took two envelopes with him, Mom insists: one from his work and the other from his trust fund. He checked that Mom was still in bed and closed the door very carefully behind him.
She was planning to tell him the good news that night. She had waited three months because she wanted to be sure it wasn’t a false alarm. My mother doesn’t like premature celebrations. She could have told him on one of the many early mornings disturbed by the queasiness of the first three months of pregnancy. The doctor had confirmed she was twelve weeks along the day before. There were all the signs.
She bought his favorite red wine. She was going to tell him over dinner: next year everything will change. We’re going to be parents. She wanted to find the ideal moment to surprise him.
Dad had no idea what she was planning. That September day was like any other. Slightly cool, but sunny, with the rush hour traffic steady. Mom watched from the window and saw him open the front door, pausing at the top of the steps to take a deep breath. There were still lingering traces of summer in the air. At the intersection of 116th Street and Morningside Drive, he glanced eastward at the early-morning sun and the still-leafy park. It was seven thirty. At that time, the superintendent always took his dog for a walk. Dad greeted him and turned onto 116th Street, heading west. He crossed the Columbia University campus and took the No. 1 train on Broadway. Mom knew his routine perfectly: just another Tuesday.
When he reached the Chambers Street station, he headed for John Allan’s on Trinity Place for his monthly haircut. He had become a member of a men’s club, when he began his weekly trips to the business district in Manhattan. He felt at ease there. It had an atmosphere of privacy that he enjoyed. His black coffee (no sugar) was waiting for him, and he flicked through the headlines in the Wall Street Journal , the New York Times , and El Diario La Prensa .
Dad never had his haircut. He never reached his office. That muchis clear. I wonder now where he went when at 8:46 a.m. he heard the first explosion. He could have stayed where he was like the others did; the ones who were spared. A few minutes later, and Mom’s litany would have been completely different. Only a few minutes later.
Maybe he ran to see what was happening or to see if he could save someone. The second explosion came at 9:03. Everybody must have been totally bewildered. The telephones went dead. Then the deluge of bodies began hitting the pavement. At 9:58, one of the skyscrapers collapsed. At 10:28, the other one followed.
A thick cloud of dust covered the tip of the island. It was impossible to breathe, to keep eyes open. There was a deafening wail of fire engines and police cars. I imagine that all of a sudden day turned into night. Men and women ran searching for the light in a battle against fire, terror, anguish. To the north; they had to run north.
I close my eyes and prefer to see Dad carrying a wounded person to safety. Then he goes back to ground zero and joins the firefighters and police in the rescue operation. I like to think Dad is safe—that he is still lost, not knowing where to go. Maybe he forgot his address, how to get home. With each September that passed and I grew up without him, the chances of him returning became fewer and fewer. He must have been trapped in the rubble. The buildings were reduced to shards of steel, smashed glass, and chunks of cement.
The city was paralyzed. So was Mom.
She waited two days before reporting Dad missing. I’ve no idea how she could sleep that night, get up and go to work the next day, and then return to bed as if nothing had happened. Always with the hope that Dad would come back. That was how she was.
She couldn’t link him to that terrible tragedy; she refused to accept that he was buried among the debris. That was her defense to keep herself from falling apart. And to keep me from fading away inside her.
She became
She was planning to tell him the good news that night. She had waited three months because she wanted to be sure it wasn’t a false alarm. My mother doesn’t like premature celebrations. She could have told him on one of the many early mornings disturbed by the queasiness of the first three months of pregnancy. The doctor had confirmed she was twelve weeks along the day before. There were all the signs.
She bought his favorite red wine. She was going to tell him over dinner: next year everything will change. We’re going to be parents. She wanted to find the ideal moment to surprise him.
Dad had no idea what she was planning. That September day was like any other. Slightly cool, but sunny, with the rush hour traffic steady. Mom watched from the window and saw him open the front door, pausing at the top of the steps to take a deep breath. There were still lingering traces of summer in the air. At the intersection of 116th Street and Morningside Drive, he glanced eastward at the early-morning sun and the still-leafy park. It was seven thirty. At that time, the superintendent always took his dog for a walk. Dad greeted him and turned onto 116th Street, heading west. He crossed the Columbia University campus and took the No. 1 train on Broadway. Mom knew his routine perfectly: just another Tuesday.
When he reached the Chambers Street station, he headed for John Allan’s on Trinity Place for his monthly haircut. He had become a member of a men’s club, when he began his weekly trips to the business district in Manhattan. He felt at ease there. It had an atmosphere of privacy that he enjoyed. His black coffee (no sugar) was waiting for him, and he flicked through the headlines in the Wall Street Journal , the New York Times , and El Diario La Prensa .
Dad never had his haircut. He never reached his office. That muchis clear. I wonder now where he went when at 8:46 a.m. he heard the first explosion. He could have stayed where he was like the others did; the ones who were spared. A few minutes later, and Mom’s litany would have been completely different. Only a few minutes later.
Maybe he ran to see what was happening or to see if he could save someone. The second explosion came at 9:03. Everybody must have been totally bewildered. The telephones went dead. Then the deluge of bodies began hitting the pavement. At 9:58, one of the skyscrapers collapsed. At 10:28, the other one followed.
A thick cloud of dust covered the tip of the island. It was impossible to breathe, to keep eyes open. There was a deafening wail of fire engines and police cars. I imagine that all of a sudden day turned into night. Men and women ran searching for the light in a battle against fire, terror, anguish. To the north; they had to run north.
I close my eyes and prefer to see Dad carrying a wounded person to safety. Then he goes back to ground zero and joins the firefighters and police in the rescue operation. I like to think Dad is safe—that he is still lost, not knowing where to go. Maybe he forgot his address, how to get home. With each September that passed and I grew up without him, the chances of him returning became fewer and fewer. He must have been trapped in the rubble. The buildings were reduced to shards of steel, smashed glass, and chunks of cement.
The city was paralyzed. So was Mom.
She waited two days before reporting Dad missing. I’ve no idea how she could sleep that night, get up and go to work the next day, and then return to bed as if nothing had happened. Always with the hope that Dad would come back. That was how she was.
She couldn’t link him to that terrible tragedy; she refused to accept that he was buried among the debris. That was her defense to keep herself from falling apart. And to keep me from fading away inside her.
She became
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