The Real Michael Swann

by Bryan Reardon

  Julia felt her heart about to burst. She couldn’t believe that her friends would be there, at that time, to help. It was so overwhelming.

  “My mom’s going to stay,” she said.

  Evelyn hugged Kate next. She’d known Julia’s mom for some time, as had Tara. Yet the latter seemed frozen on the doorstep, unsure what to do.

  “Well, I’m guessing we aren’t going to sleep, so we’ll want some coffee.” Evelyn’s hand lingered on Kate’s shoulder as she moved into the kitchen. Julia followed her while the other women spoke softly to her mother.

  “What about your kids?” Julia asked.

  “Stop. Everything’s covered. We’re here whether you like it or not.”

  “But my mom . . . I’m going back.”

  Evelyn nodded. “I know. Just get going. When your kids are up, I’m taking them and everyone else’s to my house. Your mom can get some sleep then. What about you?”

  “I’m fine. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”

  “You will,” Evelyn said, as if she knew firsthand. “Now get going. We got this.”

  Julia grabbed her keys and snuck quietly out of the house, pausing for just a second to watch Evan asleep on the couch.

  “We’ll be okay,” she whispered.

  Julia slipped out and drove away.

  * * *

  —

  Julia arrived at the twenty-four-hour express shipping store in Wilmington just before 3:00 A.M. The glowing window was the only one lit for blocks. She parked on the empty street outside and hurried in. A single young man in thickly framed glasses and a handlebar mustache looked up from a small television.

  “Can I help you?”

  Julia didn’t know what to say. She stood staring at the guy, holding nothing but the photo. Her plan was to print flyers that she could put up around the city. Yet she hadn’t made them up. She hadn’t done anything. Instead, Julia walked into the store with a photo in her hand and a look of desperation on her face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I . . . I wanted to make up a flyer.” She laughed, a nervous sound that caused the guy to reach down and turn off the television. “I should have thought about it. Made it up on my computer.” She held out the photo like that might make sense. “I have this.”

  A phenomenon occurs during tragedy. People become more human. They are connected by something common and larger. Like adherents of a temporary religion, they come together in peace and love and understanding. This young man was no different. He stepped out from behind the counter and gently took the photo from her hand. Then he walked over to the single computer terminal in the shop. Julia followed slowly.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said softly as the guy took a seat. “I don’t even know if you have a copier or anything.”

  “We’ll get it done,” he said.

  She stood behind him as he booted up the computer and opened the presentation-making program. He leaned over and placed the photo on a scanner. Within five minutes, he had the template for exactly what Julia had envisioned. And he’d done all that, gotten to that point, before asking her a single question.

  “Is he missing?” he finally asked, looking up at her.

  She nodded. “He was in Penn Station.”

  He nodded. She saw the thought he had. It showed like a projection behind his eyes. He thought that Michael was dead. He felt pity for her, but maybe more. Possibly relief, that he and those close to him had been spared. Or maybe something else . . . morbid curiosity? Yet he said nothing. He added words to the flyer, somehow reading her mind again. He only asked for her name, her husband’s name, and her cell phone number, which he added at the end. When he was done, he tilted the monitor up and waited. She looked at the flyer and her heart fluttered, because of what it said and what this stranger had done. Out of the worst night of her life, she had somehow found the purest example of caring she had ever witnessed. The moment burned into her soul, the kind of thing that she knew she would never forget. Though her memories, like a photograph, would be two-dimensional. This man became an angel. And that could never change.

  Julia held the flyer in her hand. The heading simply read MISSING. Below that was the picture of Michael and her. She remembered thinking how young they looked, how people might not even recognize that face compared to his present, more aged appearance. But there was nothing to do about that.

  She continued to read. The flyer stated that he was last seen in Penn Station and asked anyone who might have seen him or had any information of his whereabouts to call Julia on her cell. Crying, she nodded.

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  “I wish I could do more,” he replied.

  He printed her three hundred copies and placed them in a sturdy accordion file. When she tried to pay, he refused.

  “No way,” he said. “Just come back and tell me when you find him.”

  23

  Julia listened to the radio for the entire ride up to New York. It took her more than half a dozen tries to find a station that reported news as opposed to opinion. Most of what she heard covered the ongoing rescue efforts.

  “Although not confirmed, investigators believe the explosive used in the attack to be a newly developed application of octanitrocubane. It is thought that researchers at the DuLac Chemical Company in Wilmington, Delaware, stabilized the high-density crystal structure earlier last year. It is not known if this product is being used by the US military at this time.

  “As people all over the country look for ways to help, the Department of Homeland Security has issued a list of supplies that emergency workers are running low on. Items include dust masks and respirators, work boots in all sizes, and protective socks for the specially trained dogs. A full list is available on our webpage.

  “At this time, rescue workers have cleared debris from the main stairway leading down to the majority of the station. They expect it will be some time before the area is secure enough for people to enter, due to the structural damage caused by the partial collapse of Madison Square Garden.

  “Near the site of the attack, survivors from the subway crash following the collapse are still being attended to by emergency workers. Witnesses claim that the ceiling above the tracks collapsed and the train hit the debris at full speed.

  “Cell service in and around Manhattan is still down, although sporadic calls seem to be getting through as providers work on the problem.”

  Julia grabbed her phone. She tried Michael’s new number first. It went directly to voicemail. She tried his old work number and almost swerved off the road when it rang. Once, twice . . . Her heart raced and her fingers ground into the steering wheel.

  The ringing stopped. Her eyes widened.

  “Michael. Are you there? Michael!”

  The line crackled and then went utterly silent.

  “Michael,” she said, softly.

  When she looked at the screen, she knew the call had been ended, or dropped. Maybe it never went through. She stared back out the windshield at the darkness and at the glowing white street lines under her headlights. Her head throbbed and she let out a long breath, while the radio continued to report on the explosion.

  City officials were interviewed, as were staff from Homeland Security and the NYPD. Julia went back to listening to those reports. Yet when a survivor from the station was introduced, her hand shot to the dial and almost turned the radio off. Something stopped her. Hope, maybe.

  “I was just walking down the stairway at the corner of 33rd and 7th Avenue when the bomb went off,” the man said. His voice sounded hoarse, like he had been a heavy smoker for decades. “At first I didn’t even know what happened. I didn’t hear it, not really. Instead, it was like something huge hit me. Not in one place, though. That was what was so weird. It hit me everywhere, every part of me in the front.” He paused and his voice
cracked often as he continued to speak. “There was a flash of light. Not yellow or red or anything like fire. It seemed bright white. But I hit my head, so that might have been what it was. I know I woke up back up on the street, right on the sidewalk. I don’t know how I got there . . .”

  The man coughed uncontrollably. The sound cut right through Julia.

  “It’s okay,” the interviewer said. “You can stop if you want.”

  “Someone was on top of me. She was—”

  Julia’s hand slammed into the dial and the radio cut off. She looked back at the road and saw traffic at a dead stop. She slammed on the brakes. The tires locked up and she skidded. Turning the wheel at the last second, Julia barely avoided the bumper of a Ford.

  “Jesus,” she whispered.

  The traffic snaked for as far as her eyes could see. A frozen line of soft red lights. She cursed under her breath just as her eyes caught sight of the flashing sign up ahead.

  LINCOLN TUNNEL CLOSED.

  * * *

  —

  Sitting dead still in the traffic, Julia screamed. Her frustration vibrated off the glass, buffeting back against her frayed nerves. She slapped the steering wheel twice.

  “Damn it,” she said.

  She wanted to pull her own hair out. She hadn’t thought to take a different route. Or even check to see if the tunnel had reopened. When she heard ferry service was running, she just assumed. Worse, maybe she just hoped it was open, like her wish could make it so, her will could make everything go back to normal, like none of this had ever happened. She rushed forward blindly, for care and thought meant seeing and accepting the situation.

  Her eyes closed. There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t turn back. That option never occurred to Julia. For a moment, she thought of accelerating, slamming into the cars in front of her, tossing them out of the way like in a Michael Bay movie. She might have tried, even, until something caught her eyes. She saw an opening in the divider between the oncoming traffic. She blinked, and then looked around. She was on the ramp off the turnpike at exit 16. She glanced at the break in the median again. Julia couldn’t be sure, but it looked identical to the one that the police cruiser took her through hours before. Without another thought, she banked left and nosed between two cars. It wasn’t until she successfully made the U-turn that Julia realized exactly what she intended.

  One hand fumbling with her phone and the other steering, she tried to remember the route the police officer had taken earlier. Somehow she dialed the station at Weehawken.

  “Can I speak with Marci Simmons?” she asked.

  “Please hold.”

  Julia gripped the wheel. She saw an exit that looked somewhat familiar, so she took it. Within a minute, while hold music played through her Bluetooth, she realized how lost she was.

  “Shit,” she hissed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, sorry, is this Marci?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Julia Swann. I . . . I’m sorry. I—”

  “Are you driving?”

  Julia laughed. “I’m in Weehawken, actually.”

  There was a pause. “Mrs. Swann, you need to go home. There’s no way into the city right now. There’s nothing you can do. We talked about this. You promised to take care of yourself.”

  “I know, I just . . . I heard the ferry was running. I thought the tunnel would be opened now.”

  “Please, Mrs. Swann. You need to go home.”

  Julia’s body shook. Her car drifted out of the lane and a driver behind her lay on the horn. The sound startled her, mixing adrenaline with the staggering weight that seemed to be pressing the life out of her.

  Tears filled her eyes. The taillights of the car ahead of her looked like tiny starbursts as her vision clouded. The horn blared again. With a jerk, Julia swerved to the right, pulling over on the shoulder. Her head turned, and she saw the quick flash of a middle finger as the car sped past her.

  “Are you okay?” Marci Simmons asked.

  “Yes,” Julia said.

  “It’ll be okay. Get yourself home and stay there. Your family needs that right now.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Julia ended the call. As cars whipped past her, her head fell to the steering wheel and she sobbed.

  * * *

  —

  Her car accelerated, tearing up the ramp back to the turnpike. Julia’s eyes burned as she picked up speed. Another car horn sounded as she cut someone off, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Someone was going to let her into the city, one way or another. She considered this to be a simple, irrefutable fact.

  She saw one path forward. She would find the ferry and take that over to the city. In the moment, it did not occur to her that she had no idea where the station might be. She never considered there being more than one. She just drove with purpose, yet without aim.

  In the instant that she realized she needed to slow down and think, her phone rang. It cut through her temporary madness, and her foot came off the gas pedal. Her heart missed a beat. Maybe they found him. When she accepted the call, she felt sick to her stomach.

  “Hello?” she whispered.

  “Mrs. Swann, this is Marci Simmons. Where are you?”

  “On the turnpike near exit 15, southbound,” she said.

  “Pull over onto the shoulder. An officer will be there within a couple of minutes. He’ll drive you through the tunnel.”

  Julia’s entire body seemed to inflate. Her face tingled. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Swann.”

  “Oh, God. Thank you.”

  “Just stay there,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  Not two minutes after the call ended, Julia saw the flashing lights approach. The cruiser pulled up beside her and rolled down a window. The officer was young, in his twenties, and wore sunglasses against the rising sun. A female officer got out of the passenger side. The moment felt like some deranged version of déjà vu.

  “You can get in the back,” the male officer said. “Officer Reyes will drive your car back to the station.”

  “What? I thought I’d—”

  “No civilian vehicles are permitted through the tunnel.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said.

  Julia grabbed her flyers and a roll of tape that the man from the store had given her. Slowly, she got out of the car, leaving the door open. The other officer got in and started the engine. Watching her, feeling very vulnerable, Julia climbed in the back of the police car.

  Without a word, he merged onto the highway. The siren rang out and traffic parted before his car. They pulled off the turnpike. Julia watched her car, driven by a stranger, peel away as they reentered the northbound lanes. Without a word, she stared straight ahead as they neared the tunnel. A yellow temporary barrier had been put up across the lanes before they split near the entrance. Men in dark uniforms milled around, holding assault rifles.

  The cruiser slowed to a stop. One of the officers stepped up to the driver’s window.

  “Johnson?”

  The officer nodded but didn’t speak. He turned back and motioned to the others. Two lifted one end of the barrier and moved it to the side. The patrol car eased through the space and accelerated into the tunnel. Julia stared out the window as they drove under the Hudson River.

  When they rose out of the tunnel and into the daylight, the officer turned onto Ninth Avenue. When they reached West Twenty-Fifth Street, she saw blockades to her left. Up ahead, not a single car was parked on the side of the street. The sight seemed postapocalyptic. In a way, maybe it was.

  The cruiser pulled up along the deserted curb.

  “You can get out here,” he said, tersely.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  He nodded but said nothing. In fact, he didn’t turn to
look at her. So she got out and walked down the street, glancing back once or twice. Though she couldn’t be sure due to the sunglasses and the glare on his windshield, she felt him staring at her.

  At the first corner, she turned. Once out of sight, she stopped, leaning against the wall of a building. She had a hard time catching her breath. That’s when she realized how nervous she felt. It all seemed so strange, the way they stared at her, the way Marci Simmons changed her mind, the way the officer wouldn’t talk to her. Maybe they’re all on edge, she thought. They had probably been up all night.

  Taking a breath, she took a step back and looked back around the corner. The cruiser was gone. Julia shook her head. It was all in her head, she thought. Nothing more. She had to focus. She had to find Michael. So she moved again, the accordion file holding the flyers held tightly in her hands, the roll of tape in her front pocket.

  At first, she shuffled among the people of New York. They seemed different from the last time she’d visited. Whereas before everyone had seemed to move with intense purpose, heads down and eyes straight ahead, that morning they milled, wandering around, looking into the eyes of the people they passed. Some unspoken connection formed and Julia fed on that. It gave her the strength to hand out her first flyer. She put it in the hands of a middle-aged man in a business suit. He took it and nodded. She smiled, and he was gone, lost in the crowd behind her.

  From there, her work got easier. She passed flyers to everyone she could and stopped at any post or window to tape another up. She headed east on 26th. Within a block, she came across the first flyer that someone else had posted. It showed a middle-aged woman’s face and a local number. A few steps east, and more faces stared blankly out of more homemade posters. She placed one of hers in an open spot and continued forward, inching closer to the station.

  Another block over and flyers dangled from mailboxes and fluttered in the breeze caused by people passing by. They littered the sidewalk and the street. Flyers were everywhere, hundreds of them. Julia moved slowly, fighting a growing panic. She held a flyer in front of her, trying to find space to hang it. There was nowhere. So many faces. Old, young, black, white, male, female. She saw all the faces.