Hope and Other Punch Lines(36)

“I wish that were possible, but I lost my husband in the attacks. Best I can hope for is to shift my perspective. You know those tattoos that people get that say something like Be grateful? It’s kind of like that,” Sheila says.

“For the record, if I got a tattoo it wouldn’t say Be grateful. Just so you know,” I tell Abbi, but she and Sheila ignore me. As they should.

“I find the photograph empowering. The world literally exploded and I survived,” Sheila says, and then points at me. “He has a theory that we need to laugh through the worst things in life. I have a theory that experiencing the hard stuff is how we grow to be a better version of ourselves. That’s how we keep it from being a waste.”

Sheila reaches out to pat Abbi’s hand. I wish I could do that. Touch Abbi casually. Like there’s nothing scary about it.

“Where’s the picture?” Abbi asks.

“In the master bathroom.” Sheila’s sly grin again reminds me of my mom. It’s a Do not underestimate me smile. It’s an I’m more interesting than I look smile. “The bathroom is where everyone is most themselves, right? So that’s where it goes. Where the purest essence of me can see it.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way. That the picture could be empowering,” Abbi says.

“Tell us about that day,” I say.

“What do you want to know? Mitch, my husband, worked on the ninety-fourth floor of the North Tower. Everyone died. Everyone. I never got back a single body part. We had a funeral for a casket full of photographs, which in retrospect makes absolutely no sense. A picture is not the same thing as the thing. We didn’t get so much as a finger. I worked on the seventh floor of the South Tower, so I ran. That’s what you can see in the original photo, me second from the right, though in my bathroom version, I’m cropped out, which might make it less weird that I have it? I don’t know. I have my limits, I guess. In the original, though, it’s me running barefoot because I kicked off my heels. Now I don’t go anywhere except in sneakers. For work, I got these black ones that I pretend look like dress shoes,” Sheila says. I can’t help it. I look at her feet. She’s wearing fuzzy slippers, which makes me feel better until I notice that they have a solid rubber sole.

“Did you keep in touch with anyone from the picture?” I ask.

“Of course not,” she says.

“He’s convinced we have, like, this secret communication channel,” Abbi says.

“I’m surprised some morning show hasn’t staged a reunion or something,” I say.

“Lucky for me, the media has only ever been interested in Baby Hope,” Sheila says. “The rest of us got to fly under the radar.”

“How about at the time? Did you talk to any of them then?” I ask, unwilling to let it go so easily.

“Nope. I ran my ass off. Screamed the whole way. I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”

“How about this guy in the back? The one with the University of Michigan cap?” I ask, but she cuts me off.

“You know what you made me realize? With your theory? I’m stronger, but I laugh a lot less now,” Sheila says. “Mitch used to crack me up all the time. He was hilarious. Every time my friends set me up with someone new—all these old, bald, divorced men—I think, You’re not as funny as Mitch. Which is unkind, I know. But I was so lucky to have him.”

Her eyes brim with tears, and yet she’s smiling. I think, This is the first time in my life I’ve seen someone simultaneously experience gratitude and pain. Whenever I’ve asked my mom about my dad, she’s always looked hurt and angry. Like my curiosity is a criticism. “He was better than everyone else, and that’s one of the reasons I try to be better too. But not laughing so much is the hardest part. Not because I’m not okay now. I am. It’s been fifteen years. Things get easier. You learn how to carry your grief. Still, everything was more fun with Mitch around.” Sheila shakes her head back and forth once, then twice, as if to dislodge a memory, but then she looks up at us, helpless.

We watch as the balance shifts to pure grief. I think, Maybe it’s better that I don’t have memories of the person I’ve lost. Maybe it’s been unfair of me to ask my mom to give me some of hers.

“We used to hold hands all the time. People used to tease us that we were like newlyweds. Oh, God, I miss that. You know how much I wish I could have buried even one small part of him? I would have taken a finger,” Sheila says, and rests her forehead on the table and wraps her hands around her stomach, giving herself over to the pain. “Seriously. I can’t tell you what that’s like. When you find yourself bartering with God over body parts.”





“All right, okay, so yes, I teared up,” Noah says once we are safely back in the car. “You should know I’m a sap. I also cry at toilet-paper commercials and those videos of soldiers coming home and surprising their families.”

“If you hadn’t felt anything watching that woman cry over her dead husband I’m pretty sure that would mean you were a sociopath.” I make no move to put the key in the ignition. My arms are too heavy, my throat too tight. My chest sends little sizzles of pain straight through to my lungs. I’m reminded of all the reasons I didn’t want to play Baby Hope with Noah.