All We Have Left

by Wendy Mills

  For Zack and Gavin

  and all the children who were too young

  to remember the day the world changed

  Also by Wendy Mills

  Positively Beautiful

  Contents

  2001: Alia

  2016: Jesse

  Chapter One: Alia

  Chapter Two: Jesse

  Chapter Three: Alia

  Chapter Four: Jesse

  Chapter Five: Alia

  Chapter Six: Jesse

  Chapter Seven: Alia

  Chapter Eight: Jesse

  Chapter Nine: Alia

  Chapter Ten: Jesse

  Chapter Eleven: Alia

  Chapter Twelve: Jesse

  Chapter Thirteen: Alia

  Chapter Fourteen: Jesse

  Chapter Fifteen: Alia

  Chapter Sixteen: Jesse

  Chapter Seventeen: Alia

  Chapter Eighteen: Jesse

  Chapter Nineteen: Alia

  Chapter Twenty: Jesse

  Chapter Twenty-One: Alia

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Jesse

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Alia

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Jesse

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Alia

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Jesse

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Alia

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jesse

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Alia

  Chapter Thirty: Jesse

  Chapter Thirty-One: Alia

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Jesse

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Alia

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Jesse

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Alia

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Jesse

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Alia

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jesse

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Alia

  Chapter Forty: Jesse

  Chapter Forty-One: Alia

  Chapter Forty-Two: Jesse

  Chapter Forty-Three: Alia

  Chapter Forty-Four: Jesse

  Chapter Forty-Five: Alia

  Chapter Forty-Six: Jesse

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Alia

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Jesse

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Alia

  Chapter Fifty: Jesse

  Chapter Fifty-One: Alia

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Jesse

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Alia

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Jesse

  Chapter Fifty-Five: Alia

  Chapter Fifty-Six: Jesse

  Chapter Fifty-Seven: Jesse

  Chapter Fifty-Eight: Jesse

  Chapter Fifty-Nine: Alia

  Chapter Sixty: Jesse

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  2001

  Alia

  Travis draws my face into his chest as the smoke engulfs us.

  The other tower fell, it fell straight down like a waterfall of concrete and steel, and, oh God, please help me, because is this one going to fall too?

  Travis tightens his arms around me, shielding me as parts of the ceiling fall. It doesn’t feel like it will ever end, and I hold on to him with all my strength.

  Eventually the terrible roaring, clanking noises subside, and Travis unwinds his arms. I sit up, coughing and spitting. The smoke has begun to clear, and I can make out the corner of the desk, and then the chair, and then bookcases farther away as the smoke continues to spiral out the window. I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands, and Travis coughs, his forehead on his knees.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” I keep saying, but I’m not sure if I’m saying it out loud or if it’s in my head. I feel numb, and somehow unattached from myself, as if my mind has floated free like a balloon.

  There’s Alia in her favorite yellow shirt, sitting next to a boy with mismatched eyes who reaches for her hand because she looks like she is going to shake apart, just fall into a million pieces.

  The smoke above us swirls slowly out the broken windows. We are hundreds of feet in the air, and as much as I wish I could just fly out the window, I’m not a superhero, and the only way I’m going to survive is to get up and walk down hundreds of steps.

  “Gramps always used to say that they would never fall,” Travis says, but he’s not really talking to me.

  I remember when I was a kid writing notes to God and hiding them around the house, little things like Please let Nenek get better soon and If it’s your will, I would like those pink shoes with sequins for Eid. If I could, I would write a thousand, a million, notes to God right now saying, Please, please, God, let us get out of this office alive, and hide them in drawers, under the mouse pad, inside the pages of the splashy brochure flapping wildly on the desk.

  Travis starts crawling across the floor, pulling me with him. He is leaving tracks of blood on the floor, and when I glance down at my hands, I see my palms are speckled with glass. I don’t feel any pain.

  “We need to get out,” Travis says. “If the other tower fell, this one could too.”

  I crawl faster, trying to keep my head below the smoke, but it’s still so thick that I have to stop every couple of seconds to cough. Travis reaches up to a desk and grabs a vase. He yanks out the flowers and, before I can protest, puts a hand to my hijab.

  “What—? No!” I grab the ends of the scarf and clutch it to my head.

  “You need to wrap it around your face so you can breathe,” he says hoarsely.

  I shake my head back and forth, tears spilling down my cheeks.

  It seems forever ago that I put it on, even though it was only a few hours ago. I’d give anything to go back to earlier this morning when my biggest worry was what to wear, before planes started crashing into towers, and entire buildings dropped out of the sky.

  Without speaking, Travis lets go of the scarf and dumps the water at the bottom of the vase over the front of my shirt.

  “Pull it up over your face, then,” he says, his voice husky with smoke. “Come on. We’re going to get out of here alive, okay? We’re going to make it.”

  2016

  Jesse

  The car comes closer, and I dig my feet and fingers into the crumbling brick wall and freeze. A stupid voice in my head whispers, If you don’t move, they can’t see you.

  The car continues down the road, and, holy crap, maybe Nick is right. Maybe we are invisible. People see what they want to see, and it’s not a girl hanging on the side of a building at two in the morning.

  “Jesse, you need to hurry!” Nick’s standing in the alley below me, his hood pulled over his dark hair as he stares up at me.

  “I told you she was all talk,” Hailey says. “She’s chickening out. I told you she would.”

  I look down at the two of them and have the almost uncontrollable urge to squawk like a chicken, but I know it’s just nerves.

  I pull out the first spray paint can. My fingers are so cold I can barely hold it. It may be the end of March, almost spring, but tonight it still feels like the cold, dead middle of winter.

  I push my feet into cracks between the bricks, take a deep breath, and sweep the paint can down the wall. The smell of paint clouds the air around me.

  I finish the first letter, N, and it’s big and bubbly, the way Nick does it. Stretching one foot over to the right to find another foothold, I start on the next letter. My arm is already shaking, but this one’s easier, and soon I have the O. As I move over for the next letter, my rope jerks, and I immediately grab for the wall, the paint can falling to the pavement with a loud clatter.

  I clutch at the bricks, feeling their coldness seep into my numb fingers. A dog yaps, but no one comes running outside yelling, Hey, what are you doing up there? Moving slowly, I look up and see that one of the carabiners making up my anchor is dangling loose.

  “You can do it,” Nick whispers, and when I look down at him, I see the pr
omise in his eyes from late last night when I’d shown up crying at his house: No matter what, I won’t leave you hanging. Get it? Hanging? He’d laughed, and I’d felt hurt, because I needed him to be serious. He’d pulled me in for a hard kiss and said, “I won’t leave you. Ever.” I’d been so upset with Nick after what had happened after the pep rally, but at that moment he was the only one who understood the anger that was burning me from the inside out.

  Gingerly, I tug on the rope, but the other two anchor points seem to be holding. I move over for the next letter.

  By the time I’ve worked my way to the corner of the building, I’ve dropped two empty cans of paint into my backpack and I’m on the last letter. I didn’t judge my wall canvas accurately so my letters are like a kindergartener’s first attempt at writing, lopsided and all squished up at the end of the page.

  I do the last stroke on the G, grab the rope, and lean back away from the wall so I can see the whole tag.

  NOTHING

  It’s just a word, but it’s our name, mine and Nick’s, and Dave’s, and even Hailey’s. It’s what we have painted on the side of dozens of buildings across town in the last six weeks. The word feels exactly right, like it comes from that place squashed down at the very core of me, where all the unsayable things are written in invisible ink on a crumpled sheet of my heart.

  The streetlight begins fizzing with snow, and I shiver as I pull myself back to the wall, and grab a handhold.

  “What about the rest?” Nick calls.

  I shake the can, and then, quickly, without thinking about it too much, I write the next words just the way we talked about. They aren’t bubbly, and pretty, but I’m running out of time. I try not to think too much as I paint the hard-edged letters, but I can’t help it. This is about me, my father, 9/11, my dead brother, all that hurt and anger spilling out of me onto the wall. It feels good and bad at the same time, like screaming until you’re hoarse inside a stadium of empty seats.

  I lean back again to see what I’ve written.

  Terrorists go home

  “Cops!” Dave yells from where he’s standing at the road as lookout. They’ve stepped up patrols lately. Looking for us. For us.

  “Come on, Jesse!” Nick yells.

  I drop the paint can and let the rope through the belay device, grabbing at it to control my descent as the blue police lights wash over me in a skittering spray of light.

  Even as I slide toward the ground, I see a police officer is already running toward me, and I know I’m not going to make it.

  September 11, 2001

  Events at the World Trade Center

  8:46 a.m. American Airlines Flight 11 hits the north tower

  9:03 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175 hits the south tower

  9:59 a.m. The south tower collapses

  10:28 a.m. The north tower collapses

  Chapter One

  Alia

  I wake that morning thinking about what to wear, the taste of candied dreams lingering even after I open my eyes. I slide out of bed and grab my clothes, accidentally kicking a stack of comics piled beside my desk, sending Elektra and Batgirl skidding across the floor.

  I freeze, stuck with one leg in my pants. The ice maker thumps, and I can hear the gentle whir of the fan that Ridwan aims at his face while he’s sleeping, but nothing else.

  Moving carefully, I slip my other leg into my pants and tie the drawstring at my waist. I go quietly toward the door and open it a crack, and then slap the light switch off as light pours out. I hurry to the bathroom, twisting my crazy-curly hair up into a makeshift bun to keep it from attacking my face, trying to be as quiet as possible. When I’ve finished, my skin tingling and damp, I go out into the living room, letting my eyes adjust to the dull, gray light trickling through the front windows. It’s almost dawn, and I need to hurry.

  I wind my way through the furniture to the front door, patting my pocket to make sure I have my key. Carefully, I unlock the deadbolt and slip out into the carpeted hall, shutting the door softly behind me.

  I see the light through the window at the end of the hall begin to brighten, and I start to jog, feeling the smooth pull of my muscles. My head is full of messy, jumbled thoughts, and I wish so badly that yesterday had not happened, but that wish has never come true for me or anyone. Not even Lia with all her superhero powers can help me change what happened. But now everything is messed up, and I don’t know how to make it right.

  I reach the door at the end of the hall and open it. Not caring about the noise now, I let it slam shut behind me and race up four flights of stairs, feeling the pleasant burn in my thigh muscles. I reach the top and fumble for my keys and then step through the roof door into the quiet, luminous dawn.

  I stand for a moment, just breathing. Rainwater puddles under my feet, and the air feels cool and clean. There were storms yesterday, but today the sky is brightening into a soft blue and gold, decorated with just a few high lacy wisps of clouds. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

  Traffic rumbles gently on the street below, and a flock of swallows dart by in absolute silence, as if they too are in awe of the perfectness of the morning. A waft of wind brings the smell of the river, wet and salty, and I inhale all of it, the river, the faint smell of exhaust, the honey-gold air. I walk across the pebbly concrete and stand near the rail, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline. It’s an imperfect view, but I can see the blocky buildings across the river, the Twin Towers soaring high into the sky, the dawn soft and gold in their mirrored surfaces.

  It’s getting late, and I still need to get ready for school. Already, the evidence of a waking city is all around me, the smell of coffee, quiet, sleepy voices through open windows, the sound of bus brakes screeching briefly before the bus accelerates.

  I pull the scarf out of my pocket, and it unfurls in the hushed air. I slip the silk through my fingers for a moment, smelling the wax that my grandmother used to design the intricate patterns. I miss Nenek, suddenly and fiercely. I miss the girl I was when we lived in California and how simple everything was then.

  I quiet my breathing and my heart, making my intention known to God. Raising my palms to my shoulders, I whisper, “Allahu Akbar.”

  God is the greatest.

  Peace seems to flow into me, and I stand for a moment, eyes closed.

  As I go through the familiar motions of prayer, bowing and then kneeling, so I can press my forehead, palms, and knees to the old prayer rug my father stores up here for just these occasions, I feel serenity and quietness fill me.

  “Say: I seek refuge in the Lord of the dawn,

  From the evil of what He has created,

  And from the evil of the utterly dark night when it comes,

  And from the evil of those who cast (evil suggestions) in firm resolutions,

  And from the evil of the envious when he envies.”

  I chose this particular surah this morning because of the dawn, and because sometimes it seems like being who I want to be is so hard.

  I begin to unwind the scarf from around my head, but my hands still. Can I do it? Is it time?

  Something deep and irrevocable inside me says yes.

  With shaking fingers I coil the scarf back around my head, letting the ends flutter behind me. I’ll have to find some pins to make sure it stays in place, but for now it’ll do.

  While I was praying, the sky has turned a deep and almost endless blue. It stretches taut over the city buildings, and it seems like the tops of the Twin Towers will rip right through the rich fabric of the sky and reach all the way up to the stars. In that moment, I feel infinite, like I can be anything, and do anything, and I wish I felt like this all the time.

  I let myself quietly into our apartment. My father, slim and quiet, is folding up his prayer rug as I come into the living room.

  “Alia,” he says, his quiet eyes taking in my crumpled shirt and wet feet. My scarf.

  “Ayah,” I say.

  We stand for a long moment, and I wonder what he’s thi
nking. I used to be his Lala, the little girl who said and did anything, who would put my arms around his smooth neck and whisper, I love you, Ayah. Forever and forever.

  There’s a galaxy between us now, hung thick with stars of hurt and disappointment. I don’t want to hurt him, but there are so many things he doesn’t understand about me. I’m not that same little girl anymore.

  “Have you changed your mind?” I ask simply.

  Last night the argument had been fast and furious. Mainly between me and my mother, because even though we are both small, our words never are. Ayah had walked into the apartment while the words were flying, looking tired and drawn as he slowly pulled off his tie and folded it into a perfect square.

  Mama wasted no time telling him that my principal had called to tell her that Carla Sanchez and I were caught in the girls’ bathroom smoking a joint. While some of this was true—yes, Carla and I had been in the girls’ bathroom, and, yes, there was a joint involved—my mother has not given me a chance to explain.

  “I’m trying to tell you,” I had yelled a thousand, a million, times, but my mother had talked right over me, and I’m trying to tell you was left spinning alone and unheard in the air between us.

  In the end, it didn’t matter.

  “You understand,” my father says now, and his words sound like coins dropped into a cool, quiet wishing well, “that we are talking about trust. We need to trust you. And you, Alia, you need to be able to trust yourself, inshallah.”

  For Ayah, words are precious. Measured and weighed, and then shared as carefully as water rations in a desert.

  “What have you decided, Ayah?” I’m already tired, and the day has barely begun. I feel a deep pit of fear in my stomach, because I think I know what he is going to say and it is going to ruin my life.

  “Your mother and I talked,” he says. “We will meet with your principal this afternoon and ask that she not expel you. That is the first thing.”