The Woman Who Wasn’t There

by Jr. Robin Gaby Fisher; Angelo J. Guglielmo

  Someone from Hillary’s office suggested that we put out a press release this week thanking Sen. Clinton for her efforts and using the same text in our testimony to continue to draw attention to nonrescue survivors. I think this is a great idea, what do you think?

  Mike B [Bloomberg] didn’t mention survivors once, he just made an appeal to open up the 9/11 fund again so that rescue and recovery workers who are getting sick can be eligible to receive comp. Mostly so that the city is not stuck with the bill. Dr. Reibman was the only one who really spent a few minutes talking about nonrescue workers, explaining how many office workers/ residents are getting sick and how many more continue to show up. She said that unless they receive additional funding, at the rate they are getting new sign-ups, the program will run out of funding at the end of 2008. It’s pretty depressing.

  . . . I’m glad I went through it; it’s a striking reality check. We need to do more to call attention to nonrescuers getting sick . . . Plus, it is really fascinating to see the wheels of government in motion. Hillary has a very commanding presence, and you can tell this is her thing. You know what, politics apart, when you see her in action, you can picture her as president.

  . . . I brought a lot of copies of our document and handed over all the copies to everyone I talked to, including the media, so that’s that. Sen. Clinton is interested in meeting with us, and apparently they thought the idea of inviting the committee to attend hearings in NY/NJ was brilliant. You would think they would think of these things.

  Well, that’s it for now.

  Zimbler was proud of Tania. He had never seen anyone who worked so hard and was so committed. Just when he thought the Survivors’ Network had reached its pinnacle, Tania moved it higher. With her as their leader, there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish.

  FLOODING

  Linda stepped out of the taxi at West Fifty-Fifth Street and Tenth Avenue and looked skyward toward Tania’s apartment. The living room lights were blazing in her friend’s unit on the eighteenth floor of the luxury high-rise. Tania was waiting. “Shit.” For three years, Linda had come to the now trendy Hell’s Kitchen section of the city at least once a week before heading across the river to her home in Hoboken, New Jersey. That was their time just to be girlfriends, away from the stresses of the network. Most times, she and Tania would order in and spend the rest of the evening talking or watching movies. Linda always looked forward to the visits. But tonight she wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Entering the building, she nodded at the doorman and walked through the modern lobby to the bank of elevators at the other end, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. She pushed the up button and waited. Her stomach was uneasy. No, that didn’t begin to describe the way she felt. She was trying to fight back waves of nervous nausea. Why had she agreed to do this, damn it? Why was she always doing things she didn’t want to do? Maybe she could fake the flu, or say that her mother needed her, or her dog was sick. Maybe she should just tell the truth: that she was scared to death of what was about to happen. The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside and pushed the button for Tania’s floor. How easy would it be to just walk out of the elevator and go home? It really wasn’t an option, though, not if she wanted to stay in Tania’s good graces. Despite her furtive and hapless little wish that it wouldn’t, the elevator glided upward.

  Tania lived in apartment number 1803, a few doors down from Andrew Stein, the former city council president. Every time Linda came here, she couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like if money wasn’t an issue. White-glove services, sweeping city views, and rents that had to start at $4,000 a month—she could imagine living in such luxury. The elevator stopped at eighteen, and Linda turned and walked haltingly down the sterile hallway toward Tania’s apartment. Even before she could ring the buzzer, the door flew open. Tania stood in the doorway, smiling that Cheshire cat grin of hers. She looked good. Her hair was pushed off her face, and her dark jeans and short-sleeved shirt were crisply pressed, as always. Her brown eyes shone with excitement behind her dark-rimmed glasses.

  “Hey, Blondie!” she said, motioning for Linda to come inside. “Are you ready?”

  “Hardly,” Linda thought to herself. For days, Linda had been listening to Tania talk about her new therapist and an intense form of treatment she was undergoing. It was all she had talked about lately, this flooding stuff. She had told Linda about the tape she’d made with Kedem and about her homework to listen to the recordings at home. She had tried a few times, she said, but it was too scary. The therapist suggested that she recruit someone she trusted to be with her during the exercise, and she had chosen—who else?—her very best friend.

  Linda had put off this moment for as long as she could, and then she ran out of excuses. Fear hammered her now. She felt shaky. Nervously jingling the change in her pocket from the cab ride over, she hesitated in the doorway. She had been sober now for almost four years, and her resolve not to drink was strong, but as they said in Alcoholics Anonymous, “If you don’t want to slip, don’t go into slippery places.” The floor beneath her felt slick. She tried stalling.

  “Listen, Tania,” she said, still jingling the coins, “I have an idea. Why don’t we do this another night? I’m really not feeling up to this. Let’s go out and grab some dinner at the restaurant down the street that you like so much. You can tell me all about your trip to Washington. What do you say? C’mon. I’ll even treat this time.”

  Tania shook her head. Her eyes darkened, and her lip curled in disappointment. Or was it disdain? Linda recognized the look. That was Tania when she wasn’t getting her way. She braced for the inevitable tongue-lashing.

  “Don’t be such a chicken,” Tania said, mocking her. “You’re scared! Ha! Why should you be scared? I’m the one who went through hell. All you have to do is listen to a tape with me.”

  Naturally, Tania was right. It was times like this that Linda didn’t even feel worthy of calling herself a survivor. She hadn’t been burned or nearly lost an arm, the way that Tania had. Nor had she lost a loved one in the attack. Who was she to refuse her friend who had endured so much and asked so little? Besides, she could never hear enough about what took place inside the towers. It was a morbid curiosity that her therapist said was a common symptom of survivor’s guilt. If she listened to the tape, she would hear plenty of what went on, perhaps more than she had ever heard before. And, after all, she felt privileged, special, to be the one who Tania had picked to share such a crucial phase of her healing. How could she be so weak when Tania was so strong? Linda felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, hugging Tania. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m such a wimp. I’d do anything for you. You know that. Please forgive me. Come on now, let’s get started with your homework.”

  Linda heard the door lock behind her as she walked into Tania’s apartment. It was a beautiful space, open and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows and dramatic skyline views. Linda was always surprised by how barren it was. Some of the survivors believed the spartan décor was Tania’s way of not committing fully to a new life. Tania jokingly referred to her furnishings as “shabby chic.” The living room was bare except for a flat-screen TV, two beach chairs, and a couple of bookshelves, and the bedroom had air mattresses rather than a bed. The only item on the walls was a framed photograph of Welles Crowther, in the space where Tania had her desk and computer. Tania had plenty of belongings, she had told Linda: rooms full of furniture from the Upper East Side apartment, keepsakes from her extensive travels around the world, and albums filled with family pictures. But her past was stored at the house in Amagansett because she still couldn’t bear to be surrounded by constant reminders of Dave.

  While Tania boiled water for tea, Linda sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and made small talk. The night was clear, and Rockefeller Center twinkled in the distance. Linda saw the tape recorder on a lamp table a few feet away. A shiver ran through her, but she was determined not to let Tania
see her squirm. She couldn’t disappoint her friend by backing out, not again, now that they had come this close. The teapot whistled. Tania poured two cups of tea. Linda held hers to her lips. The warmth of the cup in her hands felt good, and swirls of steam moistened her face, soothing her for a moment. If only she could end the evening here, with the wonderful, warm tea and the good company of her best friend. That would be plenty for her.

  Tania walked to the tape recorder.

  “Ready?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Ready,” Linda said, putting her cup down on the counter and clasping her shaking hands in her lap.

  Tania snapped on the recorder, and Linda sucked down a deep breath. The tape began with Tania talking about getting up on that morning with Dave in their Madison Avenue loft. It is sunny outside, but the loft is still chilly from the cold nighttime air. She starts the coffee, and Dave pulls out his favorite frying pan and cooks eggs, two sunny-side up for her, three over easy for him. They share sections of the newspaper as they wipe up the last of their eggs with slices of toast and gulp down the last sips of coffee. While she washes the breakfast dishes, he walks their golden retriever, Elvis. Dave returns, and they shower together, then dress and take the subway downtown to their World Trade Center offices, arriving at just after seven thirty. In a calm voice, Tania describes how, around an hour later, Dave calls her office to ask if she’ll join him for coffee in the concourse. It has become a sort of ritual for them, sneaking in a few more minutes together before launching into the workday. But on this morning, she has an early meeting and can’t make it, so they make plans for dinner, say their I-love-yous, and hang up.

  Moments later, the first plane slashes through the north tower. She tries calling Dave but each time gets a fast busy signal and realizes the phones must be out. As she prays for Dave, she sees bodies falling from the north tower. The voice on the tape is quivering. People in the south tower are frightened and confused, Tania says. Should they remain in the building or go? The security staff announces that everyone should stay put; the south tower is secure and safer than the street. She tries to calm her staff, but people are frightened, so she orders them to follow her down the stairs to the seventy-eighth-floor sky lobby, where they can all catch an express elevator to the concourse.

  Tania was staring straight ahead and rocking back and forth in her chair.

  “Tania, honey, are you okay?” Linda asked. “Tania?”

  Tania was in a trance. Linda braced herself. She had heard Tania’s story before, but only in bits and pieces and never in so much detail. She wanted to stop the tape, both because she was afraid to hear any more, and primarily for Tania’s sake. Yet she didn’t dare take charge in that way. Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of the exercise? Tania wouldn’t be pleased. The next sound on the recording is Tania sobbing; gut-wrenching sobs that go on for several minutes. Linda could hardly stand it. Her heart rate took off, and tears filled her eyes. She looked over at Tania, who was still rocking and now sweating profusely. She took Tania’s hand. It was limp and soaking wet. She was relieved to hear next the soothing voice of the therapist: “It’s okay, Tania. I’m right here with you. Take a breath, Tania. Take a deep breath.”

  After a short silence Tania is speaking again on the tape. Her voice is weak and small. “I’m afraid,” she whimpers. “I’m so afraid.” Tania says she sees a plane coming toward the windows in the sky lobby. A woman is screaming, “Another plane is coming! Another plane is coming!” Dozens of people are in the lobby, and no one seems to know what to do. The building jerks violently, and the sky lobby is bathed in a blinding white light as the silver wing of a plane slices through it. A rolling fireball is followed by a riotous shock wave. The scene in the sky lobby is surreal, and she can hardly grasp what is happening. Where is her assistant? Where is Dave? What will Elvis do without her? She can’t die. She won’t die. Not here. Not like this.

  Now, while Linda looked on, Tania began sobbing inconsolably. Primal, guttural sobs racked her body. She climbed out of her chair. Hunched over, almost as if she were trying to climb back into herself, she began pacing around the apartment. Tears and sweat poured off her face, like water from a sponge. Her hair and her shirt were drenched. She seemed to have trouble breathing. Linda followed in her footsteps, terrified, trying to console her friend.

  “Tania, can you hear me?” she asked. “Tania, are you all right? Tania?”

  But it was as if Tania’s consciousness had left her traumatized body. The tape continued to roll.

  Tania is quiet for a moment but then lets out a visceral scream. She says she is looking at the lifeless body of her secretary, who is nearly decapitated. “She has no head!” she cries. “Oh my God! Oh my God! I’m going to die. It’s dark! I can’t breathe! My skin is burning! Oh my God. They’re all dead. Everyone is dead!”

  Tania was walking back and forth across the living room, dazed and gasping for breath. Linda felt so helpless, but her explicit instructions from Tania had been not to interrupt the exercise, no matter how desperate things got. Linda knew what was coming next on the tape. She didn’t think she could stand to hear Tania speak of it again, but she had to be strong for her friend—that was her role. From the first time Tania had told her about the dying man with the wedding ring, Linda had not been able to get him out of her mind, as if she had been the one who’d encountered him in the sky lobby. There were nights she saw him in her dreams, smelled his burning hair, heard his pleading voice. She took a deep breath and waited.

  Tania is describing climbing over burned bodies and severed body parts. Her voice is flat on this part of the recording. Perhaps she is in shock. Who wouldn’t be? As she crawls over the snarl of slaughtered men and women, desperately searching for a way out, she notices a slight movement in the carnage. He is unrecognizable as a man. His face and body are charred black, and his skin is smoking. He has a few breaths left at most. She pauses, and he reaches for her. “Please,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Please promise me you’ll give this to my wife.” With that, the man places his wedding ring in her good hand.

  “I promise I will,” she says.

  She then tells how she stood up and could barely fight the assault of the searing fires and bitter smoke, when, just when it seemed impossible, she sees a man holding a red bandanna over his face. His commanding voice and penetrating eyes give her strength. “Please don’t leave me,” she says. With that, the tape snapped off.

  Linda looked at Tania, who was now standing, slumped, still. She looked confused and bedraggled. Her neck was blotched with bright red hives. Her shoulders drooped with exhaustion, and large half-moons of sweat had bled under the arms of her blouse. “What happened?” she asked, bewildered.

  Linda went to the kitchen and made Tania a cup of tea. They sat together in silence for what seemed like a long while. Finally, Linda tucked her friend into bed and prepared to catch the last train home to Hoboken. But before she could get away, Tania made one last request. She asked Linda to promise that they could listen to the tape again tomorrow. “Please, Linda,” she said. “I need to do this.”

  “Of course,” Linda said. “I’ll be here right after work.”

  On the train ride home, Linda suffered the first panic attack she’d had in years. As the PATH train dipped into the dark tunnel running under the Hudson, and the lights of the city disappeared, she suddenly felt as if she were suffocating. That awful, familiar tingling crept up her torso and engulfed her head. Her vision blurred, and her breathing got shallower and shallower. She was overcome with terror and fought the urge to get up and run. Where was there to go? She was trapped, just the way those poor people who had hurled themselves from the top floors of the towers had been trapped.

  “You all right, ma’am?” the conductor asked. Linda nodded, but the nod was a lie. Being Tania’s friend was a hard job, and Linda was weary. Everything was always about Tania. What Tania wanted. What Tania needed. How Tania felt. For three years, she had catered to Tania�
�s every whim. She had allowed Tania’s cruelties to go unchecked and accepted her criticisms without pushing back. Because she didn’t want to lose the friendship. How much longer could she devote that kind of time and energy to Tania, while disregarding her own needs? She needed to maintain her sobriety so that she could have the future she dreamed of, with a husband and children and all of those things that came with a healthy family life. How would she ever be able to move forward if she was constantly allowing Tania to pull her back to the past she wanted to forget? Linda tried to slow her breathing, to steady her hands, to blot out the ghastly images crossing her mind. The fifteen-minute ride was torture. When the train finally pulled into her station, she dragged herself the two blocks home.

  That night, Linda dreamed of planes crashing into buildings and bodies falling out of the sky.

  SHADOW OF DOUBT

  For nearly five years, Brendan Chellis had listened to Tania’s stories, and she, his. Brendan had been running late on the morning of September 11 and was walking through the revolving doors into the north tower, headed for his thirtieth-floor office at Empire Blue Cross Blue Shield, when the first plane hit. He froze as the blast blew down the elevator shafts, shooting balls of fire into the lobby, and he turned and ran just as it exploded.

  As one of the original members of the inaugural online forum, Brendan had followed Tania to the Survivors’ Network, and they’d spent plenty of time together. For a long time, he had noticed slight discrepancies in the things she told him. Little things, here and there, that seemed insignificant until you added them all up. Several times he held himself back from asking her, Which was it, had Dave been her fiancé or her husband? She had referred to him in both ways. Chellis always chalked up the inconsistencies to trauma or a misunderstanding on his part. But late one night in the spring of 2007, just as he was about to go to bed, something possessed him to search the name David online. He had scolded himself as he typed the name into the computer. It almost seemed like a breach of Tania’s privacy.