Hope and Other Punch Lines(69)

“Let’s do it,” Noah says, and my whole body tingles. “I really like the idea of hearing someone’s best memories instead of their worst, for a change.”

“Right?”

“Right,” he says, and this time, I’m the one who leans in for a kiss.

“But I have a favor to ask first,” he says, his voice suddenly a little nervous and shy. “I have one last person I need to visit. Will you come with me? Please? You don’t have to be Baby Hope. You can be Abbi.”

“Of course,” I say. “Anywhere.”





We are in the pregnant woman’s living room, though of course she’s not the pregnant woman anymore. Just like Abbi isn’t Baby Hope. Sixteen years changes things.

Her name is Charlotte Dempsey, and she has four children, and works part-time at the local library. “That face! I’d know it anywhere.”

When we did our interviews, everyone seemed to be mentally drawing a line from the baby in the photograph to the girl in front of them and measuring the vast distance between the two. This time, Charlotte is connecting me to my dad, which I assume is less of a line and more of a hop, skip, and a jump.

“I was so happy when you called. I mean, I only knew your dad for four minutes, but I have a lot to tell you about him anyway,” she says. We are sitting across from each other on faded gray couches in a house cluttered with happy kid junk.

“Thanks,” I say, and feel a stab of the sort of envy my mom must have felt when she saw this woman at the mall. If there had been no 9/11, would bedtime have meant rowdy pillow fights with a slew of brothers instead of only my mom and me and a library book? Who would I have been if we added up to more than two?

“You know that he was a hero. That goes without saying. Everyone was running one way, and he chose to run the other,” Charlotte says.

“I like to run in every direction,” says the youngest boy, who is putting together a Lego Death Star on the floor, looking up at me from under his too-long bowl cut.

“I bet you do, bud,” I say, using my camp counselor voice. He nods at me seriously.

“That’s Jaden, my baby. He’s five. Jason is my eldest. He’s fifteen, and then there’s Joseph and John in between. I’m obviously outnumbered.” She points to the family portrait on the fireplace mantel. The picture is a few years old and was likely taken at a Sears. It in no way follows the rule of thirds.

“We named Jason after your father. A friend told us that in the Jewish tradition, you can honor people who’ve died by using the first letter of their name. We knew your dad was Jewish and decided to keep going with the J’s. All my boys are named after him. We wanted to thank him every way that we could.”

“That’s really nice. I bet he would have loved that,” I say, though it feels weird to speak on his behalf. I have no idea what my dad would have loved or did love much beyond what my mom has told me: his University of Michigan hat, pickle sandwiches, terrible puns, our family, and apparently, random acts of heroism.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. I told your mother right after it happened, though I realize now I was probably the last person she wanted to see. I never got a chance to give my condolences to you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and Abbi reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Honestly, I’m not even sure why we’re here. I guess I wanted to put a face to the story I heard. I appreciate you taking the time to meet me—us, me and Abbi.”

“I have this family, these four perfect, beautiful, pain-in-the-ass children who wouldn’t have been born if it weren’t for your dad. Every single day I think about your mom and you, because I realize your loss was our gain. I’m not going to sit here and pretend there’s anything fair about that. I was the last person he rescued. There were people before me, but I was the last,” she says.

“Five other people,” Abbi chimes in. I haven’t wrapped my head around that number yet. What about the three kids Charlotte had afterward? Should we add them to the tally, or do they get erased by the ones my dad never got to have with my mom? And what do these numbers mean, anyway? My father was a hero, regardless of whether you can count the people he rescued on one hand or two.

“When your dad found me, my clothes were on fire. He used his jacket to put out the flames. Wrapped me up like a burrito, scooped me up, and got me out of there. While he was carrying me, he asked my name, and when I said Charlie, because that’s what I go by, even though I’m technically a Charlotte, you know what he said?” she asks, and we shake our heads, because of course we have no idea what he said. What could you possibly say in a moment like that? Nice to meet you, I’m Jason. Lovely day for a run.

I picture it for a moment: My dad carrying this woman in his arms. He looks like an action hero. His face smudged with grease. The ultimate badass dragon slayer.

I feel myself swell with pride.

“Your dad said, and I swear I am not making this up, he said Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Charlotte smiles tearfully at us. “The whole world was burning down, I didn’t know if I was going to die, I was scared I might lose my baby, and he managed to make me laugh. A hysterical laugh, maybe, but I laughed.”

I look at Abbi and Abbi looks back at me, and huge grins overtake both of our faces. I feel unadulterated joy.

“His last words were Liar, liar, pants on fire? Like he was making a joke about you being literally on fire,” I say, to make sure I understand exactly what she’s telling me. “He said that? Out loud? To you? On nine-eleven?”