96 Hours (22 page)

“You’re an amazing woman, Ms. Ryan,” Abby whispered, toying with the ends of Erica’s hair.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Ms. Hayes,” Erica responded as she looked up into those breathtaking eyes.

“I don’t know what else to say. I feel like there’s so much, but—” She shook her head. “It’s probably too much, so I don’t know what to say.” Her tone was gentle and her expression was both apologetic and uncertain.

“Then don’t say anything,” Erica told her softly. “Just kiss me and we’ll go. Okay?”

Abby stepped close. Erica inhaled, trying to take in the scent of her and sear it into her memory. Abby touched Erica’s shoulder, slid her hand down her arm and entwined their fingers. Erica tipped her head up and when their lips met, suddenly there was nobody else. There was no bustling airport crowd. There were no announcements over the PA. There weren’t people jostling them to get to the baggage carousel. There was only Erica and Abby and the sweet tenderness of their kiss.

They stepped back from each other a little breathless, separating yet keeping eye contact. Abby adjusted her backpack on her back; Erica hefted her laptop case on her shoulder and shifted her grip on the tote bag, each continuing to step backward as they did so. Finally, Erica lifted one hand and gave half a smile.

“Bye, Abby.”

Abby returned the wave. “Bye.”

Erica turned and headed toward her gate.

She tried to ignore the hot tears streaking her face.

She didn’t look back.

October 15, 2001
Monday

Chapter 17

Exactly four weeks after departing Gander, Newfoundland, Abby had yet to leave Connecticut. She’d had plans to; she was going to stop in and visit with her mother, stay with her for two nights, then hop another plane and zip across the country to San Francisco. There was going to be partying and reminiscing with her friend Gina from high school. Then she was going to catch a bus and ride up the coast to Portland to visit her cousin, Derek.

All those plans fell away upon her return when her mother wrapped her in an embrace and began to cry. Abby felt like she was ten years old again and wanted nothing more than the safety and security of her mother’s arms at that moment and for several days afterward. It was only during that hug, during that physical connection, that it occurred to her it was really just luck that had kept her mother—or her father or her uncle or any number of her friends—from being anywhere near Ground Zero on September eleventh. Anybody could have gotten caught in the horror. Anybody did.

Abby’s parents were divorced, had been since Abby was ten. Her father had been traveling for work on the eleventh and had ended up stranded in Phoenix. He returned from
his
exile a day after she did and they met for dinner soon after. He was as emotional as her mother, without the tears. He looked at her, touched her, kept stroking her hair as if he was uncertain she was really there with him.

Friends called constantly, checking on one another. They got together much more often than normal. Abby heard from friends she’d lost touch with and instead of being suspicious, she was touched. She called her college roommate who lived in New Jersey, even though they hadn’t spoken in almost a year. All the spontaneous contact was strange, but somehow comforting.

The attacks on the towers had changed the attitude of the entire country. A full month later and it was still first and foremost on the minds of the majority of the American population, especially those in and around New York City. The country had been sucker punched, and she was confused, angry, and devastated by the loss of over 3,000 of her people. New Yorkers who weren’t enraged walked around in a zombie-like state, wandering and bewildered, some still posting flyers and searching for loved ones who had yet to be found, holding out hope that they weren’t buried in the rubble of the towers, despite knowing that was the most likely place. Television news finally started to cover other stories, but there were still pieces running on the victims of the attacks. You didn’t have to look hard to find nonstop reporting, and Ground Zero had become a hub of endless activity: debris being moved, shifted, rifled through; body parts being catalogued and—hopefully—identified.

Keeping in touch with the Bakers was hard, but important to Abby. In fact, she had been visiting them at their home in Brooklyn two-and-a-half weeks after their return from Newfoundland when the call came in that rescue workers had finally found and identified the body of Tyson Baker. By then, the entire Baker family had accepted that Tyson was probably lost to them, but the confirmation was devastating. Abby took her leave right away, reluctant to intrude upon a scene that should be limited to family. She’d managed to hold it together for most of the train ride home, but her shields crumbled quickly and she’d spent the rest of the day in her room, crying and heartbroken for a family that didn’t deserve such pain.

And then her brain went on a rampage for the umpteenth time about how no family deserved such pain, and she was angry and upset about the situation all over again.

Such was the life of a New Yorker a mere month after the attacks.

It was exhausting and depressing and yet Abby couldn’t bring herself to leave.

When she wasn’t busy being upset or trying to comfort friends who’d lost family or family who’d lost friends, Abby’s thoughts always returned to the same subject: Erica.

They hadn’t spoken since the airport. They hadn’t e-mailed. Abby had dialed the first six digits of Erica’s cell phone on at least five occasions, but had never been able to follow through with the call. What would she say? How would she open? What could they talk about that wasn’t the one night of incredibly passionate sex they’d had? Because that’s what was most prominent in Abby’s mind: the sight of Erica’s naked body beneath her, the smell of her arousal, the sound of her climax. Sure, there were a lot of other things and she had the unfamiliar desire to learn more about the beautiful, sexy, quiet, confusing and moody woman with whom she’d shared a room for three nights, but the sex . . .
Jesus, the sex.
She couldn’t get it out of her head. The connection they’d made was new to Abby, unfamiliar and impossible to ignore.

E-mails from both Michael and Brian had arrived on a fairly regular basis since they’d parted in the airport, the first from each coming within a day or two of Abby’s return home. After that, every few days and no less often than once a week. Both men were doing fine, Michael back in England and Brian thinking of asking out a woman in the office building across the street from his. Abby wondered if either of them had been in contact with Erica, but felt weird asking because they’d know right away that she had
not
been and they’d want to know why. Well, Michael would want to know why. Brian would already know why and he’d get all over her about it. So she kept quiet.

Inexplicably restless on that Monday morning, Abby had two sharp thoughts hit her out of the blue. One: she had to
do something.
She had no desire to run off to the far reaches of the country again—she was surprisingly happy just being at home and close to her family—but she was feeling useless, like dead weight, and decided she’d laid around long enough. It had been a long time since she’d felt like she was contributing to society and, just like that, she knew that it was time to get back to it. She vowed to look into ways she could help. Right after she accomplished the other thing taking up too much space in her brain: the need to contact Erica.

She’d waited long enough. She’d been a coward long enough. She’d thought about Erica long enough. She’d missed her long enough.

Abby stopped and examined those thoughts. She’d missed Erica? Was that true?

There really was no question; she had. Admitting it to herself felt strangely liberating.
Yes, I’ve missed the woman I spent a whopping ninety-six hours with. So sue me.

She rifled through some papers on the small computer desk in the corner of her mother’s dining room and pulled out the one with contact information for Michael, Brian, and Erica. Then she stared at the telephone for a long while as she tried to formulate in her head exactly what she’d say. After twenty frustrating minutes, she muttered, “Fuck it,” and dialed.

On the fourth ring, Abby glanced at the clock and realized it was mid-morning and Erica was probably at work, like most normal people. Still, her breath caught as Erica’s calm, smoothly recorded voice came on the line.

“I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.”

The most generic of generic messages, but Abby still called back three more times to listen. Bits and pieces of things Erica had said during their short time together began firing through her head like race cars zipping past at exorbitant speeds.

“ . . . there’s only one bed.”

“You couldn’t afford me.”

“I’m going to hate myself in the morning. And you.”

“
Keep your eyes open. Look at me.
”

“
Do you trust me?
”

“It’s okay, Abby. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Abby didn’t allow herself to let it go any further. She didn’t want to recall Erica telling her how careless she was, how she didn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody but herself. Instead, she gave up on the phone and went to the computer. Maybe an e-mail was the better way to go.

But just as she had been stuck on what to say over the phone, she was equally puzzled by what to type in an e-mail. Should she keep it general, impersonal?
Hi, how are you? What’s new?
Or should she dive right into the specific?
I can’t stop thinking about you and I know it’s weird, but I miss you.

With a frustrated groan, she began typing. Then she backspaced so she could start over.

She typed a different sentence, then pounded on the backspace key some more, muttered curses escaping her lips.

“Why is this so difficult?” she asked aloud. “It’s a goddamn e-mail. I just want to say hi, ask how she’s doing. What’s the big freaking deal?”

Finally, after taking many deep, steadying breaths, she settled down and did what her mother had always told her was the best way to write a letter. She wrote from her heart.

Hi, Erica

I apologize for not contacting you sooner than now, but I’ve been thinking a lot about you and I wanted to say hello. How are you? Have you settled back into work? Have you heard from Michael and Brian? Or the MacDougals? It’s kind of weird that I could miss a place I only spent four days in—and under not-so-favorable circumstances—but I do. Do you ever feel like that?

Anyway, I hope you’re well. I tried calling, but got no answer. I forgot you have a job.
If you get a free minute, drop me a line and let me know how you’re doing. I miss you.

Abby

She debated the “I miss you” for several long moments before deciding to leave it in. After all, whether Erica thought it was weird or not, it was the truth. Her finger hovering over the mouse button, which in turn kept the cursor hovering over the word “send,” Abby wavered one last time before giving in and clicking.

It was off. There was no turning back, and she immediately began wondering what she’d do if Erica never responded. It would sting more deeply than she cared to admit, so she decided a distraction was in order. It was time to, as had crossed her mind earlier,
do something.

Volunteering their time had always been something the members of the Hayes family were big on, even before Abby’s parents split up. It had been important to them to teach their daughter the importance of giving her time, that it was her duty to give what she could to those less fortunate than she was. She’d done everything from work at a soup kitchen to ringing the bell for the Salvation Army’s red kettle campaign. Volunteering was nothing new to Abby and it was something she enjoyed doing. Her mother had many different contacts, but Abby knew that in this situation, she should go right to the big guns: the American Red Cross. She made a call.