But if they had made it out—wouldn’t the paramedics have brought Gordon here?
She slipped out of the waiting room and went to the nurse’s station. A very young woman, probably a nursing student, came to help her.
“I was wondering if Gordon Webster had checked in here. He would have been one of the Icon survivors.”
The woman typed his name into her computer. “Yes, he’s here.”
Relief and joy rose up inside Jill. “He made it? He got out?”
“Must have. He’s in Room 413.” The nurse jotted the number down for her on a Post-it note.
Jill took it as if it were a gift. “Thank you so much.”
So it had been worth it. Gordon was not among the dead. She and Ashley may well have helped save his life.
She wished she could tell the girl.
She had to see him. She had to look him in the eyes, see the life there, and know that all was not lost. And she had to let him know that she had made it, too.
She took the elevator to the fourth floor, made her way wearily up the hall, and found room 413. Softly, she knocked.
“Come in.”
She stepped into the room and saw the man she had met on the stairs yesterday.
“Mr. Webster?”
He had an oxygen mask on, but he lifted his head and looked up at her.
He looked older than he had the previous day, more frail, and she could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t recognize her.
“Jill Nichols,” she said. “I met you during the evacuation yesterday. On the stairs?”
His eyes rounded, and he tried to sit up, then collapsed in a fit of coughing. She stood a moment, trying to decide what to do for him. Finally, she picked up the half-full glass of water from the bedside table and offered it to him.
He waved it away. “I’ll be all right,” he said as the coughing settled. “These blasted lungs. All that smoke.”
She knew the feeling.
When he was breathing normally again, he pulled the mask off and reached for her hand. “My lady hero,” he said. “I’d be dead now, if it wasn’t for you. I owe you big. Never expected the building to collapse like that. Third bomb went off, and the whole thing just came tumbling right down. They’d already got me into the ambulance, and the rush of air and debris from the building’s collapse almost turned the thing over.”
“We’re all so blessed to be alive.”
He took her hand, squeezed it hard. “It was sweet of you to come all the way here to see me. A crotchety old man who gave you such a hard time.”
“You didn’t give me a hard time,” she said with a smile. “Besides, I was here anyway. My husband is in ICU.”
He sat up slowly. “Your husband? Was he in the building, too?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s kind of ironic that we’d both be there when neither of us work for Icon.”
“Sure is.”
“He’s a fireman and was helping with the evacuation. He was buried when the building came down. But they found him this morning, thank God. He’s still in bad shape.” Her voice broke off.
She could see the pain on his face as he processed that, and she appreciated it. He dabbed at the tears in his eyes. “Oh, honey, I know what you’re going through. I lost my wife to cancer just a few weeks ago. Had her down in that same ICU, living minute to minute.”
So he was completely alone. She hadn’t meant to cry, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Webster.”
“Gordon,” he said, stroking her hand. “Call me Gordon. We’ve been through too much to not be on a first-name basis.”
“All right, Gordon.” She sat down in the chair beside his bed. “How long were you married?”
He swallowed hard. “Forty-five years.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if seeing happier days. “Had all these plans for traveling when we retired. Only Icon let me go six months before retirement, and when their stock dropped, our retirement just faded away. Then it turned out that they’d gotten behind on paying our insurance premiums, and here we were with all those medical bills. . . .”
Jill felt the blows he must have suffered over the last few weeks. Unemployment, financial ruin, the death of his wife, and unparalleled trauma just yesterday.
And she thought she had it bad.
“How bad is your husband?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“Pretty bad,” she said. “Head injury, a broken back, broken ribs, his lung collapsed, and he may be paralyzed.”
Gordon cleared his throat. “You have a long row to hoe.”
“Yes, I do,” she whispered. “But I know God’s in control. He got him out of that rubble. And he’s watching over him now.”
He patted her hand. “You’re a good lady, Jill Nichols.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve been a wreck all night.”
“Well, if anyone deserves to have their prayers answered, you do.”
She drew in a deep breath. “So how are you?”
He threw back his bedcovers, revealing a cast that went from his foot to above his knee. “Broken in two places,” he said.
“Will you be able to take care of yourself when you get home?”
He breathed a laugh. “Won’t have much choice, will I?”
“Do you have children who can help you?”
“No, Alma and I could never have any. I don’t have much family to speak of, and what I do have is halfway across the country.”
How would he take care of himself with a broken leg and lungs that weren’t a hundred percent? “Gordon, where do you live?”
“In Newpointe,” he said.
She caught her breath. “That’s where I live. What part of Newpointe?”
“The southeast area. Broad Park.”
She knew the area well. It was an older subdivision populated mostly by elderly people.
“Do you have a church that can help you, Gordon?”
He shook his head. “No, I haven’t been to church in over thirty years. All they care about is getting your money. Alma started getting religious before she died, but we never did go to a church.”
So he was even more alone than she thought.
But not for long. She would mobilize Calvary Bible Church to minister to this lonely, wounded man. Her friends couldn’t help Dan right now, but they could help Gordon Webster.
She got up. “I’d better get back to the waiting room, in case the doctors come by again. But I’ll be back to check on you, Gordon. And when you get out, if you need someone to take you home, I’m sure I can arrange something for you. You’re going to need help.”
“No, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll be fine. You just concentrate on getting your husband better.”
“I’ll come by again later and see how you’re doing, okay?”
“I’d like that.” He put the mask back on, and she started away.
“Jill?”
She turned back.
He had pulled the mask back down. “Thank you for everything.”
She smiled. “Sure.”
Her heart broke as she got back on the elevator and rode back to her floor. What she feared the most—losing her spouse—had already happened to Gordon. Like Job, he’d been stripped of almost everything in his life. He needed help. He needed the love of her church to get him through this.
And she needed to stop feeling so sorry for herself and realize that others had it even worse than she.
When she got back to the waiting room, she saw that everyone was gathered around a television set for a bomb site news update. She saw the site of the Icon Building, thirty stories compressed to the height of four or five.
The miracle of Dan’s rescue came home to her. She moved closer to the set.
A Fox News reporter stood on the roof of a building that overlooked the site, but as he spoke, the cameras zoomed in on the scene, highlighting the faces of the rescue workers who toiled in the heat of the smoldering rubble, still trying to rescue anyone who
could be alive.
“Among the missing is fifty-four-year-old Donald Merritt, chief executive officer of Icon International. Merritt was expected to be indicted sometime next week for fraud and embezzlement, for allegedly ‘cooking the books’ of the international firm and lying to stockholders about the profits. Today, the anxieties plaguing the Merritt family have little to do with the law.”
Allie, who hadn’t left here since she’d come early this morning—even though Mark had returned to the site—put her arm around Jill. “Isn’t that who your meeting was with?”
Jill nodded. “I would have thought he’d gotten out. I was with him. We evacuated the top floor. If I got out, he should have been able to. And I was slowed down because I was helping Gordon.”
“Maybe being slowed down is what saved you. Otherwise, you might have been near the tenth floor when that second bomb went off.”
“But he took the other stairwell, and the tenth floor wasn’t damaged on that side. He must have been helping people get out, too. I can’t believe I was sitting in a meeting with him yesterday, and now he could be dead.”
The reporter switched gears, and the footage she had seen a million times of the Al-Qaeda training camp began to play.
“FBI sources tell us that they’re looking into a possible Al-Qaeda connection, though they can’t yet say for sure that the terrorist organization is behind the bombing. Three Middle Eastern men are being detained in Newpointe today, though the FBI has not yet confirmed that they’re suspects in the bombing at Icon headquarters.”
Jill went rigid. “How could anyone be so evil?”
The television continued blaring, and Jill listened without watching, knowing that the drone of possibilities and speculations and the ever-changing body count all burned themselves into her subconscious, forever becoming a part of her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ashley needed a shower. She had been in the gym all night and all day and still smelled of soot and sweat. She went into the locker room, intent on hurrying back in case any word came about her mother.
Some volunteers from a local church had given her a change of clothes—a pair of jeans, some underwear, and a T-shirt. It was more conservative than what she usually wore, but it beat the filthy outfit she’d been wearing since yesterday.
She showered, then put on the hand-me-downs and stood in front of the mirror. Her burgundy hair stuck up in every direction, just like she usually liked it. But today was a slicked-over kind of day.
She didn’t have a comb, so she parted it with her fingers, then finger-combed it into place.
Her mother had hated her devil-may-care hairstyle, almost as much as she’d hated Ashley’s nose ring.
Now Ashley wished she hadn’t shown her mother her pierced tongue just before she died. She stuck her tongue out now, pulled the gold stud out, and tossed it into the trash. She didn’t feel like talking around it as she demanded news about her mother. It had been a stupid thing to do, anyway.
She stuffed her soiled clothes down into the trash can and grabbed her purse. Leaving her hair wet, she went back out.
She had to admit—she did feel better. Earlier, that same church group had shown up bearing Egg McMuffins for everyone. The food had given her much-needed energy.
Now, as she went back into the noisy gym, she saw that a crowd had formed at one of the tables near the door.
There must be a new list of survivors they’d dug out . . . and a new list of the dead.
She stood in the crowd with her heart in her throat, waiting to get close enough to see if her mother’s name was on either one.
One family began celebrating and cheering as they saw their loved one’s name on the survivor list, and she caught her breath with hope that, perhaps, her mother’s was there, too.
She moved up in line. The family in front of her saw the list, and she watched them crumple in tears and embrace each other.
What would she do if her mother’s name was among the dead? There would be no one to cry to, no one who could hold her up.
She’d have to endure it on her own.
Bucking herself up, and forcing herself to do what was necessary, she stepped up to the table.
First, she scanned the list of survivors. Her mother’s name was not there.
Her hands trembled as she looked at the other list, ran her finger down to the M’s. Allen Maeler, Anthony Montgomery . . .
And there it was. Deborah Morris.
Ashley felt her body trembling, felt her knees giving way, felt the ripping anguish in her throat.
It was official. Her mother was dead.
Someone pushed her out of the way, and she stepped back and just stood there, her mind racing with a collage of images that had no connection to each other.
Just fifty bucks, Mom!
You’re a beautiful girl, Ashley.
I’m dropping out of school, Mom.
Ashley, what kind of life will you have if you stay on this track?
I’m moving in with this guy who says I can stay there for free.
Ashley, don’t break my heart!
Her mother was dead. She wondered how they had identified her. The news had said that they had pictures of the employees and were using them to find the names of the dead.
The dead. She couldn’t grasp it. It couldn’t be true.
“Honey, are you all right?”
Ashley looked into the eyes of one of the church ladies. Her mouth quivered. “Where . . . did they take the bodies?”
“They’ve set up a morgue for them, darlin’.” She touched Ashley’s shoulder.
Ashley backed away. “I need to go there. To see my mother.”
The woman looked stricken. “Was her name on the list?”
Ashley nodded dumbly and swept her hair behind her ears. “But it could be, like, a mistake. They could have gotten her mixed up with someone else. She has one of those faces, you know? People always think they know her.”
“It’s about a mile from here.” The woman’s voice sounded soft, full of pity. “Down Canal Street, behind the New Orleans Bank. You want me to take you, darlin’?”
Ashley shook her head. “No, I’ll walk.”
“But you don’t want to go in there alone, honey. I’ll go with you.”
But Ashley started away from her, unable to answer. She burst out into daylight and started walking, not even certain she was going in the right direction.
The sky was clear blue, the sun shining so brightly that she imagined her friends sunbathing on the roof of the house they had all been sharing. There was something wrong with that, she thought. On a day full of death, there should be clouds, rain pouring from the sky, thunder like the angry voice of God.
She walked and walked, wondering why she hurried to get to that morgue and see her mother’s mangled body. Then she realized that she hurried because the sooner she saw the woman they had identified as Debbie Morris, the sooner she could tell them that it wasn’t true. It was some other woman who looked like her mother.
As she turned the corner onto the block where the morgue was, she knew instantly which building it was. Media stood outside the door, doing live remotes from here since they couldn’t get to the site of the bombs.
She stopped before approaching them, trying to get her bearings. She could use a drink, or a cigarette, or something to dull this pain. She could use a getaway car. She could use a friend.
Forcing herself, she walked through the crowd of reporters and pushed into the building.
Other family members with red eyes and horror on their faces waited in the front room. Ashley stepped inside and went to the table set up there.
“May I help you?” The woman’s voice was kind, and Ashley wondered how many times today she had confirmed people’s worst fears.
She swallowed. “My mother’s name was on the list,” she managed to say. “I need to see her because I’m sure it’s a mistake.” She burst into tears with the last words.
“Oh, hon
ey.” The woman’s voice was too gentle. “What’s your mama’s name, sweetheart?”
“Deborah Morris.”
The woman scrolled down her computer list. Standing up, she called across the room. “Johnny, will you please take this young lady to number eighty-seven?”
Number eighty-seven? Her mother had been reduced to a number? Or maybe it was a good thing, since the name could be wrong.
The man approached her with a clipboard, and in a low voice said, “You can come with me.”
Ashley followed him around the wall and into a huge, cold room full of bodies lined up on the floor. There were dozens of them, all in body bags.
Thousands of dreams destroyed, thousands of hearts broken, thousands of lives ruined.
Nausea churned in her stomach, but she forced it down. She could do this. It was the only way to show them they were wrong.
He led her to number eighty-seven, then knelt beside the body and began to unzip the bag.
Ashley remained standing, not wanting to get too close. She had never seen a dead body before. She focused on a steel beam on the ceiling.
The man pulled back the bag and got to his feet. “You can look now,” he said quietly.
She thought she was going to faint. Tears trailed down her face, and her body wavered. Slowly, she forced her eyes down.
Her mother looked as if she slept, and Ashley stood for a moment, staring, remembering how she’d loved to sleep in the bed with her when she was little. On Saturday mornings, she would stare her mother awake.
“Ma’am, can you confirm her identity?”
Ashley thought of screaming no, that she couldn’t identify her, that they had the wrong person. But screaming it wouldn’t make it true.
Instead she fell down beside her body and touched her mother’s face.
Her face was untouched, but the rest of her had been badly burned. The hair on one side of her head had been singed off, and the skin from her shoulders down seemed melted and mangled.
She held her breath for a moment, locking in the anguish that begged to burst out. Finally, unable to hold it anymore, she let out a loud, “Mama!”
The man put his arm around her shoulders and gently pulled her to her feet. The woman from the front ran back and took Ashley from him. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she said. “So, so sorry.”
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