The Girl He Used to Know (Page 43)

The crowd erupts into shouting and the man leaves the podium. No one knows what to do after that, including Janice and me, so we do the only thing we can.

We pray, we talk, and we listen, and for as beneficial as that is, I can’t help but feel that we’re wasting precious time.

42

Annika

SEPTEMBER 15, 2001

We return to the ballroom at the hotel early the next morning, because we don’t know where else to go. Shortly after ten, as Janice and I sip Styrofoam cups of lukewarm tea, a man steps up to the podium and introduces himself as the head of the company. Then he announces that they’re no longer looking for survivors. Four days after the attack, hopes are waning that anyone else will be pulled from the rubble alive, but hearing someone say it out loud causes a swift and heartbreaking reaction from the crowd. The keening sobs and cries of despair drown out whatever the man is still trying to say. Janice puts her arm around me and holds me upright, as if she’s afraid my knees will buckle, but they don’t, because I don’t believe what this man is saying. It may be true for some employees, but not Jonathan.

“Annika,” she says.

“He was in the stairwell,” I argue. “Jonathan said he would go down and he was in the process of doing that when we got cut off. Based on the time the towers fell, he would have had time to reach the lobby, go outside, and get clear of them. Brad got out, and he didn’t even head down with Jonathan. He stayed behind and he still got out!” I’m shouting and crying.

A man lays his hand on my arm, and I whirl around with so much force that he takes a quick step back. “I’m sorry, but who did you say you were looking for?”

“My boyfriend Jonathan.”

“My son and a man named Jonathan helped my son’s coworker, who was having a panic attack in the stairwell.”

“Do you know what floor that was on?” Janice asks.

“Fifty-two.”

“I don’t know what floor my boyfriend was on, but I’m sure it was lower than that.”

“My son was too, but according to some of the people they were with, he and this Jonathan went back up.”

“Have you been able to find your son?” I ask, my voice trembling with fear.

The man’s eyes fill with tears. “No.”

And there it is. The reason Jonathan never called and we can’t find him is because he’s buried in the smoldering rubble of the South Tower.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Janice squeezes the man’s hand and puts her arm around my shoulders.

We leave the ballroom and sit on a bench outside the door where it’s quieter. Janice has given up. I know this because she does not tell me what our next step should be. She has suggested everything she thinks we can do, and now with this devastating news, there is nothing left. She can’t return to this hotel with me forever. She has a child to take care of. Mourning of her own to do for the friends she lost in the attacks. I have never felt so hopeless in my life.

Janice’s phone rings. She answers and says, “No. We’re still at the hotel.” She listens to the caller for another minute. “I think that would be really great.” Then she hands the phone to me.

“Hello?” I say.

“Stay where you are,” my brother says. “I’m on my way to meet you.”

43

Annika

Janice goes home and Will finds me in the hallway near the ballroom and leads me outside. I blink against the sunlight and inhale, but the air is a bit cleaner and we don’t need our masks yet. The posters of missing people are everywhere. They’re stapled to lampposts, taped to railings and windows. The ones that have come unmoored from their surfaces litter the street and blow away in bursts of wind. I try to avoid stepping on the pictures of the faces as Will and I make our way downtown on foot. There are people carrying candles, unlit for now but destined for tonight’s new wave of vigils.

My brother revisits the theory: that Jonathan is not in the rubble but has instead been transported to a hospital. “He may be injured and unable to communicate,” Will says.

“We went to all the hospitals,” I say.

“You went to them two days ago, when it was utter chaos. Some of those people have died. New patients have been brought in. There’s been a lot of confusion. Let’s check again.”

I agree, because Will’s idea has merit and there’s nothing else for us to do. I’ll be fine as long as we keep moving, keep trying to find Jonathan. “Where do we start?” I ask.

Will smiles. “I’ve always found the beginning to be a good place.”

I smile, too, because the beginning is, indeed, a good place to start, and for the first time in our lives, it seems Will and I are on the exact same page.

* * *

The sheet of paper I pull from my pocket lists the hospitals Janice and I already visited, a check mark next to all fifteen of them. It’s gray from our dirty hands and tattered from being folded repeatedly. I hand it to Will, and he studies it. He turns the paper over and scribbles the names of nearby landmarks and streets, and draws a circle around it and an X to indicate where we are. He adds the names of the hospitals whose locations he already knows and numbers them in the order of the likelihood we’ll find Jonathan there. He points to number one.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

* * *

My resolve is starting to falter. We’re standing in the hallway of the ninth hospital. My feet ache and I want nothing more than to go back to Janice’s and collapse into bed. But I can’t sleep until we’re done.

“Can we sit down for a minute?” I ask.

“Sure,” Will says. There are no chairs in the hallway, so I slide my back down the wall until my butt hits the hard tile floor. Will does the same.

I don’t even care that at the moment, we’re accomplishing nothing. We’ve been turned down so many times today, and I need a break to recharge.

I want to be strong for Will because he’s been so nice to help me, but I have reached my limit, and the tears slide down my cheeks. Soon, the floodgates open and I’m sobbing. Will puts his arm around me. We can check again at the remaining six hospitals on the list, but if Jonathan isn’t in any of them, it’s over. As soon as they lift the travel ban, I’ll fly home.

A nurse pokes her head out of a room at the end of the hall and walks toward us. “What did you say he looked like?”

I scramble to my feet on shaky legs. Will stands up, too. “He has dark brown hair. Blue eyes. A couple inches over six feet. He has a scar on his knee from a torn ACL.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Wait here,” she said.

I forget how to breathe. I tell myself not to get my hopes up, but they soar anyway. Will reaches for my hand and we stand there like that until the nurse returns and says, “Come with me.”

We follow her down the hallway and onto an elevator. I’m afraid to open my mouth, because the words are right there, waiting to tumble out in a frenzy of “Where are we going, what are we doing, do you think it’s him?”

The door opens two floors below, and we follow the nurse out of the elevator. “One of my friends works in intensive care on this floor. She mentioned a John Doe they’re keeping under sedation for breathing difficulty and pain and that a few people have come to check his identity, but so far there hasn’t been a match. She said he has dark hair. He matches the height and age. No clue about his eyes because they’re closed. I can only let one of you in at a time.”

“Go, Annika,” Will says when we reach the doorway of the patient’s room. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

Once we’re inside the room, I hesitate because whoever this is, he’s in rough shape. Medical equipment surrounds the bed; a cacophony of whooshes and beeps. The antiseptic smell seeps into my nose, reminding me of my own hospital stay years ago, and I gasp for fresh air. That only makes it worse, because there is none.

In the dim light of the room, I can make out the shape of a man. I don’t think it’s Jonathan, because the hair looks wrong—dull and gray instead of dark brown—but the nurse motions for me to approach the bed. She’s been so nice, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful or cowardly, so I do it.

This man has been gravely injured. The hair looks wrong because it’s coated in ash and concrete dust, but underneath it I can see that the color is, in fact, a deep dark brown. It’s also dotted with dried blood. He’s on a ventilator, the tube down his throat held in place by some sort of white adhesive tape.

I look closely, feeling a glimmer of hope as I mentally catalogue the planes and angles of Jonathan’s face, and I try to identify them under the bruises and the blood and the dirt. I don’t want to touch him because it would surely bring him pain, but I trace those planes and angles, my finger hovering inches above his skin. Jonathan’s face is like a Polaroid picture that slowly develops into something recognizable right before my eyes.

It’s him. I know it’s him.

Lastly, I lift the sheet and cry harder when I see the scar on his left knee. It’s also apparent that his legs and maybe his pelvis are badly broken.

“Is this the man you’re looking for?” the nurse asks.