this, Jenny. We had no choice. In coming here, or in anything wedo.
He’s not in control. She knows the feeling. But to think, as she did not so long ago, that he could keep her safe. Or that she could tend to him!
Talk about dumb. Talk about pointless.
They are alone here, each of them. They don’t know each other. They don’t know themselves. They’re strangers.
They always have been.
Don’t you get it? he says. This is always where we were going to end up, you andme.
She doesn’t want to respond—she has warned herself not to—but she can’t helpit.
From birth? she says.
He throws his hands in the air with a look like, Well, yeah, genius.
She jumps up and crosses the room. This only agitates him further. She can feel him at her heels. She enters the bathroom and tries to shut the door, but he’s already throughit.
Taking a bath? he says. You’re in luck. The tub’s full!
Leave me alone, Nick.
You wanted to talk about this, Jenny. You kept coming back to it. Whether we can choose, or change. Whether we have any control. This is the perfect illustration! You wish you weren’t here? Then everything would have to be different. You’d be a different person.
She leaves the bathroom. He follows.
No more books. No more famous authorhood. No more faking your fake orgasms with me for six years. That work for you?
Stop it, Nick. Stop talking.
You didn’t have a choice, Jenny. Why can’t you see that? We’re here. We were always going to be here. And you should be glad about that.
She drags the duvet to the sofa and wraps herself in it, turning to the window. She won’t let him upset her.
But he won’t leave her alone.
Seriously, you should feel comforted. It relieves you of accountability. Your failings as a wife, a mother, a Catholic—not your problem! Your total lack of self-awareness, all your little lies and evasions? Not your fault!
Nick, I swear to God if you don’t stop talking, I’ll—
And the big lies, too. Cheating on your imbecile husband, for years . Fucking another woman’s husband. Don’t fret about that little bit of treachery against the sisterhood—you couldn’t help yourself!
Shut up! she cries.
Why do I have to work so hard to convince you? He’s standing over her again, voice raised, insistent. You already believe women are enslaved. That Feminism 101 insight makes sense to you, but you can’t see that it applies across the board, that none of us are free, that we’re all trapped in what is essentially one giant burning hotel room?
She looks up at him, glaring down at her.
We’re not free, he says. We. Are. Not. Free. How do you not see that, Jenny? Tell me. How do you not seeit?
And just like that, she does.
She seesit.
Not his it . A far more important one.
The answer to everything.
And it’s in her hands!
She just has to do one thing.
Can she?
She looks up at him. Glaring down at her, hands on his hips, waiting.
She takes a deep breath.