Even when the photographer wanted to snap just Pearl and Ryan cooking together at the stove, Katie objected. She pushed against the photographer’s legs repeatedly until he boosted her up on the kitchen counter and submitted to her desire to stay front and center. In the shot, her nose poked down into the frying pan as Pearl stirred the eggs.
When the article was published, something about it seemed to really touch readers because it turned out to be one of the most popular pieces I’d ever written.
Despite Pearl’s innate modesty and her initial disinterest in being in the limelight, she was nonetheless excited about this! After I gave her copies of the article with the full-color photos, she started handing them out to all her friends in our building.
For most of her life, Pearl had lived in the background—modestly leading what some might call a fairly ordinary existence, certainly never seeking the limelight in any public way. With her huge heart and able hands, she’d always been helping others, most notably her husband and her family, and, of course, us.
But now—she was the STAR!
It was on the crest of this success, with our family at its closest, that some profound events occurred that would soon change it all.
John had been actively looking for a mate and finally met someone whom he was becoming quite serious about. While Granny had given the thumbs-down on many of John’s dates (typically saying, “Oh, my goodness, that guy, forget him”), John’s new beau, Peter, was a warmhearted person who appealed to Pearl. A successful corporate headhunter, Peter was a nurturing kind of person with a gift for turning a house into a home.
While down-to-earth, practical John was possibly the most nonmaterialistic person I knew—paying little attention to clothing, furniture, or anything remotely connected to what he considered “luxury”—Peter was just the opposite. He was an avid collector of furniture, art, and jewelry. And his large apartment near Carnegie Hall was filled with stylish accents and effects completely foreign to Midwestern John.
They were such opposites. Peter was compulsively neat, driven, and superorganized, while John was more relaxed and casual, but it was a good balance. Each had what the other needed. John wanted a stable partner and a comfortable home, while Peter, with such a beautiful home and nobody in it, wanted a family.
Watching them together, I could see how much John enjoyed Peter’s take-charge attitude and easy affection; and Peter was touched by John’s devotion to Ryan and by the way John had succeeded in balancing his responsibilities.
I admit that having Peter on the scene made me uncomfortable and, at times, resentful, because his presence shifted the balance of attention—leaving Granny and me somewhat left behind.
It wasn’t long before Peter was spending more and more time on our floor. He upgraded John’s sparsely appointed apartment into a homier nest, bringing in curtains, rugs, lamps, and plants while also filling out both John’s and Ryan’s wardrobe. John was happy and excited with the turn of events, while Pearl welcomed Peter into her dining room, making him a part of our group.
The downside for us was that, in May 2000, exactly seven years after John and Ryan had moved in, John announced that he was moving uptown, into Peter’s more spacious apartment. Happy as I was for him, I was disappointed too, not wanting to lose them.
“It’s time for us to leave,” John told me quietly. “We’re going to miss you and Granny a lot! But this is a big step forward for me, and I’m moving for a happy reason,” though it wasn’t happy for everyone.
“I’m so sad,” I confided to Pearl one day. “I’m going to miss them so much. Do you think John’s doing the right thing?”
“You never know until you try—but he’s wanted this for a long time, so we have to let him go,” she wisely answered.
“But Ryan—what are we going to do without him?” I asked. She had no answer to that one. The hallway was going to be empty without him, and Katie wasn’t going to like it either.
I loved that kid—having him over as he did his homework, watching TV with him, laughing about anything and everything, taking him places with Katie, going out for holidays—all the things we’d done together for years. I couldn’t imagine life without either him or John. Neither could Granny—so we both dreaded the inevitable.
On the final moving day, Ryan came into Pearl’s apartment to say good-bye to us. “I’m going to visit you all the time,” he told Granny, giving her a huge hug and kiss.
“You’d better!” said Granny, handing John a tinfoil-covered plate of cookies for the road.
Katie jumped on Ryan’s lap. As if somehow understanding what was happening, she put her paws around him and licked his face over and over again.
“Good-bye, girlie,” Ryan whispered. “I’ll come back to see you.”
And then, Ryan handed Pearl two going-away presents. The first was a small pink rhododendron that Ryan had taken good care of, watering it as Pearl had instructed him to. (Thereafter, it became Pearl’s favorite plant.)
Next, he handed her a small package wrapped in tissue paper, which would become one of her most treasured possessions.
She opened it up, and there was a framed photograph of Granny and Ryan, one of the pictures taken for the magazine article.
“And look,” said Ryan, turning the frame over for Granny. “The best part is that it’s a talking picture frame!”
“A what?” asked Granny, puzzled by this.
“Look here, when you press this button, you hear a recording that I made—just for you, Oldest.”
Pearl then pressed the button, and out came a message: “Hi Granny, it’s Ryan. Love you. You too, Katie. Don’t ever forget me.” Then there was the sound of a kiss. “Love, Ryan.”
“Grannsy,” John said in parting, hugging Pearl close, “we’re gonna come down next week for some of that chocolate pie!”
“That’s a date,” she answered.
She opened her front door and sadly watched Ryan and John walk down the long hallway to the elevator, waving good-bye.
And then… they were gone.
How could things ever be the same again?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lady Sings the Blues
After John and Ryan moved out, our red-carpeted hallway became eerily quiet. After seven happy years, all the action and excitement ground to a halt.
Pearl’s daily trips to the school bus and the babysitting were over. Gone were the card games and hours spent laughing at her dining table. Ryan now had an “official” nanny of his own, a second dad too, and even two dogs, a surly Lhasa apso named Virgil and a hyperkinetic papillon named Chance. All of them displaced the family he’d known, including my lonesome dog.
At first, poor Katie scouted down the hallway every day. She scratched at Ryan’s door and lay next to it, sadly waiting for her young friend to return. She was despondent without him.
“Oh, Katie girl,” I whispered, picking her up in my arms and taking her back down to Pearl’s. “Ryan isn’t here anymore, but he still loves you.”
“But Dad,” she seemed to say, pulling against me and returning to his door, “I gotta wait for him. I miss him.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. I do too. But he’s gone.”
But the very next day, Katie would run right back down the hall to Ryan’s door and poke her nose into it, desperately trying to find him.
Pearl wasn’t any happier than Katie. Although my dog and I showed up at her door just as much as ever, things seemed very different. After all, Ryan wasn’t racing in and out with Katie at his heel; John was no longer asking Pearl for advice about his dates or planning outings. And our family dinners were no more.
Sure, John and Ryan periodically phoned Oldest and me or came over to visit. We shared desserts at Pearl’s dining table, but it just wasn’t the same as their living down the hall. I missed taking care of “the kid,” and hearing him tell me all about school. I also felt sadly numb without John—I had lost my favorite confidante and on-site friend. But John wa
s busy adjusting to his new relationship and environs while Ryan was getting used to a different school and new friends; they were both understandably busy with their new lives. And so I worried for Granny.
Everybody in life needs a support system—whether it’s family or friends or a surrogate family like the one we had created. Pearl had definitely lost a big part of the support she had grown to depend on, especially after Arthur’s death.
As John later reflected, “It was sad because Ryan didn’t get as much time to spend with Grannsy—though we did visit as much as we could—but I think she took it [the separation] harder than we did.”
Indeed, although Pearl typically kept her feelings private, around this time she began pouring her heart out to her longtime friend Rose, a vivacious, glamorous woman who had worked in the fashion industry with the French designer Givenchy. (Rose’s husband, Alvin, and Arthur had been business associates.) She was also a highly skilled astrologer, extraordinarily sensitive about people, and sought after by a number of celebrity clients.
Rose, who lived across the river from us in Fort Lee, New Jersey, could easily see the dramatic transformation in Pearl’s spirits as our family had evolved.
“Having Ryan in her life gave her purpose, something to look forward to every day,” recalled Rose. “But when Ryan moved away, she was heartbroken. She was calling me every day, crying on the phone. She felt terribly lonesome.”
“Listen, Pearl,” Rose told her. “Nothing in life lasts forever. People come into our lives for a reason when we need them—and everybody moves on.”
“I know it. I know.”
“I’ll mention something to Glenn. Maybe he can do something about it.”
“No,” Pearl answered quickly.
“Don’t take it so personally,” Rose continued. “Even if you were his real grandmother, you probably wouldn’t see him as much as you were used to. After all, Ryan is growing up and kids his age want to be with their friends. That’s just the way it is.”
But as Rose later reflected, “It was hard for Pearl to accept. She felt she was no longer needed. She told me it was like losing Arthur all over again.”
At the grand age of eighty-eight, with her “boy” gone, it was as if someone had put a pin in the balloon of Pearl’s spirits. She was still relatively robust, far ahead of most of her contemporaries, and continued to do all her own shopping and cooking. But as I watched her do it all, I could tell she was just going through the motions. Her desire to cook and bake had slowed way down, just as her pleasure in life was flagging. She was definitely depressed.
Some days, as I passed her door, I heard music coming through it, and more often than not she was playing one of her favorite Billie Holiday LPs featuring “Lady Sings the Blues,” one of the signature songs written by the jazz singer. The mournful music was somehow in tune with the mood of our hallway without Ryan.
Things were now falling through the cracks. Although Pearl had never been a fastidious housekeeper, her apartment was more disheveled than usual. Half the time, she didn’t make her bed, while Arthur’s single bed was always perfectly made and empty, a reminder of her loss. More and more, she looked through a huge, messy drawer of old photos, lost in the memories of her past life. All this made me terribly sad. I tried to keep up her spirits by inviting her out to dinner, though she often declined.
Most distressing to me, Pearl’s always sharp mind was now a bit vague. Some days, she seemed disoriented and distracted. I’d find her wandering around outside near our local drugstore, window-shopping, with a blank look on her face. But she snapped right back to her old self once we started talking, forcing her to focus.
“How’s my sweet little girlie?” she cooed at Katie, who jumped right up on her Granny, as always.
“Ouch! Those nails are sharp. When are you going to see Betty?”
While previously always in command of Katie while walking her, Pearl was now almost pulled off-balance when Katie pulled back on the leash, as she was often prone to do.
After a general checkup, we learned that Oldest had high blood pressure and that she was also anemic, which explained why she seemed dizzy at times, often wobbly on her feet. Her overall energy level was faltering.
Although never one to speak about her health, Pearl now complained about cramps, stomach pains, and problems with digestion. She delayed going to a specialist, though I pushed her to do it. Right into the summer of 2001, I continued lecturing her about having an exam. “You’ve got to take care of yourself and get that colonoscopy.”
“Stop it!” she snapped. “I’ll do it when I’m ready. Stop worrying. I’m fine.” But she really wasn’t, which is why I found it difficult to stop myself from nagging her.
Meanwhile, Katie was now a dowager with various ailments of her own, mostly arthritis and failing vision. At age thirteen, although she was still happy to walk outside and game to chase her blue rubber ball up and down the hall, she couldn’t run as fast or as long as before, and she sometimes bumped into the wall.
“Katie has cataracts,” Dr. Simon told me, “though she’s still seeing most of what she needs to. Eventually we can consider removing them, but for now, let’s leave her alone.”
We had always walked the three flights of cement stairs up from and down to the lobby of our building. But Katie slipped one day, falling down the stairs and landing on her side. She let out a screech and was crying in pain—and confusion. I scooped her up in my arms to soothe her, feeling terrible about it, and took her to the vet for an X-ray. “Katie,” Dr. Simon told me, “was very lucky. Nothing broken or bruised—just her ego.”
But after that, we always took the elevator, as Katie no longer had the strength in her legs, or the balance, to negotiate the steps.
Likewise, although my dog tried to jump on my bed as she always had when she was ready for a nap or bedtime, she could no longer make it. One day I saw her try to make the jump, but she fell backward onto the carpet—looking bewildered and indignant. After that, I purchased a little carpeted staircase of three steps that allowed her to walk up on the bed. That problem was solved.
“My little girl is getting to be a senior!” cooed Pearl, still avidly interested in every aspect of Katie’s care and condition. Although she walked Katie less than she used to, she babysat her just as much as ever. But more and more of their time was spent together in bed taking long naps, often with the TV blaring.
It was discouraging seeing them slowed down, frail, and, at times, so apathetic. And yet it was also incredibly sweet watching these two soulmates snuggle together, each giving the other the comfort and tenderness they needed.
As for me, with Ryan and John gone, and Granny and Katie ailing, I wasn’t very happy, feeling that life in Battery Park City was no longer the fun-filled place it once had been. I had no idea, however, how dramatically our lives were about to change.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Day Our World Stopped
Tuesday, September 11, 2001, was a picture-perfect day in New York City, sunny and warm. After an early-morning jog, I sat at my computer typing letters, while Katie was lying under my desk, her head resting on my right foot, lazily content.
The view outside my window to the coast of New Jersey was dazzling that morning. The mirrored wall in my home office reflected the clear blue skies and the Hudson River, smooth as glass with its commuter boats, small yachts, and sailboats. All of it was framed by a lush row of trees so close to my windows that my office looked a little like an enchanted forest.
But the calm was shattered at 8:46 a.m. by a strange-sounding explosive boom that echoed through my apartment. The entire building seemed to vibrate. At first, though, I ignored it.
Since there were always construction projects going on in the neighborhood, I assumed the noise was just routine, though it was louder than anything I’d ever heard before.
Puzzled, I looked out at the river but saw nothing and returned to work.
Then the phone rang.
“Turn on the TV!” ordered Pearl, her voice uncharacteristically agitated. “An airplane just crashed into the World Trade Center. Watch it.” And she hung up the phone.
I switched on the small TV in my office and was startled to see the North Tower of the Trade Center on fire.
I rushed into the living room, where I had a full view of the Twin Towers.
The crash and the small blaze seemed so peculiar. How could what emerging TV reports were describing as a “small commuter plane” accidentally fly into such a mammoth building?
As smoke and flames poured out of the building, I had the surreal experience of watching this event unfold on TV while simultaneously seeing it, directly from my windows.
Had it been Monday instead of Tuesday, I would have been in the Trade Center myself, on the way from the subway station there to my volunteer job as a hotline counselor. I was in and out of the Towers daily; in addition to the subway, I was always in the shopping arcade, frequenting the drugstore, newsstand, bakery, clothing stores, hotel, and bank.
A number of my neighbors worked in the Towers, and many of them were there on this day.
And now, as we would later learn, a team of al-Qaeda suicide hijackers had crashed American Airlines Flight 11 into the North Tower, instantly killing as many as 600 people.
At first, it seemed as if the disaster was under control.
But seventeen minutes later, of course, a second team of hijackers crashed United Airlines Flight 175 into the South Tower.
Immediately after seeing that on TV and knowing that ours was the closest residential building to the Towers, perhaps next in line, I had to do something.
My heart was racing as I heard the high-pitched sound of police and fire truck sirens, getting louder and louder as they all converged in the streets. I tucked Katie into my bedroom, snatched up my keys and wallet, and ran down the stairs to the lobby.
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