Remember

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  Brooke jerked her head in his direction. “Have you heard about the switchboards at the hospital?”

  “No. What’s happening?”

  “The phones are ringing off the hook.”

  John shifted his weight, confused. “Why are they calling the hospital?”

  Brooke met his gaze straight on. “They’re looking for a place to give blood.”

  * * *

  Bloomington Fire Station #2 was thick with tension. Landon and five other firefighters sat in a tight circle around a small television in the lunchroom. They’d been there for nearly fifty minutes, ever since one of their wives had called with the news. Landon was the quietest of all—not because he had nothing to say but because he couldn’t stop praying for Jalen.

  He had no doubt that somewhere in one of those towering infernos, his best friend was trying to save lives.

  “How many firefighters you figure are in those buildings?” one of the men in the circle asked.

  “Gotta be hundreds.”

  “Hey, Landon, don’t you have a buddy at FDNY?”

  “Yeah.” Landon’s mouth was dry. There was nothing else he could say. He stared at the screen, unblinking. He’d talked to Jalen a few days ago. This was his shift, Landon was certain, and his station was in the vicinity. Hurry, Jalen.

  The conversation around him continued.

  “You have any idea how hot jet fuel burns? That place is a furnace by now.”

  “The whole building must be feeling it.”

  Their voices grew, filled with a knowing fear for their fellow firefighters.

  Come on, Jalen . . . get out. A building that hot wasn’t safe. Landon had been thinking about that since the first plane hit. At a certain temperature the integrity of steel would be compromised, and if that happened. . . . Get out of there, Jalen. Come on, buddy . . . get out!

  “Look at ’em.” One of the guys rose to his feet. “Firemen are still pouring into the building. Must be fifty companies by now.”

  “What’re they doing?” One of the others pounded his fist on the table. He motioned to the screen. “Someone get those men out of there!”

  A reporter’s voice cut through their dialogue. “We’re getting reports that the south tower is shaking. Windows on the lower level are breaking out from the movement.”

  “Come on, people!” The fireman next to Landon shoved back his chair and swore out loud at the television set. “The whole thing’s gonna come down! Get out! Go! Leave!”

  Adrenaline shot through Landon’s veins. Jalen was somewhere in one of those buildings. He could feel it. But there wasn’t a thing he could do to help. Leave, Jalen! God, make him get out of there.

  At that moment there was a strange shuddering sound, and in a matter of seconds, the south tower disappeared in a volcano-size cloud of smoke and dust and debris.

  Landon could feel the blood draining from his face as he watched in disbelief. A hundred floors of steel and glass, tons of office equipment and people—all gone. Completely gone.

  “The south tower just collapsed!” The reporter shouted the news against a backdrop of screaming people, all of them scrambling for their lives, trying to outrun the blast. “I repeat, the south tower of the World Trade Center has collapsed to the ground. There’s nothing left standing.”

  “Jalen!” Landon was on his feet. He raised his arms and dug his fingers into his hair. The scene was complete madness. A wave of nausea gripped his belly. What had they just witnessed? Hundreds of people—maybe thousands—killed right before their eyes. How many of them had been firefighters, racing up the stairs while everyone else raced down?

  The building wouldn’t contain a single survivor after the force of the collapse.

  No, it isn’t possible. If Jalen was in the building when it collapsed . . . Landon closed his eyes and uttered the only prayer he could think of: God, take care of my friend. And whatever happens, please . . . don’t let him suffer.

  * * *

  Luke had been in the middle of a ninety-minute economics lecture when a student tore into the classroom and shouted something about a terrorist attack. Immediately the professor had flipped on the television.

  Every moment since then, Luke and his classmates had been glued to the screen.

  All around him students were whispering, talking about the tragedy, commenting on the situation. But Luke was utterly silent, caught in a moment of prayer so deep and intense he could barely concentrate on the steady flow of news reports.

  For thirty straight minutes, he’d been begging God to let Reagan’s father live. He worked on the eighty-ninth floor of the north tower. By the looks of it, the plane had hit lower than that. Could Tom Decker make it down past the burning wreckage? And what about Reagan? Wherever she was, she had to know by now.

  Luke remembered the phone call her father had made last night, and the knots in his stomach tightened. She hadn’t answered it because they were . . .

  Please, God. I’ve never asked you for anything like this before. Please let him live . . . please.

  The harder he prayed, the worse the fire seemed to get.

  There were reports of the buildings shaking, giving way. And then, in a single surreal motion, the south tower collapsed, plummeting to the ground. The students gasped, and an eerie silence came over the room. At first, Luke wasn’t sure which building had fallen.

  He held his breath while the reporters shouted the news. The south tower had collapsed. Some people were trapped; others were fleeing the scene. All federal office buildings in Washington, D.C., were being evacuated. The news was terrible. But Luke couldn’t help the sense of relief flooding his body. The building Reagan’s father worked in was standing. He still had a chance.

  I beg you, God—not the north tower too. Please, God. Get Reagan’s father out. She didn’t get a chance to talk to him yesterday because . . . I’m sorry, God. It was my fault. Please don’t punish her for my mistake.

  Luke had felt awful since he left Reagan’s apartment a dozen hours ago. Long before the news of the attacks, he’d been sick to his stomach over what had happened between them. How had things gotten so out of hand? And what would she think of him now? They’d both been determined to wait, sure that they would never fall to temptation the way others did. They were just watching a football game, after all.

  But now how would Reagan feel if something happened to her father—if she’d missed out on her last chance to talk to him because she and Luke were breaking the most important guideline God ever set about relationships? What then? Luke couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling.

  A shaken Dan Rather appeared on the screen. He glanced at a stack of notes. “We have reports now that the north tower of the World Trade Center is unstable. There’s concern it might collapse as well. Police are evacuating everyone except medical and fire personnel from the scene, and . . .”

  The north tower? No! God, you wouldn’t let it fall.

  Without waiting another moment, Luke grabbed his things and raced from the classroom. Whatever happened next, he needed to reach Reagan—even if he had to search the whole campus to find her.

  * * *

  Landon and his colleagues hadn’t moved. They remained fixated on the television, listening as reporters spoke of dozens of firefighters trapped in the collapsed building. A feeling of futility hung over them, and for the most part they no longer spoke.

  The only sound around the table was an occasional grunt of disbelief or shock.

  What could they say? There was nothing any of them could do to help, and the disaster grew worse by the minute. Landon tried to believe that Jalen was in the north tower, that somehow he’d avoided the ill-fated south tower and might still have time to get out.

  But just as those thoughts flashed in his mind, the top part of the north tower peeled away, sending the entire massive structure down to the ground. One minute it was standing among the buildings of the city; the next it was reduced to a massive pile of rubble, shrouded in a black f
og of debris even denser than before.

  Landon could barely breathe. He glanced at the lunchroom clock: 10:28 A.M. The fire had been burning in the north tower for ninety minutes—enough time for firefighters to get in, make a rescue, and get out. Certainly some firefighters had gotten out. But was Jalen one of them?

  God be with him. Be merciful. If there’s a chance he can get out of there, help him. Please, God . . .

  Fifteen minutes later the report came that another plane had gone down, this one in rural Pennsylvania. Reporters speculated that the crash must have been linked to the attacks. The flight pattern indicated the jet was headed for the Washington, D.C., area. Maybe even the White House.

  Over the next hour, several of Landon’s buddies took breaks from the unfolding horror. Only Landon couldn’t leave his seat. He was desperate to hear about the New York firefighters. Had any of them gotten out in time, or were most of them trapped beneath the rubble? How many were missing? He was watching when the news he feared most was first reported. As many as a hundred firefighters were missing, maybe more. Whole engine companies, fire trucks and all, had vanished when the towers collapsed.

  Landon listened to the news and clenched his jaw, working it first one way then the other. He wanted to cry, wanted to punch something or run until he couldn’t breathe anymore. The idea of idly watching while Jalen might be suffocating under tons of rubble was more than he could take.

  There was only one thing he could do, one way he could help his best friend now. He pushed his chair back and looked at the two other firemen at the table. It wasn’t like he even had a choice.

  “Guys . . .” He grabbed his hat and headed out the door. “I’m going to New York.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Luke raced across campus like a madman.

  Why couldn’t he remember Reagan’s schedule? Was she in physics this morning or journalism? He checked three classrooms, ran a hundred yards to another building, and checked two more before he remembered. It was Tuesday. Her first class didn’t start until eleven on Tuesdays.

  He raced to the student parking lot, found his car, and sped toward Reagan’s apartment. Was it only twelve hours ago that he’d been with her, trying to decide whether he should stay, trying to ignore the way God practically shouted at him to go home?

  How had everything changed in so little time?

  He darted up the steps and pounded on her door. When no one answered, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He opened it with a quiet push, careful not to frighten her.

  “Reagan?” He heard a distant beeping. “Reagan, are you here?”

  No answer. Luke moved through the entryway and stopped short as he reached the living room. There she was, sitting on the same sofa where they’d lost control the night before. Her eyes were wide, her face frozen in a look of shock and horror that cut Luke to the core. She stared at the television screen, oblivious to the fact that the phone was off the hook beside her.

  Luke followed her gaze. The TV showed smoke and soot and utter chaos. But as thick and dark as the cloud of debris was, the truth was plain for all to see. The north tower was gone. Where the World Trade Center once stood, there was now nothing at all.

  “Did it . . . ?” Luke couldn’t finish his question.

  Reagan looked at him, her movements slow and unnatural. “It’s gone. Dad’s building fell.”

  “No. Reagan, it didn’t.” Luke was at her side instantly. “Tell me it’s not true.” He sat down beside her. But when he tried to put his arm around her, she held up her hand.

  “Don’t!” Her tone was loud and sharp. She slid over on the sofa, tightening her grip on the phone. “I need to call my mother.”

  Luke felt like he’d been slapped. Reagan was in shock; that had to be it. She’d never spoken to him that way before. He looked at the receiver, then at Reagan. “It’s off the hook.”

  “Don’t talk to me!” She stared at the phone as if she were seeing it for the first time. Then she pushed a series of buttons, held it to her ear, and waited.

  Luke watched. There was nothing he could do to help. When the call didn’t go through, Reagan dropped the phone to her side. It was still beeping. Luke kept his distance but held out his hand. “Let me try, okay?”

  The small bit of fight in Reagan fizzled. She handed him the receiver without the slightest change in her expression. Luke held the phone to his ear, found a dial tone, and hit the Redial button.

  A recording came on. “All circuits are busy. Please try again. All circuits are busy. Please try a—”

  Luke hung up and set the phone on the coffee table in front of him. “We’ll try in a few minutes.”

  Reagan hugged her arms to her chest. “You think he got out, right? My dad, I mean?” She swallowed twice. “He’s coming to Bloomington with my mom. We’re going to see the town together.” Her face was completely void of emotion. “Are they coming today?”

  Reagan didn’t blink. Luke studied her, his heart racing. What if she wasn’t okay? What if she passed out or did something crazy? He’d never seen anyone act like this. She was waiting for an answer, frantically searching his face for something she could hold on to. “I don’t know, Reagan.”

  She glanced at the television. “But he got out, right?”

  “Yes.” The word stuck in Luke’s mouth. He was desperate for a glass of water. “I think he could be okay.”

  Her head bobbed up and down in a jerky fashion. “Right. Everything’s okay. He’s probably home sick today, or . . .” She blinked hard, her eyes darting about the room as though she were looking for an escape. “Or . . . he was away on business . . . or out on assignment or . . . or down the street getting coffee.” She looked hard at him again. “Right, Luke. That could be it, couldn’t it?”

  “I’m trying your mom again.” He picked up the phone and punched the Redial button once more. This time it rang, and Reagan’s mother picked up almost immediately.

  “Reagan?” Mrs. Decker sounded as anxious as her daughter. “I’ve been trying to call for the last half hour. Your line’s been busy.”

  “This is Luke. Reagan’s here beside me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have you heard from your husband?”

  “I’m . . . I’m all by myself here, Luke. I don’t know what to do.”

  Luke wanted to scream. He didn’t know what to do either. He was just a college kid, too far away to help even if he could. Instead he stared at his girlfriend, still sitting motionless across from him, and forced himself to be calm. “Reagan’s pretty upset. Have you . . . has he called?”

  Reagan’s mother exhaled, and Luke could tell she was crying. “He called me after the first plane hit. It . . . it was his building. His office is just below the fire.”

  Luke could picture Mr. Decker’s office, the way he had looked in his leather chair with all of New York City spread out behind him. How terrible it must have been to watch that plane fly into the building, to know an inferno was raging a few stories above.

  Luke shuddered and tried to think of what to say next. “Maybe he got out.” He shot a glance at Reagan. She didn’t seem to be hearing his conversation. “There were reports of people escaping from that high up. If he made it to the stairwell in time, maybe he’s at the hospital or looking for a way to call home. The circuits were busy when I tried a few minutes ago, so maybe—”

  “Luke, stop.” The woman was crying harder now. “He called me again. He . . . he said he was helping the firemen rescue people who couldn’t move very fast. He wanted me to know they’d done all they could, and he was about to go down the stairs. He said he . . . he loved me and Reagan and that he was going to be fine. He’d see me in a few hours.”

  Luke didn’t dare breathe.

  “Five minutes after we hung up . . . the building fell.” She sobbed out loud, a wailing, gut-wrenching cry like none he’d ever heard before. “Luke, he’s gone. There’s no way he could have survived that.”

  Reagan still hadn’t moved, hadn’t blin
ked as far as Luke could tell. God, let there be a miracle here, please. This can’t be happening. I don’t know what to do. He drew a slow breath. “You don’t know for sure, though. Maybe he was able to—”

  “Luke.” The way she said his name stopped him in midsentence. “I need to talk to my daughter. Please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Luke winced. He held the phone out to Reagan. “She wants to talk to you.”

  Reagan took the phone, her movements even slower than before. “Hello?”

  For a long while there was silence. Finally Reagan nodded. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  This time she replaced the receiver on the hook and sat there staring at the answering machine. Then she pushed the Playback button. On came her father’s voice.

  “Reagan? Honey, you home? . . . Oh, well. Just called to commiserate with you over the sad loss tonight. But hey, don’t count the Giants out. You know, I was thinking—one of these weekends Mom and I should fly out and visit. The three of us could rent bikes or check out the shops. Let’s plan it, okay?” His laugh sounded through the machine’s speaker just as it had done last night. “Anyway, call me tomorrow. Love you, honey.”

  She waited a brief moment; then she hit the button again.

  “Reagan? Honey, you home? . . .”

  Luke slowly made his way toward her as the message played out. He was afraid to touch her, afraid to show her any comfort at all. What could he say? Because of him, she had missed her last conversation with her father.

  The phone rang before Reagan could play the message again. She jerked back as if the machine had come to life. Then she handed the receiver to Luke. “I . . . I can’t talk.”

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Reagan’s mom again.” Mrs. Decker sounded calmer. She explained that Reagan’s brother, Bryan, was getting a ride home from college. It was important that Reagan come too. “I’ve made her a reservation on the four o’clock bus out of Bloomington. Can you see that she gets there?”