The Real Michael Swann

by Bryan Reardon

  “Me?” Julia asked, though his words simply confirmed her own suspicions. “You thought I had something to do with it?”

  Bakhash shook his head, slowly. “With your father’s history with DuLac. Your family’s recent financial issues. Your husband’s job. We had a report from a New Jersey State police officer who said that you took responsibility. You said it was ‘all your fault.’”

  “My fault?” She could not fully remember saying that, exactly. Yet she knew why she would. “I was talking about Michael . . . It was all about Michael. How could they tell you that?”

  “He was looking out for this country, Mrs. Swann. We all were.” He paused, as if expecting her to suddenly and simply understand what they had done to her and her family. When that did not happen, he nodded. “They’ll take you to the hospital now and everything will be sorted out after that. Good night, Mrs. Swann.”

  He nodded to the paramedic. As that man, with his kind face and strong hands, helped her to her feet, Agent Bakhash turned and walked away. After they loaded her into the back, a uniformed officer climbed aboard. He sat across from her as they drove to the hospital, never once looking away.

  20

  Julia sat up in the hospital bed, holding her phone against her chest. She could hear people whispering outside her door. She heard it all the time. They whispered. But no one spoke to her. They offered pleasantries. Nurses and doctors asked her how she felt. No one, however, mentioned anything. No one asked her anything real.

  Julia’s phone rang, startling her. It was Evelyn.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you okay?” Evelyn asked.

  She went back to staring out the window. “No.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “What?”

  “It’s . . . I can’t. Go to CNN dot com.”

  “What is it, Evelyn?”

  “It’s . . . He didn’t do anything. He . . .”

  She could hear Evelyn crying on the other end of the line. It brought back the pain, the emptiness.

  “I have to go,” she said, quickly, and hung up.

  Phone in hand, Julia went back to staring out the window. Evelyn’s words teased at her thoughts. She wanted to ignore them. Block them out. She wanted to block everything out, at least until she was home, with the kids. Then she would have to face it.

  Yet she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried. Eventually, she turned and looked at her phone. She went to the website. Michael’s name was everywhere. She shook a little, and cried. She even looked away. But then she tried again. Her eyes went to the red banner across the top.

  MICHAEL SWANN INNOCENT VICTIM

  Crying even harder, she opened the article and read.

  Investigators recently uncovered new footage from security cameras inside Penn Station taken moments before the bombing. Originally thought destroyed in the blast, data from the additional camera was backed up digitally at an off-site facility in New Jersey. The new footage may help clarify the involvement of Michael Swann, the man initially named a suspect in the bombing.

  Originally, a video taken at the same time by a different camera was leaked showing Swann holding a briefcase while standing in Penn Station. Forensic analysis had isolated that case as the most likely source of the explosion.

  Hours ago, a second video was officially released by Homeland Security. The ten-second clip shows the man now accused of orchestrating and carrying out the bombing, Daniel Schmidt, switching cases with Swann just minutes before the blast. Schmidt exits quickly from the shot, moving toward the subway platforms.

  Minutes later, Swann is seen picking up the case off the ground. At that time, he seems to react to something amiss. After opening the case and viewing the contents, he can be seen slamming it shut and running out of the picture, toward the station exit.

  Julia had to read the last paragraph over again. The words lost meaning as she tried to see them through her tears. When she was done, she paused, staring at the video link. Knowing she shouldn’t, sure that she didn’t have the strength, she touched the arrow and the clip played.

  The first thing Julia saw was her husband. He sat in a chair, talking on his phone. Though his face was a mask of pixelation and shades of gray-green, she pictured his smile. She imagined him talking to her over the line. They were discussing his interview. And the boys. Maybe dinner plans. Or maybe she had slipped into a quiet corner of the house and they were talking about their future plans. Maybe they shared a sense of adventure. A new beginning.

  Then he appeared. The man from the parking lot. That face she saw under the harsh spotlight. Since that moment, it had morphed in her memory into the face of a monster. Julia wanted to look away. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  He slipped in behind Michael. Her husband never noticed. Michael leaned forward and the man moved quickly. She could see Michael’s case disappear and another take its place. The man turned and rushed away.

  Julia dropped the phone. It bounced off her mattress and fell to the floor. It slid under the bed and the video played over and over again as she wept.

  21

  Julia sat in the passenger seat as her mother drove them home. She stared out the side window at the trees lining Route 322. Sunlight cut beams through the trunks. It triggered the memory. The darkness, a spotlight, that face that was wrong. At first, she had tried to convince herself. It had to be Michael. But everything was wrong. His eyes were too wide-set, too dead. His chin too square and dull. He could never be her Michael. Yet he had come out of the trees. He had answered her calls. And she hated him for it.

  He’s gone.

  It just kept repeating. The thought tore her down and left her in the kind of emptiness that feels like it will last forever, like nothing could fill the gaping wound inside her. The rational side of her mind grasped at her memory of the boys. Certainly, they needed her. They would be devastated, beyond that really. Her entire being would be focused on their survival, not hers. She knew without a doubt that was her future. But that did nothing for the pain, either. If anything, it made it worse.

  They had made a plan. Just the night before all of this started, they had lain in bed talking long into the night about how their lives would change. They laughed off their past mistakes and painted every step in shades of gold like sunshine. Julia could still feel those tears; there had been exactly two, running down her cheek. How many had fallen since then?

  Michael.

  Anger flared up, pushing back the grief for a moment. She had allowed herself to hope. Even worse than that, when the report broke that he was innocent, just before she saw that face, Julia had known it would be okay. She’d opened herself fully. She let it own her life, even the lives of their children. Michael was alive. That’s what she thought. And she would never let anyone take him away from her again.

  But somehow he had. He had ripped Michael from her like some cruel torture. He had appeared, run to her, and showed his face for the foul lie it was. It broke her, and she felt that break might last forever.

  “Are you okay?” her mother asked.

  Julia couldn’t turn to look at her. “Are the boys okay?”

  “They are,” she said. “But they know some. They need to hear the rest.”

  “I need to tell them,” she said.

  “Are you . . .”

  They said nothing else for a while. Julia continued to look out the window.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  Her mother took a breath “There’s no answer to that. At least not one that we can understand. I wish there was, though. I wish we could just explain it. Maybe that would help.”

  “I thought it was him,” Julia said, her words barely more than air.

  Her mother felt those words deep in her chest. “I am so sorry.”

  * * *

  —

  After fifteen minutes of silence, J
ulia blinked. The scenery around her took focus as they crossed the Delaware River, which meant she would be home with Evan and Thomas in less than an hour. The thought scared her to death, in a way. She needed to see them, to have them close, fold them under her wing. But at the same time, she had no idea what to say or how to make them feel better, ever.

  Her agitation grew, layering a shakiness over the crushing grief of it all. Absently, she turned on the radio. Maybe she wanted some breaking news to change everything, to paint a new picture. Some reporter could open her mouth and put words out that altered the truth. That could bring him back.

  Instead, they spoke of the other one now. Everyone did. His name, Schmidt, seemed a language unto itself. Schmidt, Schmidt, Schmidt. It rattled against her ears.

  “A coward. That’s what I’d call him. At least those other fanatics blow themselves up. This guy left the bomb and ran. He got out. The craven.”

  She changed the station.

  “What do you expect when the political climate of this country is so full of divisive rhetoric? This man, Schmidt, was on the edge. He’d lost his job. His marriage had recently ended. He had a gambling problem. They say he watched those Sunday programs religiously. Talk radio all the time. What did we expect, really? If Schmidt is some monster, then let’s face it, folks. We are all Dr. Frankenstein.”

  Her finger moved again, though she barely noticed.

  “If the president had done what he said, this never would have happened . . .”

  “Twenty-four/seven coverage of the investigation . . .”

  “An anonymous caller caused the evacuation of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City.”

  “. . . bomb the shit out of . . .”

  Endless . . . Click.

  * * *

  —

  The car pulled into her driveway. Kate looked at her daughter, but Julia felt paralyzed. She had to get out. She had to face it. But she felt so heavy.

  I can’t.

  She closed her eyes. And she pictured his face, his sharp chin and his bright eyes. She felt his hands, so strong, touching her, lifting her up. Julia knew she couldn’t open her eyes. If she did, he would be gone. But oh, how she wanted to see him again.

  I miss you, she said.

  I’m so sorry, he whispered back, silently.

  The boys need you, she said.

  No, he said. They need you. Just know you can’t take their pain away. Just like us, they have to feel it. It has to embrace them so that, over time, they can slowly let it go.

  I don’t know if I can watch them cry, Michael.

  It is the same for them. But no matter how much you try, you will cry, too. Know that you’ll do your best. And that’s all you can do. Trust your heart and be there.

  I thought I still had you.

  “What?” her mother said.

  Julia’s eyes shot open. And he was gone. She opened the car door.

  “Do you want me to . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “No. I just want to be with them.”

  Julia walked out of the car, her mother watching silently. As she neared the front door, it opened. Evelyn was there. They hugged, but briefly. When Julia pulled away, Evelyn seemed to understand. She stepped onto the front porch, out of the way.

  “If you need me . . . ,” she said.

  Julia nodded, but didn’t say anything. She wanted to. Even in that moment, she saw how the woman standing beside her was a real friend, one who had stood by her through it all. Later, it would mean even more to her. She would put herself in Evelyn’s shoes and wonder, often, whether she could have been as true. Would she have stood by someone whose husband had been accused of such a heinous crime? Some days, she doubted. But that thought was too hard to face.

  As she stepped into the house, Julia heard their footsteps rising from the basement. Evan appeared, his eyes red and the tears fresh on his face. He stopped, not getting too close.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, his voice breaking.

  “Oh, buddy, you shouldn’t—”

  “I was wrong,” he said. “I got so mad at you, but I was wrong.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have—”

  “I get it,” he said. “It was for Thomas. He’s still a little kid.”

  Julia’s heart broke. She could barely breathe. But Evan continued.

  “And I’m sorry for telling you to go after Dad.”

  “You were right,” she said, taking him into her arms. “For just a second, I thought he might have . . . I . . . And you reminded me, Evan. You did that.”

  She cried. He rubbed her back.

  “It’s okay,” Evan said. “But I knew. I knew he couldn’t do that.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Thomas came next. He still looked frightened, and far too young to lose his father.

  “It’s not fair,” he said. “It’s not . . .”

  They surrounded him, taking him in. Together, the emotion poured out, as if an electrical current coursed from son to mother to son. Their faces pressed together. The world around them seemed to vanish. And for just a second, all three closed their eyes. And they saw him one last time. Their father, the real Michael Swann, smiled down at them as they wept together.

  22

  She had no idea how much time had passed. Her family remained locked together, their knees on the cool tile of the foyer floor. They spoke some. Words that could never be enough. Prayers that could never be answered. Fears that only time could slowly soften. In time, though, maybe weeks, or months, or maybe years, they would realize that only two things could help them lift up from their grief. The first they could never control. Instead, it would march forward one way or another. They might perceive it as seconds or years, but eventually time would heal, given the chance.

  The second thing, the more important one, they had already. They were together. They had each other. And though one was missing, his absence would never come between them. On the contrary, it would bind them even deeper.

  Yet life, as Julia had just learned, did not exist in a bubble. For, before the sun dipped toward that afternoon, as the Swanns held each other with all the strength they had left, a knock came to their front door.

  Julia stirred. At first, she thought it would be a well-meaning neighbor. As word of Michael’s innocence spread, they would return, needing to assuage their own perceived guilt. Yet even before she stood, she sensed this was different. Voices rose, two, three, maybe four. And another knock rattled the door.

  She rose. Evan touched her hand, as if asking her to stop. But she couldn’t. She had to know.

  Julia walked across the foyer. Her hand touched the handle. She turned it, taking in what felt like a final breath. As the door opened, she saw people, maybe half a dozen, maybe more. Every face was a stranger to her. Some looked polished and vacant. Others looked rough and disheveled. They stared at her with unabashed obsession and a strange ownership. Like she and her family now belonged, in some heartbreaking way, to them.

  “Mrs. Swann, Mrs. Swann.”

  She didn’t answer. Over their shoulders, she saw the same news vans that had surrounded her house just the day before. They were back.

  “Mrs. Swann, how does it feel?”

  Her legs felt weak. Why would they ask a question like that? She stared into their hungry eyes as they thrust microphones in her face.

  “Have you seen it? The video. How does it feel knowing your husband is a hero?”

  It made no sense. As she stood there, aghast, more vans approached. They surrounded her house. Waves of people pushed in on Julia and her family, feet scurrying as if they raced to see who could touch her first.

  “The video,” another said. “It’s gone viral. Everyone’s seen it. He found the bomb. He tried to get it out of the station. He’s a hero, Mrs. Swann. A hero.”

  The fir
st thing Julia did was blink. It was a slow close of her eyes, as if she hoped that maybe, as they reopened, all this would be gone. But it wasn’t. Instead, even more people approached.

  Slowly, carefully, Julia stepped back. Her fingers touched the edge of the front door.

  “Don’t you have a comment? It’s amazing. Everyone wants—”

  Julia simply closed the door.

  EPILOGUE

  1

  The backdrop reminded her of the sky that night in the Pine Barrens. Glowing blue panels rose like flames from both sides of the stage, adding depth to the huge image of a distant galaxy with clouds and pinprick stars. Just to the right of center, red block letters over six feet tall spelled out TED30.

  A woman stepped on stage, microphone in hand, walking casually to a circular platform jutting out into the first dozen rows of seating. She moved about as if the fear of public speaking never once occurred to her. Dressed in sleek black pants and a perfectly cut white sleeveless top, she looked the juxtaposition of a 1950s mother and a millennial CrossFit trainer. Her tone was informal yet trained, and she peppered witty tales of motherhood in her introduction for the event’s keynote speaker.

  “If it came with a glass of wine, I’d sign up for anything,” she said to uproarious laughter. “But seriously, folks, we all know why we’re here. For me, this is something so special. Maybe you don’t know this, but the first blog post I wrote, the very first one, was about our guest today. Can you believe it, people? That was fifteen years ago . . . I was three at the time.”

  More laughter.

  “But seriously, like all of you, I saw the video. I mean, over three billion views. Most ever. Record-breaking. And what I found so amazing, what I wrote about that day, was that it was something good. Do you know what I mean?”

  The audience nodded, a strangely practiced response that looked planned. Yet it wasn’t.