The Real Michael Swann

by Bryan Reardon

As the hour got late, they met back up, sitting together at a quiet two-top in the corner. He looked her in the eyes.

  “Memorial Day,” he said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That’s when I saw you. I can’t believe it. You were across the bar.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, patting his shoulder. “You were buying drinks for us.”

  He looked confused. “Me?”

  “I thought it was you.”

  “Huh, I don’t remember that.”

  As he dropped her off that night, they shared their first kiss. It would be over a year until she admitted that she knew exactly who he was when he first appeared that day. It would be a year and a half before he admitted that he had, indeed, bought her and her friend drinks at the bar on Memorial Day.

  12

  No matter how hard she tried, her memories of the past could never be enough to will away the present. The fears crashed back like a storming ocean, and Julia drove with abandon. As the sun set and news of the bombing held the world in its unyielding grip, her journey took on an even more surreal nature. No drivers made even fleeting eye contact as they moved along the New Jersey Turnpike. Everyone had windows closed and looked to be listening raptly to reports of the attack. At the same time, people made way for the faster-moving traffic, as if they somehow understood that, for this night alone, others might have more pressing needs than their own.

  When Julia saw the sign for 16E, Lincoln Tunnel, she swerved to the right. She entered the ramp going about sixty miles per hour. She failed to notice the glowing red brake lights ahead. By the time she did, she had to slam her foot down on the brake. Adrenaline widened her eyes and somehow tightened her grip on the wheel. The tires locked up and she swerved into the shoulder, coming within an inch of the white SUV in front of her.

  As the endorphin boost left her system, she sagged into the seat. Trying to catch her breath, Julia stared out the windshield. The line of red lights stretched out for what looked like miles as it bent away from the turnpike and onto the access road leading to the tunnel.

  She couldn’t move. She was so close to the city. She could see the first twinkle of light across the river. This couldn’t stop her, though. Slowly, she inched the car all the way into the shoulder and crawled closer and closer to the tunnel.

  Within about a hundred yards, she had to stop again. A line of cars blocked the shoulder ahead. Without making a sound, the tears now dried on her skin, Julia locked the brakes again. This time, she swung the driver-side door open and stepped out of the car. Someone behind her honked a horn as she walked between the cars in the shoulder and the cars in the rightmost lane.

  Eyes followed her. Some of the drivers looked angry, frustrated, and even afraid. Others stared like they saw a ghost among them as she strode, head up, among the motionless traffic, her white shirt reflecting light as she moved from one set of headlight beams to another.

  Julia saw none of this. She barely saw the cars. She simply saw a path ahead, the way she must take. In that moment, everything had left her mind. All memories of the past. All hopes for the future. It all melted into a single, primal need. She had to get into the city. And nothing could get in her way.

  Strobing red lights mingled with the more constant illumination of the endless traffic. Julia heard voices. Instead of moving toward them, however, she slipped between two cars and proceeded along the concrete barrier wall. The voices stopped. Then she heard the footsteps approaching behind her. Her pace quickened and she stared straight ahead.

  “Ma’am,” a man’s voice said.

  Julia stiffened, and she moved even faster. The steps behind her sped up as the man, a New Jersey State police officer, jogged toward her.

  “Ma’am, I need you to stop.”

  Julia shook her head. The officer caught up to her. He passed her and looked into her face.

  “Please. I need you to stop. The tunnel is closed. There’s no getting into the city right now. You can get hurt out here. Let’s get you back to your vehicle.”

  She never once looked at him. Julia simply put one foot in front of the other, every step getting her closer to Michael.

  That’s when the officer reached out. He grabbed her biceps, lightly. Yet his touch might as well have set Julia afire. Her arm snapped out of his grip and she spun on him. Her words came out sharp and loud.

  “No! No!”

  His hand reached for her again.

  “NO!” she screamed. “Don’t touch me.”

  Another officer approached from in front of her, yet Julia never saw him. She swung her attention back to the path ahead. She walked.

  “Please, ma’am. I can’t let you do this. I need to get you back to your car.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Then the other officer reached her. He blocked her path forward. The first officer stepped back, boxing Julia in. She stopped, looked from one to the other. Her body tensed. Her scream turned to a cry of visceral pain.

  “No! Let me go. I need to find him.”

  They moved closer. Their arms reached out, calming, pleading with Julia. The second officer spoke then. His voice was soothing and, in a way, wise.

  “I understand. I do. Your husband’s over there, isn’t he?”

  The question seemed to slip into Julia like a needle. His words coursed through her blood, quieting the raging emotion, easing the overwhelming shock. Julia blinked, and for the first time truly saw her surroundings. Cars and trucks idled all around her. Exhaust filled her lungs. The heat of all those engines mixed with the humidity of a summer night on the East Coast. It clung to every part of her and she realized she couldn’t breathe. She had to, but she couldn’t.

  Julia’s chest heaved. Her eyes widened. The second officer came to her. And in a moment of humanity, he hugged her. Julia fell into this man, this stranger. Her body shook as she fought to take in air.

  “It’s okay,” the officer said softly.

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay,” he repeated.

  She felt like she might pass out as memories of the past month threatened to crush her to dust. Her words came out thinner than the air. “It is.”

  “I can help. I promise. Just come with me.”

  Julia, utterly spent, hyperventilating and succumbing to the shock, nodded. She let the man lead her to a squad car and help her into the backseat. Air-conditioning surrounded her like a cool mist, and her chest loosened. Her body seemed to deflate as the officer got into the front seat. He placed a sturdy laptop on his legs and turned his head.

  “What’s your husband’s name?”

  The question brought a picture to Julia’s mind. She saw Michael’s blue eyes, his sharp chin, his easy smile. But the lines seemed to soften. The edges faded away. She blinked again. And the tears returned, silently running down her cheeks. “Michael,” she said. “His name is Michael Swann.”

  13

  I’m okay. I can walk.”

  I said it without thinking, really. I felt awful, very dizzy and disjointed from reality. Yet something inside me, a very primal urge, told me to flee. I felt the need to cover my head and run as far away from this place as I could. I kept looking up, like the ceiling might collapse right on top of me. And I flinched at every loud noise that echoed down the tunnel behind us.

  My nerves buzzed as I moved slowly in a long line as we headed up the stairs of the subway platform. The man behind me, dressed in a tattered and stained NYC Transit uniform, had helped me for almost half an hour as we all shuffled through the darkness. Once we stepped up to the station—I have no idea which one, but maybe it was 34th or probably 28th—the urge to get out became overwhelming.

  “You lost consciousness back there,” the man said in an accent.

  I tried to sound okay, but my “I’m fine” came out more of a mutter.

&nb
sp; “You’re bleeding.”

  My hand, the one already stained with my blood, lifted. My hair still felt damp.

  “It’s okay.”

  The man reached for my other hand. “Can I help you with your bag?”

  That’s when I stopped walking. The man behind the transit worker bumped him. I barely noticed. Instead, I stared down at my other hand. In it, I held a brown leather briefcase. I guess I’d had it since I first stood up. I never noticed. I never knew.

  “No,” I snapped, jerking forward again.

  I needed to get the hell out of there. I needed air. I needed to be free. The walls seemed to press into my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs. The need to escape quickly matched the need to breathe. I pushed past the guy in front of me as he stumbled into the wall. Someone shouted, but I kept going.

  “I need to get out,” I said.

  People moved to the side. I staggered up the stairs, never looking at the case again. But I kept thinking about it. In a way, it made me panic. I just kept going over and over it in my head. Where did the briefcase come from? Had I been carrying it that whole time?

  Near the top of the stairs, a firefighter appeared. He wore no helmet, but he did have an oxygen tank on his back. Seeing it, I slowed. I remembered the tank and the mask . . . and the finger. The dizziness got worse. I reached out for the tiled wall, but my hand slipped. I fell back into the people behind me. Their weight, their mass, kept me on my feet, but just barely. Then the firefighter got to me. He touched me, gently, and I didn’t stop him. He didn’t try to take the case. Instead, he put my other arm over his neck and he led me up into the night.

  14

  The patrol car’s siren burped out a series of staccato wails. Traffic gave way, grudgingly, as the officer piloted them with astounding expertise to a space beside Julia’s car. The other officer jumped out, and Julia watched him slip behind her wheel and start the engine. Her car followed as they muscled through impossibly narrow spaces until they reached the left shoulder. There, the cruiser and Julia’s car U-turned onto an exit ramp and left the turnpike behind.

  She felt so empty. Like nothing she had ever experienced before. She couldn’t think of anything at first. She never saw the police officer check his mirror. He saw her face.

  Without another word to Julia, he got on the radio. He called in the car’s license plate number and Julia’s name. Within minutes, they arrived at a station somewhere outside Weehawken, New Jersey. The officer helped her out and led her inside to a waiting area, all without saying another word. She sat, and he leaned forward and spoke softly to the dispatcher.

  A minute later, he led Julia back to a small room. A comfortable chair had been placed next to a small desk with a dated computer on the top. They both sat, and he leaned toward her, his large hands on his knees.

  “I checked with NYPD. There’s still no word,” he said, calmly. “Your car is in our lot, but I think it might be best if you take a little time before you drive home. Should we call someone for you?”

  Julia nodded. She looked at the man. He had a dark complexion and a strong, wide mouth that looked unused to smiling. He was huge, well over six feet and built as solidly as a lineman. But it was his eyes she remembered after that day. A deep compassion shined in the soft brown of his irises. They looked at her and seemed to understand that what was happening was progressing faster than she could comprehend. They didn’t judge her at all. Yet they made his desire to help her so clear.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She felt tired. Her eyes actually closed.

  “Who do you need me to call?” he asked.

  She gave him Evelyn’s cell. “Tell her I’m sorry. I just . . . I didn’t even think about it. I never thought the tunnel would be closed. I shouldn’t have just left the kids . . .”

  “She’ll understand, Ms. Swann. I guarantee you that.” He paused. “In just a few minutes, a therapist is going to come in. She specializes in dealing with events like this. We just want you to talk to her, not long. Just so we know you’ll be okay getting home. Is that something you’re willing to do?”

  She nodded.

  * * *

  —

  Not five minutes later, a woman walked in wearing a long paisley skirt and reading glasses that hung from a gold chain around her neck. Her long hair, more gray than brown, was pulled away from her face. She had the type of eyes, inviting yet sharp, that immediately reminded Julia of an old friend, one she’d purposely drifted away from years ago. Every time she and her friend had spoken, words would pour out of Julia like her filter had suddenly disappeared. Then, the second she walked away, Julia would be left second-guessing everything she had said.

  “Julia?” Marci asked.

  “Yes.”

  The therapist handed her a bottled water. The condensation off the cold plastic wet her fingers.

  “My name is Marci Simmons. I wondered if we could talk for a minute.”

  Julia nodded. Her gut roiled. Although her thoughts remained disjointed, foggy, she wondered what they would talk about. None of the possibilities seemed even close to bearable, yet those eyes were already tugging at her, almost pleading with her to speak.

  “I need to get home to the kids,” she said.

  “Officer Franklin was able to get ahold of your friend Evelyn. She’s got everything under control. We also have someone out front checking for any news on your husband’s whereabouts. For now, I’m going to ask you something that is going to be very hard for you to do. I’m going to ask you to take care of you. I know all you can think about is your husband. And that’s totally understandable. But I want to make sure you are okay first.”

  “I don’t know,” Julia whispered. “I . . .”

  Julia’s throat tightened. Marci Simmons leaned forward. “It’s okay.”

  “I . . .” She started to cry again. Her strength, what was left of it, simply gave way to the surge of fear and uncertainty. She thought of Evan and Thomas, and her heart broke over and over again. “I didn’t know what to do when . . .”

  “You can talk to me, Mrs. Swann. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I lied to my son. He was there when I found out about the . . . what happened. He looked at me and I just . . . I don’t know. I pretended to talk to Michael on the phone.”

  The therapist nodded, waiting to see if Julia would continue. When she didn’t, Marci Simmons handed her a box of tissues. Julia grabbed one. It felt rough against the skin of her face.

  “Life isn’t always easy. And it’s never perfect. When things get tough, we go into crisis mode. Sometimes, we might snap at someone we love. Or maybe we’ll do something worse without even thinking about it. Unfortunately, the rest of us, the people around the person dealing with some stress or tragedy, family and friends, they don’t always understand that. Sometimes they get it and sometimes they don’t. Often, they are so caught up in their own lives, they don’t even notice that their loved one is struggling at all.

  “In my practice, I’ve heard story after story about it. When someone hurting calls out for help and people that they love respond with cold detachment. They might judge someone’s pain as overreaction, saying something like, ‘People survive worse every day.’ As the person navigating those moments of pain or stress, we need to ignore that judgment. We need to forgive ourselves.

  “I guarantee that your son will forgive you. I have absolutely no doubt. Just make sure that you forgive yourself. Do you understand?”

  Julia nodded, but her eyes looked distant. “I should have just told him to get a hotel room,” she whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was worried about the money. He already had the train ticket. If I had just . . .”

  Julia broke down again. She sobbed uncontrollably. The therapist watched for a second. Then, putting professionalism aside, she leaned forward and hug
ged her.

  “It’s not your fault,” Marci said. “Just know that. It’s not your fault.”

  But all Julia could think about was that she would never see Michael again.

  THE FIRST TIME

  Three weeks after they officially met, he came by her apartment after work. Julia had finished classes early that day and had spent the afternoon on the phone with a woman she met during the campaign who was the assistant director of the Delaware State Housing Authority. The woman had recruited Julia, hard, promising her a job in which she could make a true difference developing policies to help lower-income families find safe and affordable housing. Julia went into the conversation with trepidation. To be honest, she was aiming way bigger than that. She had dreams of moving out west and working for next to nothing for an organization that assisted on a Native American reservation. Conversely, she also dreamed of moving to Washington, DC, and conquering the world.

  “Hey,” she said to Michael after opening the door.

  He stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He must have stopped home first, because his hair was also in weekend mode, no longer slicked back but swept back and unruly. His smile, as usual, hinted at supreme confidence and the sense to laugh it off. On a whim, she rushed into his arms, rose to her tiptoes, and kissed him.

  “Wow,” he said.

  She stepped back and looked at him again, took him in for the thousandth time. And he simply smiled back at her, like this evening promised to be even more fun than the last.

  “I thought you had to work late?” she asked.

  “I did. But I couldn’t stay away.”

  They laughed. Since their meeting, not a day had passed without them seeing each other. They’d gone to over a dozen restaurants. They spent nights hanging out with her friends, as well as nights with his. On two occasions, the two groups met. It had been beyond fun, and Julia kept finding herself smiling like a fool after every good-night kiss.