Once Upon a Road Trip (24 page)

At a distance, she noted a chain-link fence stretched to encompass the rectangular length of the massive rift. A chorus of low rumbles and metallic groans filled the air — the off-key song of heavy construction equipment.

When Scott crossed the street and came alongside the fence, Angie tagged along close behind him. As distracted as she was with her surroundings, she was careful not to lose track of him. Passersby walked more slowly on this side of the street, many of them pausing to stare. She stopped when Scott did and they both pressed close to the barrier, straining for an unobstructed view of the enormous cavity plunging five stories below the level of the sidewalk.

The heaping mounds of jagged debris she’d seen on television had been cleared away, leaving an excavation site laden with tan dirt and segmented along the edges by strips of concrete. Bulldozers, backhoes, and cranes of all sizes went about their business below them, directed by a small army of workers wearing white hard hats. In her mind’s eye she tried to picture the Twin Towers in that place; how looming and majestic they must have been up close. The image she conjured was marred by the mental replay she’d seen again and again from different camera angles; visions of fire, smoke, and panic.

She remembered everything about the day the towers fell. Halfway across the country, she’d been sitting in her morning art class at the University when she first heard of the attack. The radio had been left on in the back of the room, as it always was for the sake of ambient background music. That day there was no music. She recalled being bemused by the tone of the newscaster’s voice as the live report was given. At first, Angie had dared to hope what she was hearing was some sort of a radio play — perhaps someone’s slightly more feasible version of
War of the Worlds
. She remembered the bewildered faces of her mute classmates, and not wanting to be the one to voice the obvious question.

To answer it for herself she had sprinted down two flights of stairs to the lobby, where she knew she would find the nearest wall-mounted television. What she also found were dozens of other students, all standing eerily still as they stared up at history unfolding. She had known then that it was real.

In a daze of uncertainty, Angie had returned to her class and distracted herself by working on a black and white abstract piece. A dark amalgamation of ink, pastels, and charcoal took shape while the radio repeated the same basic information — the Towers were burning; people were trapped. It became an ominous droning in the back of her mind.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before the report suddenly changed, announcing the south tower had collapsed. If not for the fact that all of her remaining classmates had looked up in disbelieving unison, she would have assumed she’d misheard. Until that moment, it had never occurred to her that such mighty buildings could fall.

The echo of the emotions from that day came rolling back over her in slow waves. Angie clenched her stomach to regain control, drawing her camera out of her pocket to provide herself with both diversion and documentation. Holding the lens up to the center of one of the diamond-shaped openings in the chain-link, she snapped a picture. Scott  motioned to her when she finally glanced to her left again. He seemed to have a destination in mind, and she was in no mental state to argue.

They moved south along the fence. As they rounded the corner to the right, Scott paused, gesturing to something with his chin. Set on a tapered cement pedestal, overlooking the remnants of Ground Zero, stood a rusted metal cross.

From what Angie could see, the slightly warped T-beam had writing scrawled on it in various places, though it was too far away for her to make out the lettering. She wasn’t sure if the artifact was something the excavation workers had fashioned, or if it had been discovered in that precise shape. Regardless, the sight of it was soothing to her amid the semi-apocalyptic surroundings. She exchanged a significant look with Scott before he nodded and they continued on into the shadowed south side.

Concrete barriers directed them away from the fence to the other side of the street, creating an opening for construction workers to come and go. It didn’t take long before they reached the southwest corner, where a large white banner was tacked to the slatted wood side of a staging building. Signed by The Port Authority, New York and New Jersey Police, it read:

Thank You America

For Your Prayers and Support For

All Those Lost And Their Families

The banner also signaled the end of what the public could view. Angie turned to retrace their steps, but Scott tapped her shoulder to redirect her attention. A handful of somber onlookers walked past into what looked like an outdoor hallway, formed against the base of the building behind them. Angie followed him behind the plywood wall, supposing the poorly-lit space was a crowd control measure meant to funnel them back to the nearest open street. As it turned out, it was much more than that.

She sucked in a deep breath as they entered.

The red painted wall of the building was barely visible under a tight layering of mementos. She recognized the uniform patches of every form of rescue worker, interspersed with department T-shirts that had been folded to display their message without consuming precious space: Houston Police; San Francisco Fire Department; Denver Police Department — every major city seemed to be represented. Crowded in among all of this were small American flags, photographs, hand written notes, and colorful drawings left by children. Sawhorses ran the length of the hall, draped with signature-covered T-shirts. Fresh bouquets of flowers lined the base of the wall.

This place was a memorial — a beautiful and heartbreaking American mosaic. Angie wanted to inspect every inch of it, but reasoned it could take her days to do it justice. She swallowed to ease the tightening sensation in her throat and then stepped back to take several pictures. If they turned out, she would study them later.

Stepping closer to the wall again, she suddenly wished she had something of herself to leave behind. She had come to pay her respects, but now understood she would be leaving with more than she could possibly give. Angie stared down at a loose bunch of white daisies someone had leaned against the leg of a sawhorse.

I’m sorry.
 

Something about the sawhorse itself drew her attention. She reached out and touched the uncovered end of the suspended two-by-four, grazing her fingertip along the smooth surface of the wood.  Her finger cut a line through a thick blanketing of dust.

‘For dust you are and to dust you will return.’

For the first time in her life, the concept took on a very real meaning. Hundreds of the casualties from the attack had been almost instantly cremated in the ensuing moments after each plane collided. In this place, the powder of crushed cement was indistinguishable from the remnants of human beings. Innocent victims and terrorists alike; their corporeal essence had been scattered by the wind. For a fleeting moment, she thought she could fully grasp the magnitude of the loss.

Startled by a harsh choking sound, Angie took a step backward. She began to look around, though she was dimly aware that she couldn’t command her eyes to focus. The sensation of tears flowing down her face didn’t register until they were dropping onto her collarbone. It was then she caught up to the fact that the sound had come from her own throat. Somewhere inside of her, a dam broke.

Overwhelmed, she turned around to heed the instinctive desire to flee from her own emotions. Instead, she collided with someone’s chest. Strong arms locked around her, and she heard Scott’s voice low in her ear.

“It’s okay... it’s okay.”

Angie didn’t know if he was telling her that it was okay to cry, or pleading with her to stop. In truth, it didn’t matter. She was sobbing uncontrollably, and there was nothing to do but allow it to run its course. Distantly, she wondered how strange it was to grieve for people she’d never met. People died every day — many people. Intellectually she knew this, but the thought had always seemed mercifully illusive, hovering only at the fringe of her mind. She had wanted 9/11 to be real to her, and now it was. More real than her heart could bear.

However embarrassed she was over the gut-wrenching intensity of her reaction, she was glad Scott was with her. She didn’t know how long he stood there letting the wet spot on his shirt grow before he finally led her away. Despite her condition, she did note that Scott never commented on the display, or seemed put-off by it. He even allowed reflective quietness between them for the remainder of their return trip. For all of those things, she was grateful. 

June 25
,

Today was a long day of sightseeing. The Empire State Building was an interesting experience. When nobody was looking, I fulfilled my dream of spitting over the edge of it. (I know, I know, I’m as uncivilized as I am unsanitary.) I didn’t really think about the people on the sidewalk below until we came back down to ground level and joined them. Maybe spittle evaporates before it ever reaches the bottom? I have no proof of this, but I can hope.

Lady Liberty was actually a lot smaller than I was expecting. She was also closed to the public, so I didn’t get to climb up into the torch. That part was a little disappointing. 

After that, we visited Ground Zero. It was so weird to see that gaping hole. It struck a hollow note in my soul to see it in person at last, even nine months after the fact. I was fine until we passed a memorial to all of the fallen police and firemen. I just couldn’t handle that. I guess there’s some part of me that’s always going to believe that heroes shouldn’t die.

I’m sitting on the sidelines now, watching Scott’s Kendo practice. I’ve been here for an hour already. Their routines are pretty brutal, and since there’s no air-conditioning, they have to circulate the air with floor fans. On top of that, they all have to wear helmets and padding. It’s starting to smell pretty rank in here. At least I’m getting a chance to get my head together.

Yesterday was a rest day for me. We stayed inside mostly, playing video games and talking. Somehow though…and I’m not sure why…but, Scott and I ended up kissing. I suppose with the close proximity he’s been keeping, I should have seen this coming. I’m really confused with myself right now. At least Scott seems almost as confused as I am. Obviously, there’s some sort of attraction between us. I really like him, but I have a lot of doubts.

I don’t really know what to do yet, but I’m going to discourage this...if only because I don’t want to screw up our friendship. It’s even more confusing now that I realize I also found Zak attractive on different levels. But then, what about Don? Am I really this much of a fickle idiot? I’m badly in need of some wisdom and direction here. There must be something seriously messed up in my head.

~Ang

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After a much needed shower, Scott showed up at the guest apartment and the two of them wound down from the day by watching a movie. Angie picked out a comedy, which served its purpose in lightening the mood without demanding any real depth of thought. Once the credits began to scroll, she felt far enough removed from the events of the day to express herself.

“Thanks for giving me the tour.” She looked aside to Scott and smiled. “And…sorry I got so emotional.”

“Hey, it was a good reason to get emotional.” Scott returned her smile with a lazier version of his own. “It’s not like I thought you were invincible or something.” He peeled himself up out of his sprawling recline against the couch, sitting up straight beside her. “People handle big stuff like that differently, right? I know when it first happened, I wanted to quit school and go back to D.C. to be with my mom—in case something worse happened.”

Angie nodded in understanding.

“When I got over that, I was just pissed off. I wanted to hunt down Osama bin Laden myself.” He snorted, his way of acknowledging just how irrational the idea sounded.

“I felt like I should have been here to help,” Angie said. “I seriously thought about joining the National Guard, but my dad wanted me to wait until after I finished college. I’m still thinking about signing on for some branch of the military, if I can’t figure out what I want to do after I get my Associate’s degree this fall.”

Scott’s face shifted into an ardent frown. “Come on, you don’t wanna do that. People who can’t make it in college join the military — not somebody like you.”

Angie flashed him a sharp glare. “Who told you that? My dad was in the military.” She saw the immediate regret on his face, but drove her point in further. “I’ve got friends back home that are joining up, and I promise, all of them could handle college. They just wanted to -do- something instead of sitting around talking about it.”

Scott backpedaled, throwing up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded! I just don’t like the idea of you doing something that dangerous, okay?” He gave a heavy sigh. “I’d worry about you.”

Angie folded her arms, trying to maintain a look of irritation she no longer felt. His voice, strained with sincerity, had defused her temper. After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d known him to open his mouth and insert his foot. “I can take care of myself,” she said, quieting her tone. “Besides, I’d probably end up in one of the less hazardous branches, like the Air Force. My interview with the Army recruiter was kind of a letdown.”

“You already talked to a recruiter?”

“A few months back.” Angie nodded, a faint smirk forming on her face. “He told me tanks are considered front-line, so they don’t let women drive them.”

A slow grin spread across Scott’s face. “Too bad. You would’ve made a kick-ass tank girl.”

“Yeah, I know.” She laughed.

Scott’s expression sobered. “Seriously, if I get a vote at all—” He reached out to brush her hair back from her cheek, leaving his palm to linger against it. “Stay. Find something else you want.”