UNEXPECTED
FAITH SULLIVAN
Copyright © 2013 Faith Sullivan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © Claudia Veja / Shutterstock.com
Edited by Mickey Reed at www.ImABookshark.com
To the victims of September 11, 2001 and their families
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Message from the Author
Preview of Heartbeat by Faith Sullivan
Chapter One
What the heck is that?
A deafening rumble fills the air. Then just as quickly, it disappears. I sit upright in bed trying to figure out what jolted me awake. I check the clock. It’s 8:46 a.m. I still have fourteen minutes before my alarm goes off, but I’m too wired. Talk about a rude awakening.
I push the covers away and shuffle the six steps it takes to get to the bathroom. Living in a studio apartment in New York City is like residing in a very expensive walled-in box. It’s not for the claustrophobic or the faint of heart. This tiny one-room dwelling is costing my parents $1,500 a month. The sacrifice they’re making is mind-boggling, I know. But they want me to be able to concentrate on my studies outside of a crowded dorm environment, regardless of the hefty price tag.
It’s because I’m their fulfillment of the American Dream. I have the chance to make something of myself since they believe my life is destined to be one shining success story. My acceptance into New York University’s film program is the first step toward an illustrious career. It’s my golden ticket to fame, riches, and glory. Failure is not an option.
My parents aren’t college graduates. Dad is a tollbooth worker on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and Mom mans the drive-through window at McDonald’s. We’re from a town so small it doesn’t even have its own zip code. It’s a place where conversation revolves around the record of the high school football team and the latest weather forecast. My parents want more for me. And I’m grateful, I really am, but their lofty expectations rest heavily on my shoulders.
I pad across the uncarpeted floor to the window. I keep the blinds tightly drawn and peer through the cracks. Nothing looks amiss in the courtyard below. I hate shutting out the sunlight, but I’m afraid to expose myself to the apartments directly across from me. I moved in a little over two weeks ago, and the one time I opened the blinds, a strange guy was knocking on my door fifteen minutes later. I’m not taking any chances.
It’s a bright Tuesday morning, and it’s as quiet as a tomb. I’m not surprised. It’s not until two o’clock in the morning that the maintenance crew begins its nightly racket, talking loudly, slamming garbage cans, and stomping up and down the hallway. Needless to say, I’m still adjusting to all of the nocturnal activity.
I flick on the TV that’s not much bigger than my toaster. It’s time to get my morning routine underway. I have class at eleven o’clock. Even though it’s only a ten-minute walk from my apartment on Bleecker Street across Washington Square Park, I better get a move on.
Absentmindedly, my gaze drifts to the events unfolding on the screen. The morning news program is showing a close-up of one of the World Trade Center towers, smoke billowing out the side. Leave it to New York. I’m not even living here a month and crazy things are happening.
I listen more attentively. The reporter is saying that a small commuter plane or a helicopter apparently flew too close to the building and crashed into it. An equipment malfunction is likely to blame since the mid-September sky is crystal clear. I have to call Mom and see if she knows about this.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Mom, turn on the TV.”
“I know. I have it on.”
“Crazy, huh?”
“I don’t know why they let them fly so close to those tall buildings.”
Predicting she’s about to break into a rambling tirade, I halt her momentum midstream. “Well, I have to get ready. I just wanted to call and see if you were watching.”
“Okay, Michelle, but be careful when you go out, and don’t go anywhere near that area,” she admonishes.
“I won’t, Mom. Don’t worry,” I respond before hanging up.
I haven’t lived by myself before, and it’s weird not having anyone to talk to when things like this happen. A shiver of loneliness runs through me when I realize that Mom is over two hundred miles away in another state. So far, I’ve attended only a few classes. Orientation was followed by the Labor Day weekend, so I don’t really know anyone yet. At least, not well enough to exchange phone numbers.
Transfixed, I stare at the screen, watching what is happening literally right outside my door. I’m two miles away, but after exiting the confines of my building, the Twin Towers are easily visible from the street. The only thing holding me back from running outside and taking a look is that I’m still in my pajamas. I’m not brave enough to check it out until I’m fully dressed.
Suddenly, a massive fireball erupts on TV. The anchors are at a loss for words. They don’t know how to describe what they are witnessing. Anxiety enters their voices. Something isn’t right.
Rushing to the TV, I hover over it. Seconds later, they begin showing a replay of a giant black plane—a second plane—hitting the other tower.
Shaking, I reach for the phone and hit redial.
I sputter before she can answer. “Mom? Oh my God, did you see that? They think it’s another plane.”
“Just stay calm, Michelle. You’re safe where you are, right?”
“I think so, but what’s going on?”
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t think anyone knows.”
Trembling, I keep my eyes glued to the inferno raging from both skyscrapers. “Mom…I’m
scared.”
She breathes deeply, trying to control the unsteadiness in her voice. “You’re going to be all right. Hang tight.”
I have never wanted my mom so much in my life. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll call you back later.” For some reason, it hurts more to stay on the line with her. The distance separating us seems greater over the phone.
In a sort of stupor, I gingerly sit on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. I am alone—completely, and utterly, alone. There’s no one coming to help me deal with this. I’m on my own.
An announcement is made that all bridges and tunnels into Manhattan are closed. There’s no way in, no way out.
The minutes tick by, but it seems as if time is standing still, frozen around this moment. What started as an ordinary day has gone terribly wrong.
A news bulletin breaks in, and the scene shifts to Washington, D.C. as the Pentagon smolders. They think it’s the work of a third plane.
The world crumbles around me, and a desperate energy fills my veins. I pace the length of the apartment like a caged animal. I’m numb. I can’t process the severity of the situation I’m watching unfold. I keep telling myself that it’s a bad dream, nothing more.
Military fighter jets roar outside my window, patrolling the airspace above my head. Words like ‘terrorist attack’ and ‘all flights grounded’ pour out of the TV. I try calling Mom again, but I can’t get a signal on my cell phone.
Muttering to myself, I wander through the apartment, disoriented. In the bathroom. Out of the bathroom. Open the refrigerator. Close the refrigerator. Up to the door. Away from the door. I am going mad.
And just when I’m at my wit’s end, I watch in horror as the South Tower collapses. My knees buckle, and I hit the floor. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I whisper over and over. On some metaphysical level that I can’t quite explain, I can literally feel, in the essence of my being, the multitude of souls instantaneously ripped from the world, like an inter-dimensional vortex opened, swallowing them whole.
The chaos continues as I momentarily lose touch with reality. The North Tower falls. A fourth plane crashes in Pennsylvania. My nerves break down, and I retreat into myself. Everything is a blurred-out haze.
I don’t know what to do. Somehow, I end up back in the bathroom. I close the door and robotically remove my pajamas. Shuddering, I turn on the tap and step into the shower. As I’m being pelted by the stream of hot water, my psyche reverts to the familiar action of washing my hair. But my inner consciousness is screaming, “How can you wash your hair when you just watched thousands of people die? What the hell is wrong with you?”
I stagger and lean against the tiled wall as my insides churn. I gasp for breath and feel like I’m going to be sick. I twist the knob and cease the flow of water. I unsteadily place my feet on the fuzzy bath mat. The room is filled with steam, making everything appear indistinct. I clutch a towel around my dripping body and grab onto the counter, lowering myself onto the toilet seat. Clasping my wet head in my hands, I close my eyes and rock back and forth, trembling violently as the tears begin to fall.
Chapter Two
People start returning in droves to the apartment building. It seems everyone is escaping the mayhem outside by rushing home to cry behind locked doors. The woman who always stomps up and down the stairs in platform shoes is back. But this time, she’s sobbing uncontrollably as she makes her ascent.
I press my eye to the peephole, watching residents trudge down the hallway. Some are covered in white dust. Some are bleeding. For the first time since I moved here, no one is rushing. The atmosphere is eerie, like something drained the life force out of this ever-bustling city. Everyone appears to be moving in slow motion, as if underwater, like shell-shocked survivors dragging themselves off the battlefield.
Picking up my cell phone, I try to call home again, but the line is still dead. According to the reports on TV, the attacks have apparently stopped for now. At this point, I really need to see another human being. Any random stranger will suffice. I desperately need a hug, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, I’ll settle for making eye contact with some pedestrian on the street.
Without giving it a second thought, I grab my purple and white NYU keychain and bolt out the door, quickly locking it behind me. I dash down the steps, and I’m through the twin iron gates in no time. My pace is rapid as I tear down the street. Looking for what? I don’t know.
A vertical cloud of dust fills the air where the two towers once stood. It’s immense. I try not to think about what’s in that dust. Pulverized bodies, toxic chemicals—my mind begins to spin. I break out in a cold sweat as my hands start to shake. Is this what a panic attack feels like?
I stop dead in my tracks as I encounter a group of uniformed soldiers receiving instructions. They’re lined up across the street from a bodega, ready to march into the mouth of hell. My heart rate increases.
Turning the corner, I come face to face with people eating outside of a restaurant on West Houston Street. They’re drinking bottled water and polishing off salads while pointing at the human ash filling the sky like it’s perfectly normal to dine under these horrific conditions, as if nothing’s wrong.
Circling back, I turn up the next block. There is hardly anyone on the sidewalk. The sun is shining, but it’s hard to understand why. Washington Square Park looms ahead. Like a sleepwalker, I keep going. I have no destination. I move forward aimlessly. My brain is on overload, begging to be turned off.
Several teenage boys are gathered near the park fountain. They’re screaming, “Allah! Allah! Allah!” and jumping up and down. “Did you see what they did with those planes, motherfuckers?” one of them yells to the people passing by. Their emotion is turned outward, resulting in an impromptu demonstration set at a fever pitch.
I shake my head in disbelief, outraged by what I am witnessing. I turn back. I don’t want to see any more.
Chapter Three
It’s Friday. Three days later. The Lincoln Tunnel has reopened, and I finally have a chance to try to make it home.
I haven’t left my apartment since venturing out after the attack. I’ve seen no one. My phone is back up and running, and I’ve heard briefly from family members and friends, but that’s it. Too bad a hug can’t transmit over a wireless signal. At this point, I’m willing to do anything for live human contact, so I’m taking the first opportunity to get the hell out of here.
The past few days are a blur. Waiting to get word of survivors. Enduring false threats against the Empire State Building. Hearing the name Osama bin Laden. Debating whether or not there are more terrorists out there waiting to strike. Seeing travelers stranded in airports. The news media is scrambling to sort out a story whose details don’t fit in a nice, neat package.
These are the lost hours of my life. Ones I’ll never have a clear memory of. Trying to keep my wits from scattering has taxed my brain to the limit. I don’t know much about nervous breakdowns, but I think I had one. Living in solitary confinement during a terrorist attack is not something I recommend. It’s not good for one’s mental health.
Normally, right now is the morning rush hour, but the building is quiet. No one is hurrying to get to work. Everyone is staying at home, glued to the TV. I’m the only fool setting foot outside. I can’t get away from this place fast enough.
On the street, there is not a single person in view. Already on edge, I lengthen my stride. A large portion of Lower Manhattan is experiencing blackouts, but the power is still on in the West Village. Yet nothing’s open. Even the McDonald’s is closed, and there’s no one at the basketball court on the corner. Usually someone’s always there. The vibe is surreal. It’s too quiet, and New York City is never quiet.
Stopping at the entrance to the West Fourth Street subway, I catch my breath after practically jogging the entire way. If mass transit isn’t running, I’m screwed. I’ll have to walk these deserted, post-apocalyptic streets all the way to Forty-Second Street. Thirty-eight blocks.
And there’s not a cab in sight.
Crossing my fingers, I descend the cement steps. Nobody’s on the platform, but the lights are on, and I can hear the screeching brakes of an incoming train accompanied by the familiar tha-thud-tha-thud of its cars hitting the track. Seconds later, the A train pulls into the station. Moving quickly, I rush aboard as the doors open.
I’m surprised that it’s crowded. This is the first mass gathering of humanity I’ve come across. There aren’t any available seats, so I grip the metal bar, sharing it with three other people. I place my bag down and plant my feet to withstand the jolt as the train departs.
I don’t usually look at people while riding the subway. Most riders zone out by reading a book or listening to music. It’s an unwritten rule not to engage others via eye contact. Look down at your feet. Read the advertisements above your head. But don’t even think about staring at the person across from you. But today, I chance it.
The impersonal veneer has cracked. Signs of emotion are peeking through. Many are wearing an ‘I can’t believe what happened’ expression. It’s like we all escaped some terrible fate, but the question still remains—what happens now?
Others look genuinely frightened. God only knows what some of them have seen. They got on the train before me, which means they were farther downtown when they got on, closer to Ground Zero.
The car begins to sway, and I try with all my might to hold on. A guy wearing a construction outfit covered in dust takes pity on me. Getting up, he gives me his seat. This has never happened to me before, and his act of kindness touches me. I manage to get out the words, ‘Thank you,’ but my voice squeaks. I’m a little rusty as it’s the first time I’m speaking to someone face to face since the attack. He offers me a tight smile. I’m grateful for the stability the seat affords as the train comes to a sudden stop. The doors release and the construction worker exits as more people get on.
Two stops later, I arrive at my destination. Even though we’re crammed in like sardines, people try to move out of the way so I can pass. Once again on solid ground, I watch the train disappear into the tunnel. That was by far the strangest subway ride I’ve ever taken. In some small way, people are trying to help each other. Random strangers are looking out for one another. I’m by no means a native New Yorker, but I’ve never seen anything like it. But now is not the time to stop and ponder the state of the universe. I have a bus to catch.
Unexpected Page 1
