“Hi.” She threw him a confident smile. “We’ve never really met. My name’s Lori Callahan.”
He held out his hand. “Luke Baxter.”
“Nice to meet you.” She looked up at him and gave his hand a quick, friendly shake. Something about her was cultured and attractive in a brainy sort of way. “Listen,” she said, “I have an idea.”
“Okay.” Luke wasn’t completely listening. He wanted to get through his classes and go home so he could try Reagan again.
“Let’s do the assignment together. You know, the one where we argue for or against God.” She grinned. “My dad’s a civil-liberties attorney. His peers think he’s a little one-sided.” She winked. “But he has more proof against God than anyone I know.”
They were outside now, and Luke stopped in the middle of a stream of people. He stared at her. Proof against God? Who was this girl? And why was she suddenly interested in him? He blinked. She was practically reading his mind.
“Umm . . .” He started walking again and shrugged. “Why not?”
“Good.” She tucked a small piece of paper into the pocket of his backpack. “Here’s my phone number. Give me a call so we can get together.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, Luke . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve wanted to talk to you since the first day of class.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I wanted to invite you to one of our meetings.”
Luke blinked. What was he doing here? He didn’t even know the girl. “What meeting?”
“Indiana Freethinking Alliance.” She shrugged, and something shy flashed in her green eyes. It made her more attractive than before. “You know, dedicated to the promotion of free thought, skepticism, secularism, nontheism, and humanism.” She rolled her eyes and grinned, “That’s our mantra, anyway.”
“Right.” What in the world was she talking about? Luke gave a shallow laugh. “Sure.”
“So, do you want to?”
“What?”
“Come to a meeting.” She gave a playful kick against the toe of his tennis shoe.
“Uh, maybe sometime. Not this week, okay?”
“Okay.” She hesitated. “Call me about the assignment.”
“Right.” He took a few steps backward. “See ya.”
She waved and headed in the opposite direction. Luke made his way across campus to his next class, wondering the whole while about the girl and her certainty that between her and her father they could come up with enough evidence to disprove the existence of God.
Why had she chosen him, of all people?
There he was, praying for things to work out with Reagan, begging God for proof he was even there at all. And not two seconds later, he’d been approached by a girl who clearly was everything Reagan was not.
Luke huffed as he strode into his next class. Figures. The girl was just the type of answer his prayers had been reaping these days. The kind that would work well as evidence in his communications assignment.
Not the evidence everyone who knew Luke would expect him to find—in support of God.
But rather evidence against him.
* * *
Hope was getting harder to hold on to.
Six days had passed since the terrorist attacks, and Landon’s existence had become almost mechanical: eat, sleep, work at Ground Zero. Occasionally he thought about Ashley. But somehow everything that had happened before his arrival in New York felt like something from a dream—as if debris and soot and death were the only reality anymore.
Twice he had picked up the hotel phone to call her, but what would he say? His emotions were buried as deep as the twin towers victims.
By now, the rescue workers had settled into a numbing routine, an assembly line of sorts, in which a truck-size shovel of dirt would be dumped at the feet of the supervising workers and then sifted, one bucketful at a time. As long as no victim remains were found, the bucket would be passed down the line to a waiting dump truck, emptied, and passed back to the top of the line. Bucket after bucket after bucket. When the truck was full, it would move off toward the appropriate waste station, and another truck would take its place.
If victims or partial victims were found, however . . .
“We’ve got a body!” a voice shouted from the front of the line.
Landon looked up, weary. His throat was coated with a silty, strange-tasting ash, ash that all of them knew was more than crushed cement and debris. It was also human remains. He coughed and stared at the place where the action had stopped.
Two of the morgue workers approached with a body bag and a handheld stretcher. Landon watched as a small part—a hand or a foot—was placed inside the bag. A chaplain stepped in and placed his fingers on the stretcher. All the way down the line, hats were removed, heads bowed.
Landon was too far away to hear the prayer. But when it was over, the bag was placed on the stretcher and carried to a makeshift morgue set up in the back of a refrigerated truck.
The moment the body part was properly removed, the digging and sifting and bucket-passing began again. The same way it had for days now, hour after hour after hour.
Rarely did they find an entire body. When they did, it was usually a firefighter. The men had talked about this over coffee and sandwiches and agreed that the protective gear had helped preserve their bodies from the heat. Also, many of them had been in the stairwells, which meant they’d had less chance of being crushed between floors.
So far, however, there was no sign of Jalen.
Regardless of the time that had passed, not one of the workers or volunteers was willing to call this anything less than a rescue effort. They talked of the possibility of people’s being trapped alive, of air pockets and cavities where victims could live for weeks. Especially since it had rained. Water might have trickled into areas where people were waiting for rescue. The moisture could have filled up small crevices and pockets and provided the victims with something to drink, a way to survive.
But privately Landon found such speculations hard to believe. How could any of them think there would be survivors in the smoldering ruins? The truth was something none of them wanted to admit: They were no longer working a rescue.
They were working a recovery.
Oh, the pace was still quick and frenzied—as though every minute counted and somewhere, somehow, they would find people alive. But with each passing hour the reality set in until now, nearly a week after the attacks, Landon had given up all hope of finding anyone alive, even Jalen.
Not that it mattered.
Dead or alive, Jalen and the others deserved to be found. In fact, when a firefighter’s or police officer’s body was found, the ceremony atop the rubble changed slightly. The body bag was placed on a stretcher as always, but then it would be draped with an American flag—a fitting tribute.
“Hey.” The worker next to Landon elbowed him. “How long you think a man could live trapped down there? Say, if he had air and water?”
Landon glanced over his shoulder. The man beside him was a retired firefighter with thirty years’ experience. Landon had chatted with him earlier that day. His name was Chuck and, like most of them, he’d watched the attacks and the collapse of the towers on television. But Chuck’s two sons, young fathers in their twenties, had both been with FDNY. Both were buried in the pile somewhere.
Landon stared at the mountain of rubble in front of them. The man’s sons were dead, like every one of the other four hundred missing firefighters.
“Two weeks.” Landon bit his lip, his tone confident. “Three maybe.”
Chuck sniffed and lowered his brow. He gave a quick nod of his head. “That’s what I’m thinking. Three weeks.”
Landon had worked alongside Chuck for six hours straight, and he had no doubt the droplets running down the man’s face were more than sweat.
God give him strength. Give us all strength.
I will never leave you, never forsake you.
Remembering God here, in the midst of utter death and despair, was like grabbing a mouthful of sweet, fresh air.
But it was something that happened less often with each passing day.
“Wait a minute. Hold up!” A voice from the front barked the command, and the rescue workers froze, giving him their complete attention.
“We’ve got a flag.” The man took three steps up the pile of debris and motioned to the men behind him in line. “I need some help.”
Four uniformed firefighters joined him, and together they began freeing the American flag from the rubble. It was on a pole, probably one of those that had stood in the indoor courtyard area near the top of the World Trade Center. Several flags had been found since the rescue effort began, and each one had spurred the men to work harder, faster than before.
Using great care, the firefighters tossed chunks of cement and broken beams off the flag until they were able to raise it from the debris. Then, without saying a word, the men carried it up a side of the towering pile of twisted steel and cement slabs and anchored it deep in the ash. A hush fell over the crowd as the tattered flag unfurled over the wreckage of the twin towers. People as far as a hundred yards away removed their hats and stood to watch.
Then, above the sound of heavy equipment and diesel trucks, a song broke out along the line of rescue workers.
“God bless America . . .”
It started low and grew as more voices joined in. Landon felt the sting of tears as they reached the last line—“. . . my home, sweet home!”—and then began it again. Still singing, they resumed the bucket brigade. Despite the weariness of working so many days straight, despite the enormous losses they all had suffered, despite throats raw from breathing soot and smoke and ash all day—despite everything, they sang. And in that quiet place in Landon’s soul, the place he prayed would keep him sane, Landon begged God to do just that. To bless America and those who loved her.
Even if nothing would ever be what it had been before September 11.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the first time in years, Ashley felt urgent about life.
In light of the attacks on America, she had no time to waste fearing what people thought of her, worrying about how she’d disappointed them. She had a son to love, a family to care for, a brother who no longer hated her. A God who maybe, just maybe, wasn’t finished with her yet.
And a houseful of residents at Sunset Hills who were desperate for someone to care about them.
The files Ashley had compiled on Irvel and the others were almost complete. Ashley had read more Internet articles on the Past-Present approach to helping Alzheimer’s patients, and what she read made sense to her.
The idea was to find that place in time and memory where each Alzheimer’s patient was most comfortable, then to allow as much interaction as possible to be keyed around that time period. This might mean redecorating a room, avoiding certain topics or allowing others—whatever helped the patients feel happier, more at peace. According to some of the most recent research, when patients felt at ease, they were more likely to remember the important things they’d forgotten—the people and places and pictures that had once meant the world to them.
Ashley was convinced that at least some of the residents at Sunset Hills could benefit from the Past-Present ideas. The first step toward implementing them was to learn as much as possible about the patients’ pasts. Ashley had done that. Now it was time to put some of her information into action.
She started with Edith, who still screamed every morning when she reached the bathroom. For some time, Ashley had taken special note of Edith’s demeanor, her attitude as she made her way from the kitchen table to the bathroom. The woman was distant and sometimes confused, depending on whether or not she’d struggled over breakfast. But there was nothing fearful in her expression, no sign that Edith was being pursued by a witch—not until she reached the bathroom.
On the mornings that Belinda was there, she would take a break from the office work, give Edith a sedative, bathe her, and set her in her chair. That way the poor old woman sleepwalked through the mornings and avoided screaming altogether.
But Ashley hated the idea of medicating Edith. There had to be another way. So when Belinda announced she’d be gone all week for a workshop, Ashley knew the time had come to do some experimenting.
The first two mornings, she watched as Edith meandered to the bathroom. The minute the screaming began, Ashley was at her side.
Each time, Edith looked the same—ramrod straight, hands balled into tight fists, eyes squeezed shut, her mouth a perfect circle. “A witch! It’s a witch! Help me. Someone help!” Then she would scream as loud and shrill and terrifying a scream as Ashley had ever heard. It would take her thirty minutes or more to coax Edith out of the bathroom and into her chair, to convince her the witch wasn’t after her, and to stop the screams.
It was an exercise in frustration, and Ashley read Edith’s file several times through, searching for an explanation for her behavior and a clue to stopping it.
On the third day, Ashley tried something else. After breakfast, when Irvel was enjoying her peppermint tea and Helen was convinced everyone in the room had been checked, Edith stood and began shuffling toward the bathroom. This time Ashley stayed close behind her, near the old woman’s elbow. They rounded the corner into the bathroom together just as Edith caught sight of the mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink. For a split second, Edith stared at her own image in horrified silence. Then she shut her eyes and began to scream.
Ashley stared at Edith and then at the mirror. Realization dawned immediately. The woman was afraid of her own reflection!
Of course! It all made sense. Edith had been a beauty queen, a woman whose only certainty in life had been her own image. Alzheimer’s must have caused her brain to activate a safety mechanism, just as the Internet articles claimed.
In Edith’s case, the safety mechanism was the belief that somehow she still had her beauty. In her mind, she was not an aging Alzheimer’s patient waiting to die in an adult care home. She was young and vibrant, living out her days in an imaginary place where she was still beautiful—a place where the ravages of time had not taken their toll on her fair skin and chestnut hair, back when her eyes didn’t sag and her chin was still firm.
Dear sweet Edith. She wasn’t seeing a witch in the bathroom. She was seeing her own reflection, the person she had become.
Ashley helped the woman through the routine of taking fearful small steps toward her recliner, helped her calm down and get comfortable. Then, without hesitating, she went to the linen closet and found an old sheet.
“Dear,” Irvel called from the dining room, “are we having tea?”
“Just a minute, Irvel. I’ll be right there.”
It was bath time, but Ashley had something to do first. She carried the sheet to Edith’s bathroom and covered the mirror, tucking the edges of the sheet around the edges of the cabinet so it wouldn’t fall off.
* * *
The next morning when Edith headed toward the shower, Ashley again fell in quietly behind her.
“She’s already been checked.” Helen waved a hand at Ashley.
Without saying a word, Ashley turned and nodded at Helen. Then she held up a single finger and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”
Edith rounded the corner as usual, entered the bathroom, and stared at the covered mirror. Then she turned to Ashley and lowered her brow. “Did I eat my eggs today?”
Ashley wanted to raise a fist in the air and shout for joy. She’d done it! She’d solved the mystery! As long as Edith wasn’t forced to look at her own image, she could go on believing age had never h
appened to her, go on existing in the remembered comfort of her beauty—without ever again being afraid of a witch.
After lunch Ashley scribbled details about the incident in Edith’s folder, along with this bit of advice: Keep Edith away from mirrors.
Belinda wouldn’t be returning for half a week, and Ashley intended to make the most of it. Early that afternoon Helen’s daughter, Sue Brown, appeared at the front door. Ashley was fairly certain that Helen was living in the 1960s, back when Sue was a teenager and the two of them had spent most of their free time together, before Sue had married and moved away and everything about Helen’s life had slid slowly downhill.
Ashley met Sue in the entryway and whisked her off to a quiet spot in the dining room. They sat down and turned their chairs toward each other.
“I have an idea.” Ashley opened Helen’s file and spread it on the table. “I’ve been thinking about your mother’s past, the things you’ve told me, the pictures she keeps in her dresser drawer.”
“Yes, I wanted to thank you for that.” Sue looked at the file. “No one’s ever asked about Mom’s past.”
“Well . . .” Ashley motioned to the file. “New research says if you find out about a patient’s history, it may be possible to figure out where they’re stuck—what time period in their life.” She looked at Sue again. “Does that make sense?”
“I guess.” The woman settled back in her chair and set her purse on the floor.
“Apparently some Alzheimer’s patients actually do better if you deal with them as though they’re right.” Ashley felt her body tense, certain of the angry response that was coming. “In other words, go along with what they’re thinking. React as if it really were, say, 1965, or whatever time frame they feel comfortable with.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Relief made some of the lines on Sue’s face disappear. “How can I help?”
Ashley stared at her. How could she help? That wasn’t the response Ashley was expecting. Belinda had said the family members wanted their loved ones kept in the here and now. But if this was Sue’s reaction . . .
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