The Real Michael Swann

by Bryan Reardon

  My thoughts still felt disjointed, yet a thread of consistency began to form. It started small, a quick glance to the side. A feeling of unease, like I might suddenly turn inside out. A jarring crash sounded behind me, and I startled, spinning around, ready to break into flight. I saw a man standing over some kind of scaffolding that had fallen to the concrete.

  That’s when the tightness in my chest hit its limit. I veered, bumping into a woman with a torn shirt and her left arm in a sling. She made a sound, either in protest or in pain, I have no idea. I had to shoulder through the rest of them, get out of the mass of bodies, break free before it was too late. I had no idea why I felt that way. But I could not deny it.

  After that, I felt eyes on me. They came from everywhere. I felt the need to run, or hide. I reached the sidewalk, the fringe of the shuffling mob of lost souls. My head hurt. I was still bleeding. I needed medical attention. I knew that. Though as rational as that thought might seem, my instincts railed against it. I slipped into an alley.

  My pace quickened. I was suddenly sure someone was chasing me. The feeling only grew as my head swiveled this way and that, looking for some hidden danger. It got worse and worse. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs, like it might burst.

  I turned left and right, always following the path of least resistance. The throng of people thinned, becoming smaller pods. They stood with their heads close together, like long-lost friends. Yet not a name was used in their conversation. They wore anonymity like armor against the unknown.

  Suddenly, right in front of me, a door opened. Two young men, speaking in quick bursts to each other, exploded out onto the street. Instinctively, I reached for the door. They held it in surprising solidarity.

  “Dude, you okay?” one asked.

  “Were you there? Do you need help?”

  My hand went to my head. “No, I just ran into something.”

  “Is it bad out there?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “I just need to sit down.”

  “Sure. No problem. Can you get up to your place okay?”

  I moved into the doorway. “Sure. Yeah.”

  They trotted off toward the destruction. I let the door close. Looking around, I found myself in a narrow hallway leading to an elevator. A bank of mailboxes covered a portion of the adjacent wall. The slight but pungent smell of natural gas and smoldering plastic merged with the earthier tang of mildew. The combination hurt my head.

  Silence wrapped me up. I took a step, and my back touched the other wall. I slid down it, sitting on the cool, hard floor. The studs on the briefcase pinged against the threadbare carpet like each strand was woven of steel. Taking a deep breath, I swung it onto my lap. My head throbbed, but my fingers found some strength. They undid the latch.

  The case fell open. Belongings spilled out around me, manila folders, a leather portfolio, a small vial of what looked like some kind of analgesic, even an iPhone with no case—a cornucopia of clues.

  I grabbed the phone first. I felt a burst of excited energy. For, when I hit the home button, I saw her name: Julia. The screen read:

  Julia

  Missed Call

  Those words meant little to me. But that name. It stirred something. It hinted at something intimate and real. I had missed Julia. Like I missed some lifeline that might lead me back to . . . myself.

  When I swiped the screen, I just stared at the field to insert the passcode to unlock the phone. I tried to dig through the malaise, force my mind to come up with an answer I surely knew. It was my phone. I set the passcode. The harder I tried, however, the more blank my mind felt. With it came a very deep and feral anxiousness. It was like I held my breath too long, like the nothingness drowned me.

  I dropped the phone, grabbing the folders. My fingers flew through the papers, like I’d done it every day of my life. Yet the words melded together. I saw names, but one after another after another. So much that it became meaningless.

  Frustrated, I slammed the case on the ground. Things flew into the air. One caught my eye. A small white sticker folded in two, the sticky side inward. It floated to the carpet. Black letters blazed from the side facing up.

  GUE

  MICHAE

  I stared at those letters. Everything that was me focused downward. My vision blurred and then focused again. Slowly, I reached out. I touched the edge of the paper, softly, like someone might touch a newborn. Then I slipped my bloodstained thumb under the edge and flipped it to the other side.

  ST

  L SWANN

  19

  Parents make mistakes. It is, and always will be, inevitable. The irony is, they rarely know the big ones when they happen. Julia remembered one summer night sitting on the back deck of her childhood home. Her mother sat across from her and they sipped white wine. Her mother had placed a single ice cube in each glass, and they clinked every so often, harmonizing with the sound of katydids and crickets.

  They talked with a candor that can only be earned once a child has reached adulthood. They laughed about Julia’s minor youthful indiscretions. The time she snuck out of the house to hang with her friends, and how her mother locked her window, forcing Julia to walk, head hung low, through the front door and into the waiting gaze of both of her parents. They recalled her junior prom and how sad her date looked when she politely let him know they were just friends.

  At one point, the stories turned to something that still harbored emotion on Julia’s end. It boiled up innocently, as part of a different story involving the car. Her mother sensed it when they mentioned an old Nissan that her parents traded in when Julia was a senior.

  “You know, you promised me that car,” Julia said.

  Her mother looked surprised. “I did?”

  Julia nodded. “It was after I got that award from Key Club. You were so happy. I remember you telling me how nothing made you as proud as hearing that your daughter had good character. And you said, since I was so responsible, that maybe you’d let me have the Nissan.”

  “Oh,” her mom said. “I . . . Maybe I did. I’m sorry.”

  Julia wanted to let it stand there, but she kept going. “I just felt like you didn’t trust me. After that sneaking-out thing. And that’s why you didn’t give me the car. That you changed your mind.”

  “Nope.” Her mother laughed. “I just totally forgot.”

  There was a minute or so of silence. Her mother tilted her head, looking at Julia.

  “That really bothered you,” she said.

  Her daughter nodded.

  “And it still does?”

  Julia shook her head slowly. “Not anymore.”

  “Truthfully.”

  “Okay, maybe a little.”

  “I’m so sorry,” her mom said. “I never knew.”

  They laughed about it after that. At one point, as their glasses sat on the end table, empty, her mother looked thoughtful.

  “Do you remember when I told you that you couldn’t go to acting camp?”

  “Acting camp?”

  Her mother smiled. “You really wanted to go. And when I said no, you were so disappointed. I remember stewing about that one for years. Honestly, I said no because I was just being a little lazy. The camp was about forty minutes away.”

  “I don’t even remember,” Julia said.

  “It’s funny,” her mom said. “In the end, it seems like the moments we thought we messed up were nothing. And we can’t even remember the stuff we really screwed up.”

  She laughed. So did Julia.

  “You were great, Mom.”

  She nodded, looking out at the night. “I tried to do my best.”

  * * *

  —

  Evan’s head rested on Julia’s shoulder. The house was silent except for his breathing. It finally calmed but not until he had clearly been asleep for about ten minutes. A
s for Julia, her adrenaline had all faded away, leaving her a spent shell.

  She never really got Evan to calm down. His fear mixed with anger. He lashed out at her and cried for almost an hour. She had nothing to say, really. She had lied. And he had been sharp enough to figure it out. She somehow knew that this was different. Unlike what her mother said, she knew she had screwed up pretty badly. She also knew that Evan would probably never forget this one.

  Yet all those thoughts hung out on the fringe of her mind, mixing in and out with the myriad of worries, fears, and dreads that swirled nonstop. She looked down at Evan, at the top of his unruly light hair, and knew that no matter what grand statement she might whisper to herself, she would probably make more mistakes. They were pioneers, blazing a trail unlike any she had experienced. She had no answers, but the gnawing cloud of loss kept inching closer and closer, tugging at her head and her heart, threatening to tear them free and devour her and her family in a single lifeless gulp.

  Stop.

  She’d had that thought so many times now. Her inner monologue had become manic. It spun and slashed like a raging tornado. When she focused, she could slow it down. But once it grew quiet, her thoughts came back, more rampant than before.

  Her eyebrows furrowed. Julia reached out and grabbed the remote without disturbing Evan. The thought of turning on the news turned her stomach. But she needed to know. She needed to gather information, make informed decisions. She had to be responsible. Not for her sake, but for the boys.

  As her finger hovered over the power button, she thought of Thomas. She felt envy. He slept soundly upstairs, unaware. In the morning, that would surely change. This nightmare would be his, too. And way too soon. That broke her heart, but he had a few wonderful hours of ignorance. A life raft of minutes holding him above the floodwaters.

  Julia turned on the television. She thought she would have to find the news, but it appeared on the screen immediately. Every channel had had nonstop coverage since minutes after the attack. She adjusted the volume so that she could just hear it. Evan didn’t stir, so she watched, swallowing down her pain with every image that flashed on the screen.

  The first channel, like most, showed a moderator and three panelists, all on split screen.

  “So far, no group has claimed responsibility.”

  “So, are you saying this wasn’t a terrorist attack?”

  “I’m saying we don’t know enough to say anything.”

  “Oh, I know enough. We all do. We know exactly who did this and why. What I need to know is what we’re going to do about it!”

  “I blame the left’s liberal agenda in Congress. They’ve constantly tried to block any real change. Let’s say it like it is. They just don’t care about Americans.”

  “That’s awfully inflammatory.”

  “Well, I’ll put it another way. They just care about everyone else on the planet and their feelings more. Everyone’s so afraid to offend someone. You know what that makes us? A soft target, that’s what.”

  Julia changed the channel. She needed to know what was happening.

  “Have you thought that maybe this was a targeted attack? New York City is the most forward-thinking metropolis in the world. People of all races and religions live together in relative harmony every day. Maybe that’s what was being targeted here. Maybe it was an assault on freedom.”

  “I totally agree. There are people out there that see other people as less than human. They hate anyone who’s not like themselves. How else can you explain the candidates that have won recent elections? The right has tried over and over again to elect a dictator. That’s what’s next. Mark my words.”

  Julia’s hand shook as she changed the channel again.

  “Stop lying to the American people. The truth is out there, and we need to uncover it. The government manipulates every part of our lives. Before you protest, really think about it. We can’t even vote for the president. Sure, there’s this charade of the general election, but—”

  Click.

  “Close our doors! It’s as simple as that. We need to make America shine again. And the only way to do that is to take care of Americans first.”

  Click.

  The next station might have been the most painful. Julia stared at a live shot of the streets around Penn Station. Portable lights had already been put up, and an eerie white glow shined down on dozens of people sitting on the curb and moving slowly, aimlessly about. Some people darted with obvious purpose, clearly there to help. Some of those wore uniforms—firefighters, paramedics, police officers—yet others were in plainclothes, as if they had been home eating their dinner when tragedy struck and they raced out to do what they could. The camera panned through the crowd, shifting in and out of focus. Julia leaned forward, forgetting Evan slept on her chest. Her eyes burned as she searched the faces on the screen.

  The picture went grainy as it panned farther away. When it paused, the focus cut back in on a single police officer in riot gear standing at the entrance to a subway station. He carried a military-grade weapon.

  Then another video played, this one obviously from someone’s cell phone. It started out so strangely—at least Julia found it so. It showed a group of girls, maybe late teens, posing with someone dressed as Elmo. The girls pursed their lips and cocked their legs just so. Flashes went off. The person taking the video could be heard laughing. Then the scene erupted. The shot jumped, and then a deep, awful thump could be heard, like some fictional giant falling dead. The camera shook violently and then fell to the pavement. It obviously landed faceup, for it kept shooting, showing flashes of light and dark that eventually looked like legs. A hand grabbed the screen just as a plume of smoke, or maybe dust, whited out the entire image. It was as if all the people had been swallowed down to oblivion. A final scream could be heard and then the video ended.

  Julia closed her eyes. Her finger held the down arrow and the channels flipped by for a couple of seconds. When she opened them, she let up, slowing the progression. Something caught her attention and she stopped. She had to go back two channels to get to the one that she had noticed, but when she did, she saw a single anchorman facing the camera. Something about the composition of the shot felt familiar, comfortable. She immediately trusted the man. It took a second for Julia to realize it reminded her of the news when she was a child, like a regal Dan Rather might reappear to cut through the chaos and set the world at ease.

  “As of this time, over a thousand people are unaccounted for. Continued gas leaks have hampered emergency workers as they try to break through the rubble covering the lower levels of the station. We have now confirmed the earlier report that Eileen Kass, the CEO of DuLac Chemicals, is among the missing, along with seven of the company’s board of directors. According to a statement issued by the company, the group was scheduled to board the 6:05 Acela to Wilmington, Delaware.”

  A fresh wave of pain pressed in on Julia’s chest. That had been Michael’s train. As the tears came again, a graphic appeared on the screen. It was a running scroll of names, ten on the screen at any one time. It moved quickly—ten, twenty, thirty, forty names—as the anchor spoke.

  “Hampering the effort to account for survivors, cell service in the city has been overwhelmed by incoming and outgoing calls, nearly all of which are failing to connect. Service providers are working on the issue but do not expect normal communications in the areas surrounding New York City anytime soon. In addition, hundreds of thousands of people are without power.

  “This just in. The Department of Homeland Security has issued a list of those people currently known to be missing but thought to be at the station during the time of the attack.”

  She slipped out from under her son and fell to the carpet. On her knees, she scurried closer to the screen. Her eyes burned as she tried to keep up. The names passed so quickly. There were so many. She reached toward the screen, as if she might be able
to slow them down.

  At that instant, her cell phone rang. She froze. At first, she didn’t even want to look at it. But she grabbed it off the ottoman and saw a New Jersey extension.

  Another wave of emotion crashed. She answered it, feeling a surge of hope laced with crushing dread.

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Swann?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Marci Simmons. We spoke earlier tonight. I’m calling to let you know that, although we have no new news on your husband’s whereabouts, his name is on the list that was just released.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ms. Swann, are you okay?”

  “Mrs.,” she said, softly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m a Mrs.”

  They remained silent for a second. Then Julia said, “Thank you.”

  She hung up. Slowly, she made her way on the floor to the couch. Her back leaned against the plush leather and her hand reached back, eventually finding the remote. She turned off the television and closed her eyes, thinking only about her missing husband. As she did, Julia cried without making the slightest sound.

  20

  The second call came minutes later. This time it was from a number in New York City. Julia fumbled the phone once and then answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Swann?”

  “Yes.”

  In the pause before he continued, she heard a bank of voices in the background, along with the sound of multiple phones ringing. It reminded her, strangely, of the old telethons she’d seen on public television as a child.

  “My name is David Gregor. I’m with the New York City emergency response team. I’m calling about your husband, Michael Swann.”

  Her legs felt suddenly useless. But Julia turned and looked at her sleeping son. Her back straightened.

  “Yes?”

  “I understand that to the best of your knowledge he was inside Penn Station at approximately 6:00 P.M. yesterday?”