story1618.xml

story1618.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-08-31

I wake up tired on Tuesday morning. I?m in the seventh month of my pregnancy and it?s hard to sleep. Dreams, baby pressing on bladder, baby pressing on lungs. I crunch my bowl of shredded wheat in front of the television and try to decide whether or not to go to work or stay home. I watch the Today Show, I listen halfheartedly to the fall fashion advice, or whatever. Then a news break-in: a shaky view of the twin towers, smoke pouring from a small hole in the side, near the top. A plane has crashed into the building, they announce. Unbelievable. I watch for the details, then go to wake my husband. He does not believe me. I pull him from bed to the living room to see it for himself. Suddenly feeling awake, I have an idea. What if we went down to the Promenade to take some photos? I was going to go to work late, anyway. And how often does the chance come along to see something like this?

My husband dresses quickly and sits in front of the news, loading film into his camera and calling out details to me. The plane is a commercial airliner. No one knows why it crashed, how it flew off course. Just as I finish dressing he shouts: another plane has hit the second tower! Static fills the screen. Now we know that this was no accident.

We rush around the corner to Eastern Parkway, straining for a view of the towers, but our sight is obstructed still. People on the street; some of them know, and others still walk unaware. We debate the chances of catching the subway and decide to get the bus instead. The bus riders know. They crane for a look as we round the circle onto Flatbush Avenue, but still, one cannot see a thing. A woman stands to give me a seat and now I have a view of backs and heads. We can surmise now that it is an act of terror. The bus is silent as we lumber slowly down the crowded avenue towards downtown. Soon, we are traveling so slowly, that it would be faster to walk, so we climb from the bus and walk as quickly as my body allows towards the Promenade. All of the downtown Brooklyn buildings have been evacuated and there are crowds filling the streets. It is a beautiful day; there is truly not a cloud in the sky. People are happy to have the day off work and some are smiling and joking, oblivious as to why they have been asked to return home.

We are a few blocks from the Promenade when my husband decides we should head for the Brooklyn Bridge instead. He thinks we could walk all the way into Manhattan and perhaps get a closer look at what?s going on downtown. Having never crossed the bridge in this direction, I don?t know where the pedestrian walk begins. My stomach feels tight and I am out of breath. I don?t want to go downtown. It feels too dangerous to me and I tell my husband this. His eyes flash anger and he pulls a passerby aside to ask her the way to the walk. She eyes my belly and points in the general direction of the bridge. ?Keep walking this way, but I wouldn?t do it in her condition. It?s not safe.? I tell my husband that he can go if he likes, but I?m only going as far as the Promenade. He begins to protest when a man rounds the corner in front of us in tears, yelling, ?The building fell down! The whole building just fell down!? I think to myself, what a nasty joke to play. Eyes follow him down the street as he runs away, sobbing.

We can see it from a block away. Or rather we cannot see it: the whole of downtown Manhattan is consumed by black smoke. People stand on the brick walk overlooking the city with dropped jaws. Some are stunned into silence and some are crying. Hands are affixed over open mouths and still more hands cover eyes and clench hair and cradle heads. As the smoke rises, we see the hole where the building once stood. We see, but we still don?t believe. We struggle to believe that it has happened. We collectively ask ourselves, is this some nightmare? Will we wake up to the awful sound of the alarm soon and turn to our partners and tell them of the horror we?ve just dreamed?

My husband begins to take photos in the clearing smoke. He is still snapping them when the windows explode from the second tower. At first I think, confetti! The glass is catching the sunlight and sparkling like some beautiful parade. It takes me several seconds that feel like forever to realize that the other tower is collapsing on itself. A cry goes up around us as the second punch to the gut is delivered. As the last twinkling bits disappear, the blackness returns and envelops the island. The water turns black. We think, the apocalypse must be like this. We think that maybe this is it.

My eyes are dry although there are men and women weeping openly all around me. But then people begin to talk and I overhear the man next to me telling someone else that there are more buildings that have been hit. That the Pentagon was one of them. Was my father working there today? Did he have a meeting scheduled there today by some chance? I will call him, the chance is slim, but I will call him just to make sure. I realize that in our haste to leave the apartment, I have forgotten to bring my phone. I put my head down on my arms and the tears come now for some reason. I think of the people I know in the towers, and then I think of all the hundreds of people I don?t know. The weight of the thousands of deaths presses heavily on me. My husband puts an arm around me but I cannot look at him yet. I whisper to him that my father works at the Pentagon some days. A man next to me hears this and I hear him repeat the information into his phone, ?There?s a pregnant lady next to me whose dad works at the pentagon.? It?s only then that I touch my belly and remember.

I watch the dark cloud lift into the sky, leaving behind a smoking hole. It is snowing, I think, as ash floats to us across the river. Papers soar like birds through the air to Brooklyn. Someone tells me that it is dangerous for me to be breathing in the air in my condition. It is true, but what can I do? It?s all around us, raining down finely. We sit for a while, listening to people around us talk. Someone has a police scanner and we hear the voice of a lone fireman in the building, calling over and over for help. We decide to leave. We want to stay, but I need a bathroom. My husband approaches a man standing outside a doorway and asks if we can come in to use the restroom. The man is friendly and he directs us through the front door, through the lobby, and to the bathrooms. After I finish, I wash the ash from my eyes.

We have to walk home. Flatbush Avenue is closed to traffic and all of the buses are filled, anyway. We make the slow procession up the avenue and are joined by people covered in ash, in blood. Some are missing shoes. Some are walking alone and so nonchalantly it is as if they are simply coming home from work at the end of the day. Bottles of water are handed out from delis and churches. We have to stop a lot because my belly is tightening in painless but uncomfortable cramps. Before long, we don?t even notice the smell in the air.

When we get home, the light is flashing on the machine. Amongst the calls are some from my father. I hear his voice, he is asking me if I?m alright, he is asking, ?Was today the day you had a meeting downtown?? He is alright. The phone lines are crowded and I don?t reach him until later in the day. There are tears in his voice, I can hear that he is crying with relief. I try not to cry, but it proves impossible.