story11138.xml

story11138.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2004-10-31

11 september 2002.


in ab psych, the professor lectured about a patient of his- we'll call her "Jane"- who would scream out obscenities for no reason. or, rather, for some strange reason he just couldn't discern. my coffee (grande vanilla skim latte, thank you very much) grew cold as we laughed at his stupid jokes, too tired to be picky. we learned that you have to understand a patient's worldview in order to understand the person. that medication is evil.

class let out early; i walked home.

when i stopped at the Rite Aid for shampoo, the store was eerily quiet. i hummed along with the 80s easy listening on the radio. bought a copy of Entertainment Weekly on a whim. the woman at the register gave me a dirty look as i swiped my debit card.

the homeless guy on the corner shouted "you so white, you so white you better wear sunscreen or you gonna burn" at me. as if i didn't know, as if i had never gotten a sunburn underneath a white shirt before.

E was home when i got there, half-dressed and getting ready for class. a Pop Tart in his right hand. we joked a bit, laughed at his imitation of G, the ab psych prof, and "phenomenologically."

the phone rang.

i answered; E went to brush his teeth.

*

"oh my god, oh my god, oh my god."

*

we listened to the news on the radio.

internet news sites were slow to load; the television didn't have any reception. the broadcasters sounded broken and world-weary. scared. this just in, this just in, this just in.

imagining the images in our heads.

running out into the street when we heard a plane fly overhead; the woman across the street, broom in hand, meeting us on the double yellow line.

huddled in the middle of the street.

*

there are mornings when the air is too heavy to breathe.

*

E was on the phone with his mother; i couldn't sit still. my fingers fluttered, trembled, and i paced the apartment for over an hour. E and i would cross paths in the living room.

his mother was crying. his brother was in boot camp, and she was crying and afraid. E cried, too, and my nails cut into my palms.

*

at my mother's wedding that saturday, my uncle would tell us about waiting for the ambulances that never came. working at a hospital in the Bronx, put on alert, and then there was nothing. the moment when you realize what that means.

there is always a moment.

*

i try not to cry.

*

my mother stopped at my house on her way home from work, and i climbed in her car with a bag and my teddy bear. five again, and "i want my mommy."

we sat on her old soft couch, wrapped in blankets, and watched CNN. CNBC. NBC. CBS. ABC. a litany of letters, of dust-covered men and women, of words. flipping, though, always flipping, flipping, flipping.

my (soon-to-be, then) step-father on the phone, trying to reach his daughters in NYC. busy signals. hot cocoa and hugs, crying, scared.

not sure which was worse: knowing or not.

*

E took his rosary from the wall and prayed; i joked (half-heartedly) that i was a wedding/funeral Catholic who was willing to make exceptions for important causes.

*

my mother stood in the doorway.

*

i didn't cry. i didn't cry. i didn't cry.

*

one by one, people called in. "i'm okay, you're okay, but." roll call. "present, present, absent. Bueller?"

*

my mother's wedding, and there were empty places at some of the tables. and we tried not to stare.

in church, for the first time since my grandmother's funeral, and i watched the crucifix for some sort of sign that things would be okay. my sisters leaned over to ask, "what do we do now? kneel or stand?" and i was tempted to say "just breathe, okay? that's all there is."

but we danced at the reception, all the women and girls singing along, full-voice, to "I Will Survive." the men and boys joining in halfway through. drinking. dancing, dancing, dancing until we were dizzy with it.

i woke up on sunday tangled in my blankets and unable to breathe.

*

my nephew was sent home from school for flying a toy airplane into a building made of red and green blocks.

*

in Israeli Studies, the professor told us we should have been prepared. "in Israel," he boasted, "we're always ready for tragedy. we see a bag on the street, and we don't pick it up. we call the police. Americans are too complacent."

but we mourned together, that afternoon sitting on our desktops, and we said "yes, yes we weren't ready for this. yes. but that doesn't make it any less of a tragedy, doesn't make it hurt any less."

and the prof nodded, "yes. exactly."

*

when i wake up to the air crushing my chest, when i curl up on the bed and wrap myself around my pillow. the CD player on loud.

i try to remember. i try to forget.

today, i cry.

tomorrow.