Dear Edward(40)

In the morning, over oatmeal, John says, “I think we should have a signal, in case you want to leave in the middle of the hearing. We can leave, whenever you want.”

“A signal?” He thinks of Dr. Mike and his baseball cap.

“Maybe you could say, It’s hot in here. If you say that, we’ll leave.”

“What if it just is hot in there?”

John looks at him. “Then don’t comment on it.”

“Oh, okay. Good idea.”

The hearing is in the National Transportation Safety Board’s conference center in downtown D.C. They park several blocks away, due to closed streets. “Must be construction,” John says as they walk. When they turn onto the block, the foot traffic is thicker, and they have to navigate through a group of people.

“What do you think?” John sounds like he’s asking himself.

The hairs on Edward’s arms rise. But before he has a chance to figure out why, a man—smelling of sharp aftershave—turns to him and says in a polite voice, “May I touch your arm for a second? My wife was on the plane.”

Edward’s first thought is that the man is lying. This is a man on a sidewalk, making things up. But someone else, as if released by the man’s words, is talking to him. “Hi, Edward? I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you saw my sister?” A woman is holding out her phone, with a photo of a curly-haired, smiling brunette.

“Oh,” Edward says, and his voice lilts, as if trying to make the syllable sound like an answer.

“Her name is Rolina?” the woman says.

Another phone is thrust in front of him, though from a different direction, with the image of a middle-aged Asian man. A blue-eyed, scruffy-looking guy offers a printed photograph of an old woman with white curls and an annoyed smile. “Does my mom look familiar?” he says.

Edward directs his eyes where they’re pointing. Screens, faces. He thinks, I should respond, but he can’t. He feels like he’s forgotten how to speak English.

He hears—the terms layered over one another—girl, mother, cousin, buddy, boyfriend.

Someone says, “I want to make a documentary about sole survivors. Can I interview you?”

John grabs Edward’s arm and pulls him to the right, off the sidewalk and into a dry cleaner. John turns the lock on the door. “I have a Kickstarter!” the guy calls through the glass.

“Hey!” the man behind the counter says, but he goes quiet when he sees the cameras and faces at the window. “Is one of you famous?” he says. “You must be famous. You in movies?”

Edward turns away from the window.

“Can I have your autograph for my wall?”

“I don’t think so,” Edward says.

John calls the NTSB contact, and a security officer meets them at the dry cleaner, takes them out the back door, and uses his body to shield Edward from the crowd. Hands make their way past the officer and touch his arm, his shoulder. There are more phone screens, more photos of men and women. He’s pelted with names.

Someone says, “What did it feel like to walk away from the plane?”

A lady with a strong Southern accent recites the Hail Mary, which is the only prayer Edward knows by heart. A homeless woman, who was a fixture at their local New York playground, used to shout the prayer all day long from her favorite bench. Sometimes Jordan would sneak up on Eddie while he was balancing an equation, or reading, and chant into his ear: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Edward can remember the last time this happened, his brother singing, and how he had taken off his sneaker and thrown it at Jordan’s retreating back, both of them laughing.

A voice from behind Edward yells: “No one would give a shit about this kid if he was black. You people realize that? They think he’s the second coming only because he’s white!”

The security officer pulls open the door. John is in front, so he walks through first. Just before Edward enters, the officer leans close and says, “High five, buddy. It was badass, surviving that crash. Bad-ass.”

Edward meets the man’s hand with his own—because he can’t see any alternative—and ducks inside the building. The beige metal door shuts behind him. He follows his uncle and a different security guard down two empty hallways. The officer points to a row of folding chairs on the side of the hall, tells them to wait, and disappears. John and Edward sit. There are no more footsteps, so Edward listens to himself and his uncle breathe. John seems to be inhaling and exhaling with deliberate slowness, as if to calm them both down. Shay was wrong, Edward thinks. He could be hurt. This hurt.

“We’re safe here,” John says. “We’re in the basement. The hearing is on the third floor. We’re right around the corner from the elevator we need.” He delivers this practical information with such relief that Edward realizes information is his uncle’s favorite thing. Data, statistics, and systems keep the world straight for John.

His uncle continues: “The hearing, assuming it’s on time, starts in ten minutes. We’re not late. I was told it usually runs about an hour. Ninety minutes tops.”

Edward says, “I’m not going to the hearing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to. I thought I did, but I actually don’t.”

“Edward?” John says.