Coughing, “I don’t think I’m getting out of here, Mia.”
“Yes, you are. Help is going to come. We just called. They’re going to get you. They know where you are. We told them. You’re going to be home with me tonight. You are.”
“That’s where I want to be. It’s getting so hot in here.”
“Hang tight, baby, they are coming for you. We’re going to get you out of there.”
“We are just filling with black smoke really fast.”
“Stay close to the window, Michael. They’ll be there soon to get you out and then you and I are getting the hell out of here and going right back to Newport or someplace quiet.”
“Yeah. Let’s get out of here,” he managed between coughs, the irony slicing Mia to shreds.
“Or maybe we’ll go to Scotland, you can golf at St. Andrews and I can take photos in the highlands. Michael, are you still with me?” Anything to keep him fighting, hanging on — until help arrived.
“I’m here,” his voice was choked.
“Stay with me, Baby,” she managed between sobs, “Stay with me, ok.”
Mia heard his wheezing and gasping, her throat closing at the sound as if her own oxygen supply was being cut off with his.
“Get near the window, Michael. Try to get fresh air.”
“I’m trying, Mia. I’m trying.”
“Good. Stay with me. I’m here with you. I love you and you are coming home to me tonight. You got that, Buster!”
She could hear his smile, “Yeah, I got it. I love you, Mia. I love you so much.”
Mia stood in front of the window rocking, as she watched the towers burn and tried to exorcise the image of Michael being trapped in there.
“Good, because you’ve got me for as long as you’ll have me.”
“The smoke is getting so thick. It’s so hot in here. Mia, I don’t want to say goodbye to you. Please tell my mother and father that I love them,” his voice was getting weak.
“We’re not saying goodbye, Michael. Not for a very, very long time. Help will be there soon, babe. Just hang on, ok. I need you to hang on. Think about where we are going to go after this and the things we’re going to do. We’re just going to say fuck it, get out of this city, we’ll travel, meet people, just go wherever the wind blows us. How does that sound?” She was covering her eyes with one hand, rocking at a harsh pace.
“Sounds great. Let’s get married.” His coughs were causing Mia’s body to tense and twitch.
Mia laughed, “You are relentless, Mr. Portman. You know what I think? I think we should get married tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Tonight.” Mia was smiling through her tears.
“It’s a date,” he rasped, followed by racking coughs.
His breath was now coming fast and shallow. “C’mon, Michael, stay with me. Please. Please,” she pleaded. “I love you so much. Stay with me.” Salty tears ran into her mouth. “Stay with me,” her pleas turning into sobs.
There was silence on the line, “Michael,” she screamed, “Michael.” Her wail had the guttural sound of a wounded animal — a sound that wasn’t human. Looking at her phone, the call had disconnected.
Sinking to her knees, Mia tried punching in Michael’s speed dial number, “Answer, Michael, answer. Please, please answer,” she begged through her tears, but the calls repeatedly went through to his voice mail.
On his knees on the floor behind her, Seth wrapped his arms around an inconsolable Mia and rocked with her. Within minutes they were joined on the floor by Kami and other members of the MS&A family.
“We’re going to get married when he gets out,” Mia sobbed.
Continuing to dial his cell, she became more and more distraught, leaving voice mail message after voice mail message for him to call her. Someone brought her water and she drank it and then looked around at the staff on the floor of the office with her.
“Has everyone with kids gotten out of here? Is everyone’s family ok? Do we know where everyone is? Is everyone accounted for?” And then looking at Seth, “Did we activate The Chain?”
Seth nodded, “Everyone who needed to leave, has. The Chain has been activated. Everyone knows how to get messages back.” Mia nodded, satisfied that staff would be with their families.
“We need to call Charles.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Kami offered, getting to her feet.
They heard the loud roar and the ground shook as if an earthquake had struck, but they were not prepared for what they saw as they all stumbled to their feet before the window. Tremendous gray-white clouds of pulverized concrete and gypsum rose high into the air and barreled up the streets like the special effects from a disaster ride at Universal Studios.
There was a collective gasp and deep groan from everyone in Mia’s office. Then they stood silently in front of the window. Shell shocked and numb. Nauseous. Beyond the point of even comprehending or processing the levels of despair slamming into them in waves like electric shocks. When the dust cloud cleared, there was a hole in the sky where Two World Trade Center had once stood. Where it had stood that morning when everyone arrived at work. No one moved from the window.
Kami returned a few minutes later, “Charles went down as a first responder,” she informed Mia.
“Stay safe and bring Michael back to me,” she whispered.
Thirty minutes after the South Tower collapsed, the sickening roar and shaking began again and in a plume of gray-white dust, the North Tower sank to her knees and Mia Silver sank to hers with it.
Hours later, a white dust shrouded Charles Sloan entered Mia’s office. He stood in the doorway, his usually handsome face a chalky grotesque mask of pain as he silently observed the group huddled before the window. They were very still as they sat silently watching the smoke and flames mar the otherwise perfect Indian summer sky. Mia extended a hand out to Charles and he took it, joining her and her team on the floor. No words were needed. Together they cried.
Michael Portman was not coming home that night.
Standing in front of the flat LCD screen TV mounted on the wall in front of his desk, Schooner Moore watched as the horror unfolded in New York, Washington, DC and Pennsylvania. Out on the gym floor, members congregated together, needing the solace of community, as they stood before the banks of TV’s viewing images that were impossible to comprehend. Schooner preferred to attempt to process this alone.
Without knocking on his door, Yoli Perez, Schooner’s business partner and confidante, silently entered his office and stood next to him.
After a few minutes she turned to him, “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, you did,” she gave him a look that he didn’t see because his eyes were trained on the screen.
A few minutes later he again muttered under his breath, “Don’t be in there, Baby Girl.”
“What the hell are you saying?” On edge, Yoli’s temper was shorter than usual.
Schooner looked at her with a blank stare and she just shook her head and turned back to the burning towers, the pit of her stomach aching.
Neither spoke for a few minutes until Schooner broke the silence. “I smell smoke. Do you smell smoke?”
Yoli shook her head, “No. I don’t smell smoke.”
“You don’t smell that?”
“No. I don’t smell anything. I think you’re imagining it watching this.”
“No, I smell it,” he was adamant, “It’s making my throat burn. My throat feels like it’s on fire from it.”
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll go check,” and Yoli headed out of his office, closing the door behind her.
His eyes remained fixed on the burning towers, “Don’t be in there, Baby Girl. Please be behind a picket fence up in Connecticut or something.” The reporters were talking to someone on the 106th floor who had been attending a breakfast at Windows on the World. Their place.
The smoke was making his throat close and he
could feel the beads of perspiration forming on his top lip and forehead. The a/c must’ve gone out, he thought.
As Yoli reentered Schooner’s office, she heard a loud ripping sound. Schooner was pulling at the collar of his tee-shirt with both hands, ripping it from his muscular chest.
Yoli was shocked to see his chest was a deep crimson color as were his neck and face. He was panting, gasping for air.
“It’s so hot. I can’t breathe.”
“Oh my God, Schooner.” Yoli grabbed him by the hand, pulling him to the leather couch against the far wall. “Put your head between your legs.” She rushed over to the small fridge at his wet bar and grabbed two large bottles of cold water. Opening one for him to drink and handing it to him, she sat down next to him on the couch and pressed the other bottle to his forehead and cheeks.
“Drink,” she ordered. “There’s no fire in here, Schooner. I think you are having some sort of anxiety attack.” After a few minutes, she told him to wait there and rushed next door to her office and grabbed her purse.
Joining him again on the couch, she began to dig through her purse. Pulling out a pill bottle, she muttered, “I must really love you.” Extracting two .5 mg. Xanax tabs (she had made the split second decision that based on his size, he could tolerate two), she handed them to him.
“What is this?” He looked weary.
“Just trust me.”
He nodded and swallowed the pills with water.
“It hurts to breathe, Yoli. It’s burning.”
Putting a hand on his forehead, his skin was burning hot.
“Schooner, you are having some kind of panic attack. Do you want me to get you another shirt.”
“No,” he shook his head, looking panicked.
Going into his private bathroom, Yoli came out with cool, wet towels and laid one across his forehead and the other at the back of his neck. Sitting down next to him on the couch, she took his hand in both of hers. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him have a panic attack of any kind.
Schooner’s breathing started to settle down and the redness in his skin began to calm. Silently, they sat there and watched CNN. It was about a minute before 7 A.M. when they joined a shocked world watching a plume of white dust rise as the South Tower disintegrated before their eyes.
Yoli gasped and the sound out of Schooner was guttural and unnerving.
“Holy shit, are we really seeing this?” He asked. “Those were people who went to work this morning, people who were having breakfast at Windows on the World. People who were just sitting at their desk having coffee.” He leaned forward, putting his face in his hands for a moment.
“Schooner, do you know anyone who works in the Twin Towers?”
Without looking away from the TV, “I hope not.”
Thirty minutes later, the North Tower was gone.
Schooner curled up on his couch and Yoli brought him a pillow. The effect of the Xanax was hitting him full force. Thirty minutes after the North Tower collapsed, Schooner was passed out.
Yoli called her partner, Debbie. “Why don’t you come here and bring some pillows and blankets. Schooner had a major anxiety attack and I gave him Xanax and he’s passed out cold.”
“Wow, I never knew he had problems with anxiety attacks.”
“Neither did I.” Yoli watched him sleep. As she sat there she wondered what it was he wasn’t telling her. It had been a horrific day, but there was something else going on with Schooner Moore that she did not know about — she could feel it. Maybe someday he would confide in her.
In the days that followed, Schooner spent hours at his desk pouring over both the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times, devouring every detail being written about the attacks. He scoured the lists of victims. There were no Mia Silvers that perished on 9/11 in the Trade Centers. He just hoped that meant she was safe.
Chapter Forty-four
September 11, 2002
Mr. and Mrs. Portman stood to her left. Charles, Seth and Kami to her right. The first moment of silence, observed at 8:40 A.M. was physically painful. What she heard in her head was heart stopping. And then the reading of the names. Both she and Mr. Portman held Mrs. Portman tight. This was her baby. He would always be her baby. It was just wrong.
The year had not dulled the pain at all. There was a hole in her heart, just as there had been a hole in the sky when the towers ceased to be.
As she listened to the names and the toll of the bells, she stood there fixated on watching seagulls soar through the air, trying to ascertain if there were any particular patterns to their flight paths.
She knew Michael would be proud of her. She didn’t fly off the rails or fall apart or regress into any of her old destructive patterns. Instead she focused her energy on working with families of 9/11 victims, using her time, business and contacts for fundraising events, helping to raise money to ensure families had proper health care and children who lost parents had scholarship funds.
That would’ve made Michael happy.
September 11, 2006
More than anything else that morning, Mia was most saddened by the loss of Mr. Portman earlier in the year and how frail Mrs. Portman seemed in the wake of his passing. Holding her tightly, Mia tried to infuse her own strength into the aging woman.
Five years and it seemed like only five minutes had passed. Mia wondered if the day would ever come and go and not induce such sharp stabbing pain.
To her right stood Charles, with his new bride, Gaby. Mia observed Gaby’s face throughout the ceremony and realized when devastation is so extreme, we are all just children of the Earth and no one gets by unscathed. Mia wanted to comfort Gaby who was clearly overwhelmed by the events of the day.
The moments of silence and hearing Michael’s name in the roll call were as overwhelming on this day as they had been at the first memorial. Searing hot tears burned Mia’s eyes.
Looking up at the sky to try and stop her tears from falling, Mia caught sight of a lone seagull soaring and diving. “That looks like fun,” she mused.
September 11, 2011
Mia stood there, her arm around Michael’s mother. The first moment of silence at 8:40 A.M. was deafening. Holding back tears was impossible. As impossible as it been for the last nine annual memorial services.
Recognizing some of the families, it was a joy to see how the children had grown. Toddlers were now teens and teens were now there with infants of their own. Life had gone on.
In their own group, the wonderful new addition that added joy to the somber day was Charles and Gaby’s daughter, Paola. Mrs. Portman had assumed a grandmotherly role with the little girl and both Charles and Gaby were more than happy to indulge her. Even for their group, life had gone on.
After the service, they went to Katz’s Deli on Houston Street (the deli made famous in the movie, “When Harry Met Sally” by Meg Ryan’s famed “I’ll have what she’s having” fake orgasm scene). Shortly after they sat down, Mrs. Portman took Mia’s hand, “It’s been ten years, Mia. It’s time.”
Mia could feel her eyes fill with tears. “I’ve dated,” she protested.
“Anyone serious?”
“Well, I did date an architect for about three months,” defended Mia.
From down the table, Seth chimed in, “What a loser.”
Laughing, Mia shook her head. “I can’t argue with you there.”
Mia knew the look on Mrs. Portman’s face. She had seen it many times on Lois’ face. It was the Jewish mother disappointed look. “It’s time,” she repeated, as if giving Mia her blessing and patted the younger woman’s arm gently.
Walking home later that day, Mia wonder where the seagulls had been that morning. She had not seen any seagulls.
Chapter Forty-five
Charles stood outside the venue with the its owner and his Los Angeles contact from the Elite Modeling Agency. Today’s event had been a huge success. The site lent itself perfectly to the fashion show and the after-party, to which Brent
Bolthouse Productions had added an edgy touch, creating a trendy and dynamic ambience.
The venue’s owner was engaging Charles in a conversation about event security and wondered if Charles was considering a west coast branch of his firm. They talked about both the opportunities and downside of bicoastal operations. Charles mentioned he had a toddler and was less inclined to spend time away until she was older. The venue’s owner indicated that he too was a father and totally understood.
Charles looked at the display on his Smartphone, “Excuse me,” he said to the two gentlemen and turned slightly away from them. “Meezie, what’s up?”
“Chazicle, how’s LaLa-land?”
“There’s no place like home,” he laughed.
“No shit. Hey,” she continued, “are you aware that UNICEF changed the date of their event?”
“No, when did that happen?”
“I’m not sure, it appears I didn’t get the memo either. I was totally blindsided by this today.” An icky feeling was starting low in Mia’s gut and moving rapidly throughout her body. WTF? This was a high alert, ill at ease. Anxiety, nausea, apprehension — this was a full blown physical freak out, coming out of nowhere and Mia was stumped by its genesis. Where was the trigger, she wondered. “What’s that noise in the background?” Mia heard voices, it sounded like a TV show, something she should recognize, something she did recognize, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. What was it?
“Oh, I was just having a conversation with the venue owner and my Elite contact.”
“Is there TV on or a movie? It sounds like something I know.”
Charles laughed. “No, we’re just standing outside talking. It’s quiet out here. Brent Bolthouse has the place rocking inside.”
“Ok, hey am going to call your office in the morning and make sure your staff has the correct info on this UNICEF deal.” Mia started to shut down her laptop for the night. She had to get out of there, get some fresh air. Immediately. She kept hearing it in the background behind Charles’ voice. It was so close, but just out of grasp.
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