The Lies That Bind(37)

“Okay, Mom,” I say.

“I love you, Cecily.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

It is how we always end our phone conversations, but this time is so different, and I get a little choked up as I hang up, staring at my TV as various shots of lower Manhattan flicker across the screen. It looks like a war zone, the air thick with smoke, the once blue sky now gray. Almost black.

I turn up the television as a report comes in confirming that the first plane was hijacked. Hijacked. The word gives me a fresh set of goosebumps, as I try not to imagine the terror endured by the passengers. Maybe they didn’t know what was happening. Maybe they were sleeping or flipping through magazines or chatting with their co-workers as the cockpit was invaded. But the pilot would still have to know. And maybe the flight attendants, and a few business travelers in first class, too. And whether or not they knew, they’re all dead now. Dead.

I call Grant again, but this time it goes straight to voicemail. Now officially terrified, I listen to his brief outgoing message before leaving a disjointed message for him. “Hey. It’s me,” I say, sinking back into my sofa, trying to control my imagination. “I’m sure you’ve seen what’s going on by now….I can’t believe it….But I just want to make sure you’re okay? And all your people?…Call me as soon as you can. Please. I love you. Call me.”

I hang up, feeling exhausted and numb, listening to a correspondent dub this an “obvious terrorist attack.” My mind races. Who would do such a thing? Who would be willing to kill himself in order to crash a plane? I guess it happens, though. I think of suicide bombers in Israel. What’s the difference? Just a different weapon.

A view from the harbor, looking south to north, fills my TV screen. Sun sparkles off the still water in surreal contrast to the smoldering buildings and black sky in the near background. This should have been an ordinary early fall day, I think, as another correspondent mentions the possibility of scrambling military jets. Someone else says, Yes, but then what? Scramble jets against whom? Who and where is our enemy?

    I look at my VCR again. It’s now 9:26 A.M. A Reuters wire comes in with the most chilling report yet—that a Cantor Fitzgerald employee, in one of the towers, called and said: We’re fucking dying. He then hung up. When they called him back, he didn’t answer his phone.

My hands shake as I try Grant for the third time, listening to his voicemail again. Nauseous, I hang up and stare at a split screen on my television. On one side, the city continues to burn, helicopters circling the flaming towers like birds. On the other side, President Bush stands behind a podium at an elementary school in Florida. His earnest eyebrows are even more furrowed than usual, his voice filled with anguish, as he tells the American people that he promises to “hunt down and to find those folks who committed this act.” A moment of silence follows before he finishes, May God bless the victims, their families, and America.

I have never loved a president more in my life, I think, as the reports keep rolling in, one more surreal than the next. I start to scribble notes on a yellow legal pad.

9:37: Explosion at the Pentagon

9:45: White House is evacuated

9:45: The Capitol is evacuated

At ten minutes to ten, Tom Brokaw, who has now joined Matt and Katie, tells us that the FAA has shut down all air traffic nationwide. “The country is immobilized,” he says.

A new report comes in of “massive casualties.” They say that people are jumping from the burning buildings. I sit in shock and horror, imagining having to make that decision. It’s like the game Scottie and I played when we were little—would you rather burn or freeze to death? Only this is real life. This is actually happening—and right down the street from me. I hear more sirens outside my building, horns honking. I walk to the window, open it, and look out. The sky is still blue, no trace of smoke. Yet.

    I return to my television, staring at the screen, watching as one of the towers appears to be crumbling, literally falling to the ground, sinking into itself. Disappearing. It’s impossible to believe that everything and everyone who was in the building is now gone.

I try Grant again. This time, I’m told that all circuits are busy. I switch to my landline. No luck. I dial Scottie, then Jasmine, then my mother. Still nothing.

Suddenly desperate for human contact, I consider knocking on a neighbor’s door. Any neighbor. But I can’t tear myself away from the television. From the images of people running through the streets of lower Manhattan, looking back over their shoulders at the carnage.

Tom Brokaw is now saying that there has been an “untold loss of life in the nerve center of America.” He calls it an “efficient and effective attack on the heart of this country.” How does he string sentences together in the midst of this crisis? Is someone writing his copy—or is he saying all of this off the cuff?

More news comes in. Another hijacked plane. A crash into a field in Pennsylvania. Somerset County.

The other tower collapses just like the first. Gone.

My cellphone rings with a number I don’t recognize. My heart skips a beat, praying that it’s Grant.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hey. It’s me,” I hear Jasmine say.

“Jesus,” I say, only now realizing that I’ve been trembling.

“I know.”