finds herself hoping no one is home. That way, she’ll have done the right thing, but can avoid dealing with this right now.
She immediately hears a stirring of footsteps inside, though, and the door is thrown open.
Mack stands there, looking as though he’s aged a year since she saw him smoking on the stoop.
He’s wearing suit pants and a rumpled white dress shirt with the tie loosened around his neck—yesterday’s clothes, Allison guesses, and knows that’s not a good sign.
His face is drawn and pale. His green eyes are underscored with purple-black shadows, his cheeks and mouth with black stubble. His short dark hair is sticking up on top of his head in tufts. As if to demonstrate how it got that way, Mack shoves his splayed fingers into his hair and leaves them there for a moment, just standing there looking at her with his palm resting at the top of his forehead in a gesture of distracted dismay.
“I thought you might be . . . someone else,” he tells Allison.
Carrie. That’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped .
Okay. Now she knows. The news is not good.
She clears her throat, trying to figure out what to say.
All that comes to mind is I’m sorry , but that has a sense of finality that feels wrong—unless he’s heard for sure that his wife is among the casualties. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have opened the door with such expectancy, or looked so despondent when he saw who was—rather, who wasn’t —there.
“Do you want to come in?” he asks.
“Do you want . . . should I?”
He nods. “Sure. Please.”
The last word strikes a chord, and her heart goes out to him. She’d assumed he was just being polite when he asked her in, but maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here alone.
She crosses the threshold. He closes the door after her.
All this time living across the hall, and she’s never been inside this apartment. Mrs. Ogden kept to herself, and so far, so have the MacKennas.
The layout is the mirror image of Allison’s own place: a small entry area widens into a rectangular living room with a small kitchen alcove on one side and doors leading to a bedroom and bath on the other.
The furniture is IKEA bland—blond wood and beige upholstery, boxy lines. Allison’s eye goes right to the lone splash of color: a red belted trench coat draped over the back of one of the chairs at the small dining table. She’s seen Carrie wearing it on rainy days. She probably had it on Monday, the day before . . .
“I haven’t heard from her,” Mack says, and she turns her focus back to his weary face. “I keep wondering why. Some people she works with—she was on the 104th floor, I don’t know if you knew that—some of them called their husbands and wives. She didn’t call me.”
“Maybe she tried and couldn’t get through.” Allison speaks in a rush, wanting— needing —to give him hope.
Even false hope?
She ignores the disapproving voice in her head. “The local lines were all jammed up. Is there someone else who might have heard from her? Someone outside the city, maybe?”
He’s shaking his head before she finishes speaking. “She doesn’t have anyone else.”
That strikes her as an odd thing to say. Maybe he just means that Carrie is from New York City, and others she might have tried to reach would be here, with snarled phone lines.
But the phrasing— she doesn’t have anyone else —it just seems so definitive, almost as though Carrie has no one in the world but him.
Almost like me , Allison finds herself thinking. If I were in a life-or-death situation and needed to connect with someone, who would I call?
I wouldn’t call anyone—because I’m self-sufficient.
She’s been taking care of herself for years—even when her mother was alive. She never had anyone to lean on, or depend on.
“I keep wondering what it means that I didn’t hear from her,” Mack goes on. “Because she’s always been a caller, you know? She’ll call ten or
She immediately hears a stirring of footsteps inside, though, and the door is thrown open.
Mack stands there, looking as though he’s aged a year since she saw him smoking on the stoop.
He’s wearing suit pants and a rumpled white dress shirt with the tie loosened around his neck—yesterday’s clothes, Allison guesses, and knows that’s not a good sign.
His face is drawn and pale. His green eyes are underscored with purple-black shadows, his cheeks and mouth with black stubble. His short dark hair is sticking up on top of his head in tufts. As if to demonstrate how it got that way, Mack shoves his splayed fingers into his hair and leaves them there for a moment, just standing there looking at her with his palm resting at the top of his forehead in a gesture of distracted dismay.
“I thought you might be . . . someone else,” he tells Allison.
Carrie. That’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped .
Okay. Now she knows. The news is not good.
She clears her throat, trying to figure out what to say.
All that comes to mind is I’m sorry , but that has a sense of finality that feels wrong—unless he’s heard for sure that his wife is among the casualties. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have opened the door with such expectancy, or looked so despondent when he saw who was—rather, who wasn’t —there.
“Do you want to come in?” he asks.
“Do you want . . . should I?”
He nods. “Sure. Please.”
The last word strikes a chord, and her heart goes out to him. She’d assumed he was just being polite when he asked her in, but maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here alone.
She crosses the threshold. He closes the door after her.
All this time living across the hall, and she’s never been inside this apartment. Mrs. Ogden kept to herself, and so far, so have the MacKennas.
The layout is the mirror image of Allison’s own place: a small entry area widens into a rectangular living room with a small kitchen alcove on one side and doors leading to a bedroom and bath on the other.
The furniture is IKEA bland—blond wood and beige upholstery, boxy lines. Allison’s eye goes right to the lone splash of color: a red belted trench coat draped over the back of one of the chairs at the small dining table. She’s seen Carrie wearing it on rainy days. She probably had it on Monday, the day before . . .
“I haven’t heard from her,” Mack says, and she turns her focus back to his weary face. “I keep wondering why. Some people she works with—she was on the 104th floor, I don’t know if you knew that—some of them called their husbands and wives. She didn’t call me.”
“Maybe she tried and couldn’t get through.” Allison speaks in a rush, wanting— needing —to give him hope.
Even false hope?
She ignores the disapproving voice in her head. “The local lines were all jammed up. Is there someone else who might have heard from her? Someone outside the city, maybe?”
He’s shaking his head before she finishes speaking. “She doesn’t have anyone else.”
That strikes her as an odd thing to say. Maybe he just means that Carrie is from New York City, and others she might have tried to reach would be here, with snarled phone lines.
But the phrasing— she doesn’t have anyone else —it just seems so definitive, almost as though Carrie has no one in the world but him.
Almost like me , Allison finds herself thinking. If I were in a life-or-death situation and needed to connect with someone, who would I call?
I wouldn’t call anyone—because I’m self-sufficient.
She’s been taking care of herself for years—even when her mother was alive. She never had anyone to lean on, or depend on.
“I keep wondering what it means that I didn’t hear from her,” Mack goes on. “Because she’s always been a caller, you know? She’ll call ten or
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