The Tuesday Morning Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Sure.” Clay had let silence fill in the gaps of their conversation. Laura understood. What could he say? If Eric was wandering the streets of New York City or somehow holed up somewhere unconscious, how would they ever know?

  It wasn't until that morning—a week after the attacks—that Clay arrived with an idea. He waited until Josh was off to school, then he poured coffee for the two of them and sat across from Laura at the dining room table. After a long moment, he met her eyes and said simply, “We need to go to New York.”

  Laura stared at him, and almost in slow motion, she set her coffee cup back on the table. “Why?”

  “To look for him.”

  A pit formed in her stomach. She stood and made her way to the window. Their backyard was one of her favorite places. The manicured grass and sparkling pool always relaxed her. But nothing could relax her now, not in light of Clay's statement. “We've called the hospitals every day.” She glanced at Clay over her shoulder. “He isn't there.”

  “No … but he could be somewhere else. Maybe at someone's house or at a homeless shelter. Something.”

  Clay folded his hands on the table, and Laura gazed back out the window. She heard Clay's chair slide across the floor and felt him come up alongside her a few minutes later.

  “I hate seeing you like this, Laura.” His right shoulder barely brushed against her left one, and his voice was a whisper. “Not knowing whether you should grieve Eric's death or wait for him to come home.”

  Laura let her chin fall to her chest. The sorrow was back, a sorrow that blocked her throat and made speaking impossible.

  “We have to go.”

  From the corner of her eye Laura saw him clench his teeth. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “He's my brother, Laura.”

  Laura kept her gaze straight ahead, seeing visions of Josh and his friends playing in the pool. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't picture one poolside memory that included Eric. He didn't swim with Josh or his friends or even with her. He never had. She thought about what Clay had said. It was something they could've talked about in counseling, if only they could somehow find him. “What …” She turned and faced him. “What would we do once we got there?”

  He raised his left arm and leaned it against the window. “Make flyers and post them near the hospital—same thing everyone else is doing.”

  Laura felt a hundred years old. She was dying to believe something good might come from Clay's plan, but the idea seemed virtually hopeless. She crossed her arms and leaned against her husband's brother, letting her head fall on his shoulder. She pictured herself boarding a plane with Clay, flying to New York City, and posting flyers of Eric on empty walls and park benches. What would it prove? She turned and leaned her back against the window so she was facing Clay. “Then what?”

  Clay studied her, and a layer of tears sprang up across his eyes. “We check the missions, the homeless shelters. Talk to police and fire officials, show his picture to everyone. Then we come home and wait.”

  The longer they talked about the idea, the more sense it made to her. Nothing good could come from sitting at home in Los Angeles wondering about Eric. If he was—by some strange miracle—still alive, there was only one way to find out, and that was to follow Clay's plan and go to New York City.

  Clay still had vacation time, and by two that afternoon, Laura had booked them a flight out for the next morning. Someone at church had been more than willing to take care of Josh, and that night she explained the trip to her son.

  “Uncle Clay and I are going to go to New York for a few days.”

  Josh was lying in bed, his face pale against his dark hair. “To find Daddy?”

  “To try.” Laura soothed the boy's bangs off his forehead. “If he's hurt or sick, he might not know who he is. The only way to find out is to look for him.”

  For a long while Josh lay there, unmoving, his eyes dry. Then he reached up and placed his fingers over hers. “Mom … can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, honey.” Being alone like this with Josh made Laura realize how different life had been since the terrorist attacks. Normally, she and Josh spent lots of time together, reading or talking about his day. Sometimes playing Scrabble or crazy eights. But in the past week they'd barely spoken.

  Josh winced. “Promise you won't be mad?”

  “Mad? Honey, nothing you could ask would make me angry with you. Just say it … whatever's on your heart, I want to know.”

  “If Daddy's not in New York City somewhere, that means he's dead, right?”

  The question was so blunt it nearly took Laura's breath away. But now—a week after the collapse of the World Trade Center—the idea that Eric might be dead was less shocking than it had been at first. Laura swallowed and kept her eyes on Josh's. “Yes. That's right, honey. If he isn't in New York somewhere, he's probably dead.”

  “Okay, then …” The child drew in an exaggerated breath and sat up, meeting her gaze straight on. He was more nervous than Laura had ever seen him. He worked his mouth for a moment, swallowing until he found his voice. “If you don't find him, can Uncle Clay be my dad?”

  Her son's words hit her full force and knocked her into a riptide of pain until she thought she would drown from the lack of air. Finally, slowly, a stream of oxygen found its way in through her nostrils, and she put her arms around Josh and held him close. How had Eric not seen what his long hours at work were doing to their son? The boy neither knew nor loved his father. In fact, Eric hadn't lost just a daughter when their baby died all those years ago.

  He'd lost a son too.

  She didn't want to cry, didn't want the boy to think he'd done something wrong by voicing his heart. But she couldn't speak, either.

  “Mom?” Josh's voice was muffled against her shoulder, and he pulled back, searching her eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, son. It … it was a fair question.” In the hidden places of Laura's soul, she was still gasping for breath. It was all she could do to appear normal for Josh.

  “So …” The child angled his head and picked at a ball of fuzz on his bedspread. “Can he?”

  “Well …” God, calm me down … give me the words. “Uncle Clay will always be your uncle, Josh … not your father. That's how God made it.”

  “Oh.” Her son's face fell, and his chin dropped closer to his pajama top. “Okay.” His head stayed down, but his eyes lifted just enough to see her. “Can I pretend he's my dad, then? I mean, if you don't find Daddy in New York?”

  What could she say? She clasped Josh's hands in hers and nodded. “Uncle Clay loves you very much, buddy. You can pretend whatever you'd like.”

  “God won't be mad at me?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “And you, either?”

  Her heart was breaking, but she managed a smile. She leaned forward and kissed Josh on his nose, hugging him once more before drawing back. “The fact that you love your uncle will never make me mad, honey. Even if you pretend he's your dad.”

  Clay picked Laura up at her house the next morning and drove the two of them to the Burbank Airport. He'd stayed up late the night before and used a photo of Eric from the previous summer to make a flyer. The picture showed Eric standing behind a podium at a business dinner. Eric had given a speech that night, and someone from Koppel and Grant had snapped the picture. Eric had found it in his box at work a few weeks later and brought it home.

  The flyer was simple, Eric's name and description, the fact that he'd been working on the sixty-fourth floor of the south tower at the time of the attacks, and three phone numbers for people to call if they knew anything of his whereabouts. Laura had a hundred copies in her carry-on bag.

  Air travel had resumed in limited amounts, and the two of them had to pass through additional security stations before boarding the plane, but still they were early. They stored their bags in the overhead compartments and took their seats, Clay against the window and Laura on the aisle.

  “I'm gl
ad we're going.” Laura adjusted her seat belt and glanced out the window. “I'd always wonder otherwise.”

  “Yeah.” Clay couldn't bring himself to smile. “Me too.”

  They fell silent, and Clay turned to the window. Were they really on their way to New York? To look for Eric? A week had passed, and the idea that Eric was gone was no more real today than it had been when the attacks first happened. It wasn't just for Laura that he was going to Manhattan. It was for himself. Whenever Clay needed to talk, all he had to do was find Eric. Because as far back as he could remember, he and Eric had been honest with each other.

  Until the problems in Eric's marriage had started.

  By going to New York, there was a chance that just maybe he might find his big brother once more. And then he could look in his eyes and ask him why? Why hadn't he said anything about his troubles at home, and how could he have put his work ahead of Laura and Josh for all those years? Laura, who had wanted only to love him. Maybe if he found Eric the two of them could talk about everything Eric hadn't said and done, and maybe … just maybe everything would go back to how it was before.

  For all of them.

  Clay sat back in his seat and willed his nerves to settle down. He was a police officer who'd faced volatile situations with armed drug dealers or crazed gang members. But as the plane began to taxi down the runway, the fear that sliced through him was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Not because he was afraid to fly. But because he was afraid of what they would find when they touched down in New York City. Afraid that Eric wouldn't be at a homeless shelter or lying in some makeshift evacuation center near Ground Zero. But that he'd be buried in the midst of it.

  Clay blinked and exhaled slowly. Calm … be calm for Laura. The baggage handlers were heaving luggage into the belly of the plane, and Clay closed his eyes and thought about the magnet on his refrigerator door. Lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. The Scripture trickled across his soul like a stream in the desert, and Clay's heart breathed with gratefulness. The Lord hadn't abandoned him, despite his fears.

  “Clay?” Laura touched his hand, and he twisted in his seat so he could see her. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry. I …” He gripped his knees and met her gaze. “I was thinking.”

  “Let's pray, okay?” Her eyes were liquid green, filled with a kind of hope and anticipation that were illogical and maybe even downright crazy.

  Still, there was a chance.

  One they definitely wouldn't find without God's help. He took her hand and bowed his head near hers. “Lord, give us safety as we travel, safety and peace. Calm the fears in both our hearts and guide us every step of the way in New York City.” He paused just as the plane lifted off. “And please, help us find my brother.”

  The next few days passed in a blur of taping posters to various walls and talking with officials at hospitals and homeless shelters. By Monday morning Laura was exhausted and ready to go home. The sights and sounds of a crippled Manhattan were more than she could bear. She and Clay had taken adjoining rooms at the Marriott, but at night when they returned from a day of walking the streets of the city, Clay would spread out on the bed adjacent to Laura's and let her talk. For the most part their conversations involved strategy. Where to put the posters, who to talk to, where else to check. In the end, no matter how much they planned, the results had been the same each day.

  “I'm sorry, we haven't seen him.”

  “No, he isn't here—every one of our patients is accounted for.”

  “Nope, he's not familiar.”

  At one point they'd even walked the halls of Mount Sinai Medical Center in the hopes of finding Eric lying somewhere, forgotten and unidentified. But every patient had a name, and at least one visitor. None were waiting for a family member to show up and identify them.

  Now—with the weekend behind them, Laura had convinced Clay they needed to get as close to Ground Zero as possible. They were allowed past a few checkpoints, simply because they flashed a copy of their flyer and asked for permission to post it closer to the rubble pile.

  They were a block away from the collapsed towers when a police officer stopped them, came up to the back of the cab, and moved his hand in a turning motion. “No one's allowed past this point … only official personnel in this area, you'll have to turn around.”

  Laura rolled down the window and felt her heart skip a beat. “My husband was in the south tower.” Laura peered at the officer from the back of the cab and showed him the flyer with Eric's picture. “We're here from Los Angeles. Please … can we get a little closer?”

  “No one goes past this point.” The man anchored his hands on his hips and looked at Laura. His eyes were a dark, haunting reflection of all he must've seen since September 11. “No one but official personnel.”

  Clay leaned over Laura's legs and looked at the man. “I'm a police officer from Los Angeles.” He pointed to the flyer. “The missing guy's my brother. Are you sure we can't get closer?”

  The officer's face softened some, but he shook his head. “Look … it's been nearly two weeks since those buildings fell.” He pointed down the street to a line of dump trucks slowly heading up a hill of debris. Loud machinery sounded in the background, and the officer's voice could barely be heard over the noise. “If your brother's in there, believe me—you don't want to find him.”

  “We won't stay.” Clay was persistent. “If we could post a few flyers, at least we'd feel like we did our best.”

  For a moment the officer only looked at them, his eyes moving from Clay to Laura, and back to Clay again. His mouth hung open just enough to show his astonishment. “Can I be straight with you?”

  “Definitely.” Clay's answer was quick.

  For a split moment Laura considered covering her ears. She didn't want straight talk this close to Ground Zero; she wanted Eric.

  “I don't care what they're calling this in the newspapers, but it's not a rescue effort.” He pressed his lips together, and though his eyes stayed dry, his chin quivered some. “What's going on in there is a recovery. And they'll be darn lucky if they recover even a few hundred bodies.” He shook his head. “It's that bad.”

  The cab driver shot them a look over his shoulder. “Meter's running.”

  Laura ignored the driver and locked eyes with the officer. “So we're wasting our time?” Clay was still stretched out over her knees, peering out the window. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.” He sniffed hard and stared in the direction of Ground Zero. “Everyone wants to believe that their person is missing, but I'll tell you something, lady. There just aren't any missing persons. The patients at every hospital have been identified, and the homeless shelters have no victims.” He tossed his hands in the air and met her eyes once more. “It's too late for any of that. Your husband ain't missing, lady. He's dead. Go back to LA and have a service for him. Then find a way like the rest of us to get on with life.” The officer glanced at Clay and back at her. “I'm sorry.”

  He stepped away, turned around, and yelled something to an officer across the street. Then he walked beyond Laura and Clay and headed for the driver of the cab behind them. “No one's allowed past this point,” he yelled. “Only official personnel beyond this …”

  Clay sat up and stared straight ahead. Then he dug his elbows into his knees and rested his head in his hands. Laura watched him, and something inside her began to die, something she couldn't quite peg. Through every day, every hour, since September 11, Clay had been strong for her, positive, encouraging. Even when they'd considered the worst possible scenario—that Eric might never come home—he'd been cautiously optimistic.

  But not now.

  Laura closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the officer's words. Your husband ain't missing, lady. He's dead …

  If it was true, she couldn't break down here, not parked in lower Manhattan with an anxious cab driver casting glances at her from the fron
t seat. She sucked in a quick breath and put her hand on Clay's knee. “Clay …”

  After a few seconds he looked at her. His watery eyes told her they were thinking the same thing. It was over … the search, the second chance, the hope that Eric would ever come home. All of it was over. She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “To the Marriott, please.”

  Their efforts in New York City were finished. The police officer's blunt words had told them all they needed to know. It was time to go home, have a service for Eric, and get on with living.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SEPTEMBER 25, 2001

  The day of reckoning arrived on Tuesday, September 25, two weeks after the terrorist attacks. That morning Jamie was in Jake's hospital room, sitting by his side, when Dr. Cleary walked in and gave them a crooked smile.

  “Today's the day.” He planted himself near the doorway and studied Jake. “How're you feeling?”

  “Ready.” Jake sat up straighter in bed and stretched his arms forward. “I was ready yesterday.”

  Much of the bandaging had been removed from Jake's cheeks and head, and the shock of seeing his burned face was wearing off. Beneath the red and blistered skin, he was still Jake Bryan, the only man she'd ever loved. And he'd heal eventually. There'd be a few light scars, but otherwise it was only a matter of time before he looked more like her husband and less like an accident victim.

  With the bandages off, Jake could talk easier than before. His voice was still a bit raspy, but from everything he'd told Jamie, he was feeling well enough to go home.

  “Yesterday your white count was still a little high.” The doctor crossed the room and found Jake's chart at the end of his bed. “Today's numbers are better.”

  An hour passed while Dr. Cleary handled Jake's release papers, and sometime around ten o'clock that morning, Jake fell asleep. Jamie watched, awed at how quickly he was making a comeback.

  A physical comeback, anyway.

  He still didn't remember anything more than Sierra, but if his body was healing, Jamie could only hope that very soon his mind would, also.