“Fair point. You’re right, it may be way better to spend the rest of your summer sulking indoors,” says her mother. She takes the T-shirt Elizabeth has been playing with and folds it neatly, placing it back on the bed.
“That’s not fair. I spent at least two hours sulking in the backyard yesterday.” Elizabeth gives her mother a little half-grin.
“I stand corrected. So, are you going to call him back?”
“No.”
“Really? No?”
“I’m not going to call him.” Elizabeth gives her mother a sly glance. “I might send him a text or something though. The phone is for old people.”
“Right. You must be feeling better. You’re acting like your charming self again.”
“I try.” Elizabeth turns back to her computer and pulls up her Facebook page and stares at it. Should she send Evan a message? What should she say?
“Huh?” She looks up, realizing her mother has been speaking.
“The door.”
“What door?”
“The front door.” Her mother gives her an odd look.
“What about it?” Elizabeth asks impatiently. She’s mentally composing and editing a message to Evan, but can’t get it right.
“It just opened, space cadet. Dad’s home. Suppertime. Go wash up and come downstairs.” Her mother reaches over to ruffle her hair, briefly, before Elizabeth can protest, then leaves the room.
Elizabeth glances at the clock and blinks in surprise. How is it six o’clock already? Looking at the screen, she notes Evan’s photo—he’s changed it to one of himself holding Boris up on top of his head. Her eyes linger on the picture for a moment, smiling. She’ll send him a message later, she resolves. Feeling more cheerful than she has in days, she puts down her pen and snaps her laptop shut.
. . .
Should she message Evan? Maybe texting would be better. Or an e-mail. Back at her computer, Elizabeth drums her fingers on the keyboard. She’s still a bit angry—ice cream for dessert at dinner reminded her again of the ice-cream parlor—but it does seem he has made a rather valiant effort to get in touch with her. She can’t even imagine calling someone’s house and having their parents answer. Decisively, she pulls up her Facebook page again, but then frowns. What should she say? She takes a deep breath and stares at the screen. Finally, she types:
Hi.
He responds almost immediately.
Hey. FINALLY. I need to talk to you. Can we get together?
Elizabeth taps her fingers again, thinking. How to respond? She isn’t sure she’s ready to see him.
Kind of busy. What’s going on? My mom said you are calling??? On the phone???
Yeah. You won’t respond to my messages or texts. I need to explain about Ashley.
You’re engaged?
Funny. Listen. I broke up with Ashley.
Trish said you’re the cutest couple.
Trish is an idiot. Anyway, Ashley and I are done. She met someone else anyway. At her camp.
I’m sorry. You must be heartbroken.
Wrong again. Please Liz? I really like you. OK? (That was hard to write.)
Elizabeth stares at the screen. I really like you. Her heart beats faster, but she still feels unsure. She recalls the humiliation of their failed date and pauses. She doesn’t want to get hurt again.
It’s really over with A?
YES. I swear.
You were a jerk.
I was. I’m really sorry.
Are you?
I am throwing myself at your feet, begging for forgiveness.
Elizabeth laughs. She feels a bit better.
I’ll think about it.
Progress! Come on, can we go out again? I miss you.
Elizabeth feels her cheeks flame as the last of her anger melts away.
Well…OK.
I’m coming by at 8.
Not the ice-cream place.
Are you crazy? We’ll go somewhere else. Maybe just a walk.
OK. See you soon.
Elizabeth logs off and looks around her room. What should she wear? She eyes the pile of discarded T-shirts on the bed. Maybe she has been too hasty, planning to give these all away. She fishes out a mint tank top and stares at it for a moment before tossing it back down. Maybe I’d better go through these again. Just to be sure. She picks up a blue halter and tries it on.
Chapter 12
Toronto, Canada
2001
“Dad?” Alex Cameron called out for his father, his voice shaking slightly. When there was no reply, he tried again, this time injecting the call with the urgency he felt appropriate given the circumstances. “Dad!”
“What is it, Alex? Are you going to be sick again?” His father, dressed in an orange bathrobe, stuck his head around the living-room doorway, his face betraying concern mixed with modest irritation. Alex was home sick from school with either a stomach bug or the after effects of last night’s supper of week-old pizza. His dad was supposedly caring for him, but that had so far consisted mainly of turning on the TV and handing Alex a wastebasket while he worked in the other room. He was chewing a piece of red licorice; he went through bags of it when he was writing, and now a strand dangled from between his teeth like a cartoon cigar in a comic strip. He’d already gone through half a bag, and it was only just past nine in the morning.
Alex stood in the center of the room, gesturing helplessly at the television. “Look,” he said. His voice sounded strangled, as if something were caught in the back of his throat. “Look at what happened. That plane. That plane, it…” His voice trailed off, trying to explain.
The two turned toward the screen and watched the chaos unfold before them, live on TV. There was footage being replayed of an airplane crashing into what appeared to be one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City.
“My God,” his father said. As he spoke, the licorice fell to the ground; neither bothered to pick it up. “That doesn’t look like a small plane; it looks like a jet. How did the pilot miss—”
He stopped abruptly and looked closer at the screen. “Wait—what happened to the other tower?”
Alex looked at him grimly. “It was hit just before this one.”
“Hit?” His dad’s expression was blank. He glanced back at the television where ashen-faced reporters were abuzz with snatches of information regarding the catastrophe. He looked at his son. “Wait,” he said, realization dawning on his face. “You mean…another plane? Two planes hit the World Trade Center? On purpose?”
“That’s what it looks like.” Alex sank down on the worn leather sofa and drew his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly. “They’re saying it was a terrorist attack. They think, anyway.”
His father sat down next to him, his robe flapping open as he did so. Alex cringed but said nothing; it wasn’t really the time, though he did wish his dad would put some boxers on when he wore that thing.
“It’s just in New York?” His dad turned to him.
“What do you mean?”
“Just New York? The planes that hit?”
“Yeah—why?”
“No, nothing.” His father turned back to the TV, but Alex could tell he was anxious: he was shaking his foot compulsively and drumming his fingers on his knee.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“You know, that shaking thing.”
“I don’t know, nervous tic. Why are you hugging your legs?”
They turned their attention back to the news just as the shocked anchor cut off her colleague who was on the street in New York.
“Just a second, Jessica, sorry,” she announced, visibly shaken. “We’ve just had word that a plane has hit the
Pentagon in Washington, DC.”
His dad jumped up. “Good Lord,” he whispered. “It’s the end of the world.”
“Dad?” Alex looked at him, frightened.
His father blinked at Alex, then reddened, as if remembering that, as a parent, he had a duty to make things seem okay, even when they clearly were not. He reached over and patted his son awkwardly on the back. “It’ll be all right,” he said unconvincingly.
“You’d think there would be, like, a force field or something around the Pentagon,” said Alex. “Like, you couldn’t crash into it; the plane would blow up or something.”
His father said nothing, standing frozen next to the couch.
“Dad?”
There was no response. His father was moving again, this time to the phone.
“I’m going to try to get in touch with Mom.”
“Try?” Alex frowned.
His dad turned away. “She’s flying today.” He was trying to sound casual, but Alex caught the edge of fear in his voice.
“She is? I thought that was tomorrow!” Panicked, Alex’s voice rose. His mother traveled weekly for her work as a consultant, and it was often difficult to keep track of her busy schedule.
“She had a seven-thirty flight to Kansas City.” His father was fiddling with the phone.
“Is she there? Is she answering?”
“No.” He watched his dad’s shoulders slump. “It was a long shot.” He clutched the phone to him and stared at it, willing it to ring.
“Where exactly is Kansas City? What if it’s next?” Alex’s voice was high pitched and caught as he tried to choke back his tears. He felt hot and cold at the same time and a bit lightheaded, as if he were watching himself from a vantage point somewhere near the ceiling.
“Don’t worry.” His father came over and hugged him. “There are no tall buildings, really, in Kansas City.”
“The Pentagon isn’t a tall building!”
“It’s important though, the Pentagon. It’s a symbol. Kansas City—it’s not even in Kansas.”
“Huh?”
“Well, actually, there is one in Kansas, but she was going to Missouri.”
His dad was rambling now, even more than usual. Alex felt dizzy and sat back down, trying to regulate his breathing, which had become increasingly quick and shallow.
Suddenly, the scene before them on the screen changed; it was back to New York, where people were running frantically. A few stopped to look back as they ran, screams and moans erupting from the frenzied crowd. Alex stopped and stared; the scene reminded him of images from old movies like King Kong and Godzilla that looked as if they’d been filmed in a shadow box with a single camera.
“What the—” He stopped in mid-sentence as he realized what was happening. In stunned silence, he watched replays of the twin World Trade Center towers crumbling to the ground like sandcastles, decimated by the tide on the beach.
“Oh, my God,” said his father, his voice full of horror. “Oh, my God.”
It took only minutes for the towers to fall, but to Alex it felt like hours. There was something riveting about watching those two tall towers buckle to the earth again and again. How could they just fall like that? And so quickly? If it had been in a movie, it would have taken longer. And then, before he could even digest the enormity of the event, the news anchor was back with more bad news: another plane had crashed in a field somewhere in Pennsylvania.
Alex looked over at his father, who sat next to him with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth ever so slightly, as if propelled by a slowly unwinding spring. “Dad?”
“It’s okay,” he replied automatically. “There are so many flights every day. Do you know how many? Thousands. These are only four.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Only four flights. The odds of something happening to her plane are very low.”
“The odds were low for all the people who died on the other planes too.” Alex’s voice was louder now. “I can’t even imagine the probability for something like this. This isn’t a rational, logical thing, Dad. This is chaos. And don’t pretend you’re good at math.” Alex himself was going off to university next week as a math major. Even as a child, he’d amused himself with numbers, manipulating them the way the other kids did puzzles and blocks.
His father clutched at his neck. When he pulled his hands away, there were deep red marks from where his nails had dug in. “Don’t get angry with me!” he said. “I’m just trying to hold it together here.”
Alex felt bad; his quick temper was legendary among family and friends, though he tried hard not to let it dominate him. “Sorry, Dad.” He put a hand on his father’s arm. “I’m just scared.”
The phone rang, startling both of them. His father, who was still clasping the receiver tightly in his left hand, stared at it as if it were an unidentifiable object.
It rang again. “Dad?” Alex pointed at the ringing phone. “The phone!”
His father shook his head quickly, as if trying to clear the dust from his brain. He pressed the green button and took a deep breath. “Hello?”
Alex didn’t breathe as he waited for his father’s next words. He felt the blood rush in his ears and a wave of dizziness overtake him. He sat down again and put his head between his legs.
“Thuy.”
Alex’s entire body relaxed as he heard his father utter his mother’s name. He’d always liked it—when people misspelled it “Twee,” he was reminded of birds singing, which was the way his mother sounded to him when she spoke.
Alex grabbed for the phone.
“She’s okay. I’m putting it on speaker.”
Alex could see the tension slowly releasing from his father’s body; he was less rigid now and sank down onto the couch.
“Mom?” Alex took the phone and held it gently in his lap.
“Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
“Mom, it’s awful.” Alex felt himself tear up at the soothing melody of his mother’s voice, still with the trace of an accent despite over twenty-five years in Canada.
“I know. We just heard here,” she said soothingly.
“Are you in Kansas City?” asked Alex’s dad.
“No. All flights have been grounded, apparently. We landed in Chicago.”
“When are you coming home?” Alex blurted out. He hugged his arms around himself.
“As soon as I can,” she replied. Alex could hear shouting in the background and felt frightened.
“You’re not going to fly?” he asked, his voice small.
“I’m going to look into renting a car,” she replied quickly.
“You could try the train.” His father now, leaning toward the phone.
“No!” Alex’s voice was sharp.
His dad looked at him, surprised.
“I just think it’s safer to drive your own car.” Alex felt silly trying to explain, but he felt strongly his mother shouldn’t take the train. “What if they blow up trains next or something?”
“Don’t worry.” His mother sounded concerned. “I’ll be fine. It’s easier to just drive, anyway.”
There was the crackle of static as his mother said something further that he couldn’t make out. “What?” Alex shook the phone in frustration.
“I said I love you and I’ll call again soon. I see an Avis counter; I’m going to go talk to them.”
Alex nodded at the handset. “I love you too.”
“Bye, hon. Put your dad on for a sec.”
Alex handed the phone back to his father, who turned off the speaker function and had a brief exchange with his mother in hushed tones. Alex wondered what they were saying, if they were hiding something important from him. He felt his fear, which had slowly ebbed away at his mother’s reassu
ring words, slowly turn to irritation and anger. He was eighteen now, a real adult. What was it they couldn’t say in front of him?
Alex turned back to the television, where the anchor was interviewing a woman by phone. Apparently, her husband had been on the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania.
“What did he say?” The anchor’s tone was gentle but urgent.
“He said…he said the plane had been hijacked.” The woman’s voice was soft. There was an air of disbelief to it.
“And?”
“And that they weren’t going to let them do what they did in New York. They were going to take back the plane.” Her voice choked.
“And then what happened?” Alex found himself glaring at the anchor. She was being a bit pushy now, given the gravity of this woman’s testimony and all that had just happened.
“He said good-bye.” The woman’s voice broke. “That’s all.”
“People are saying the plane was headed to the White House.” The anchor was speaking again.
“I don’t know.” The woman sounded faint. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“Thank you for speaking with us.” The call ended, and the anchor switched back to an on-the-scene report from the Pentagon.
Alex had seen enough. He turned off the television and headed to his room. Falling on his bed, he thought of the people who would have been on those planes. People like his mom, heading to a meeting. Or families with kids heading off on vacation. He recalled his last flight: he’d been seated behind a couple and their lively toddler, who intermittently poked her head around the seat to stare at him in a one-sided game of peek-a-boo. She’d had pigtails on either side of her head fastened with little rainbow barrettes. He imagined her incomprehension as the adults around her wailed and clutched at each other in a frenzy of fear while the plane disappeared in a burst of fire and cloud of smoke. The terror of the other passengers, of parents who’d have realized they’d never see their kids again, of business travelers facing the prospect of a terrifying death all alone. He wondered, if he were alone on a plane that was about to crash, would he hold the hand of the person next to him, even if he didn’t know them? He thought he probably would.
Soldier Doll Page 17
