by Wendy Mills
“Do you really want to know? It’s all in the past now. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a huge difference,” I say fiercely. “I’m sick of all this secrecy. Why won’t anybody talk about him?”
Hank sighs. “I don’t know the whole story. I was sixteen and pretty heavily invested in my own life. Travis went away to college, and then almost at the end of his first year, he came back, and he was a mess. He holed up in his room, barely coming out to eat. Something happened, but no one would talk about it. It was all whispers and hush-hush. Travis was like the walking wounded, and Dad was seriously pissed. I know it seems strange now that I didn’t ask any questions, but it just didn’t seem worth getting everyone mad at me.”
I can’t help but nod, because I certainly understand that feeling.
“So, that’s it?”
“No, that’s not it.” Joshua crawls onto Hank’s lap, sucking his thumb and laying his head on my brother’s shoulder. My nephew stares at me unblinkingly for a long moment, and then his eyes drift closed.
“When he finally came out of his room, he had this what-the-hell-ever attitude.” Hank’s voice is barely above a whisper, and I have to lean in close to the screen to hear him. “He was drinking and staying out all night, and he started hanging around Topher McCall and those kids. Bad news, you know? Travis was getting in all these fights, and there was a rumor he was stealing. I mean, just stupid stuff. He and Dad got into this huge fight while I was at a party one night. I heard about it from one of the neighbors the next day after Travis moved out. After that, I only saw him once before he died. He was visiting Gramps in the nursing home, and I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was crying. I was only sixteen, okay? I didn’t want my big brother to know I saw him like that, so I left. And that was the last time I saw him.”
He looks down at Joshua, and the sleeping boy curls an arm around Hank’s neck and snuggles closer.
“So, Travis was what? Some kind of juvenile delinquent?”
“No, that’s the thing. He wasn’t. Actually, he was a pretty smart dude—he even skipped a grade. I always admired him, because I could never get my crap together, not while I was in high school.”
“But why,” I say, “don’t any of you want to know what he was doing in the towers that day?”
Hank stares down at Joshua for a long time. I have time to think the screen must have frozen before he looks back up at me.
“I guess, some people want to know every detail of what happened to the ones who died. But for us … you don’t know what it was like back then. Mom and Dad were getting calls for interviews, and everyone was talking about Travis, Travis, Travis. I just wanted to forget, you know?
“One day I came home and Dad was screaming at someone on the phone. I thought he was going to have a heart attack, his face was so freaking red. He was almost hysterical, and when he slammed down the phone he yelled at me, ‘Don’t you think I know he was a coward?’ Which was the worst thing Dad could say about anyone. I have no idea who he was talking to, but after that Dad changed our number and refused to talk about Travis. There was a compensation fund set up for the victims and families, and he wouldn’t even take any money. It was crazy. He was crazy.”
“Say that again, in present tense,” I say, and he grins.
“I hear you. But … you can’t understand what it was like after it happened. I just … disappeared, and all anybody could think of when they saw me was Travis. I halfway expected them to play the National Anthem whenever I walked into a room. The whole country was so messed up for a while. We went to war, and I remember cheering when we started bombing. But then it all just spiraled. It seemed like we were willing to do about anything to make us feel safer, and it led to a lot of bad things.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “We were at the cemetery that day. On 9/11. Gramps’s memorial service was getting ready to start, the honor guard was there, and I remember thinking how weird it was that Gramps, who loved his apartment in the Bronx, liked to play music, and who told really bad jokes, was in a little metal vase. I mean, he was sick for a while before he died, but still, how do you end up in a freaking vase? People were coming in and talking about what was going on with all the planes, and Dad was so mad because Travis wasn’t there, but we went ahead and had the service anyway.
“Afterward, we heard about the towers falling, and the planes that flew into the Pentagon and crashed into the field in Pennsylvania. We didn’t know Travis was in the towers then. Why would he be there? It was days later that someone called and told us they found a body—Jesus, or part of a body, I don’t know—with Travis’s wallet. We didn’t even know he was missing. They sent Travis’s dental records to the city and they confirmed it was him. By then we already knew because of Travis’s message. The house phone and the shop used the same line in those days, and no one had bothered listening to the messages because Dad had closed the shop. Mom was the one who thought to check the answering machine and … it was awful. We were lucky, because there was a body to bury, though I always wondered how much of him was in the coffin.” He is silent for a long moment. “We got a form letter a while later about Travis’s stuff, and Dad went into the city and brought back a zippered plastic bag. Things they found with him. Gramps’s knife was in the bag, and Travis’s wallet. Some of the plastic had melted together inside the wallet. I remember that made it so real.
“I only listened to Travis’s message once. I couldn’t listen to it again. Mom used to listen to it over and over again. I think she was trying to figure out what Travis was saying because you couldn’t hear all of it. She unplugged it from the telephone line so that new calls wouldn’t erase it by mistake. After a year or so she stopped, but by that time Dad had gotten so violent about not talking about Travis, I was afraid he would just up and throw the answering machine out the window one day. So I took it and put it in my closet. No one ever said a word about it. I think at that point we were all just numb.
“We didn’t ask a lot of questions after Travis died. I know it sounds strange, but we were too busy forgetting. It was easier that way.”
“Spoken like a true son of Gerald McLaurin,” I say, but I say it softly. “What do you think all that forgetting has done to us?”
“Is it bad, Jesse? It must be. Mom told me what you did. I guess I hoped that things would be better after a while. I let you down, Jesse, I know I did, but I was too busy trying to save myself.”
I shake my head, understanding, but not wanting to.
“I got a friend to clean up the message so I could hear more of it,” I say. “At the end Travis said he was in the towers with a girl named Alia. Do you know who she was?”
“Alia?” Hank says, and frowns. “I never heard Travis mention a girl named Alia. Who was she?”
“I’m trying to find out,” I say.
He is silent for a moment.
“That’s weird,” he says, “because there was something else in the bag with Travis’s stuff. Something that didn’t make any sense.”
I grip the edge of the desk as I stare at my brother’s face seven thousand miles away.
“What was it?” I ask.
“There was a girl’s scarf in the bag. A white scarf with red and green flowers on it. We never knew why he had it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Alia
I remember sitting with my mother and Nenek when I was six or seven years old.
My grandmother was making a batik scarf, and I sat beside her on the floor and touched the edge of the long, silky fabric, loving the way it slid slippery and smooth between my fingers.
“This is for you, Lala,” Nenek said. “I am making it just for you.”
The scarf was stretched across a frame, wide swaths of wax already covering it. I breathed in the light scent of beeswax.
Nenek touched the dried wax. “This is so the original color of the scarf stays pure and true. Remember, Lala, that no matter what life writes on your soul that you will
always be Alia inside.”
Mama poured wax from the pot on the burner into the canting, a small copper container with a long narrow spout. Nenek held the canting over the scarf, then tipped the cup and with swift, graceful movements poured the wax across the cloth already marked with pencil lines.
Mama sat on the floor next to me and put her arm around me. I snuggled back into her arms and watched Nenek’s quick, deft movements.
“Each piece of batik contains influences from many people and cultures,” she said, biting her lips as she worked. “See this? This is a lotus blossom.”
Only the outline was there right now, but I could see the beginnings of a beautiful flower.
“The lotus lives in the deep mud, but eventually it grows to meet the sun and blooms into a beautiful flower. It is a message of hope, that the potential we hold deep inside us will triumph.”
Mama got up to pour more wax for Nenek, and I was content to sit and watch. I knew that making batik cloth was a long process, and that there would be more applications of wax and dye before it was complete, but when it was done it would be all mine, imbued with the love of my mother and grandmother.
Someone starts singing, and after a moment, others join in. It makes me smile as I concentrate on getting down the stairs.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
The song ends, and someone starts crying, big gulping sobs.
“Gramps used to rock ‘Amazing Grace’ on his sax,” Travis says. He’s breathing hard because he’s carrying the bulk of Julia’s weight. She isn’t talking anymore, and I don’t even know if she hears us. “They were going to play it at his … at his memorial service today.”
“It’s a beautiful song,” I say gently.
The stairs are never ending, and while the lights are on in this part of the stairwell, it’s still hot.
“We would go to church and Gramps would start singing,” Travis continues, “and all I could hear was him. His voice all deep and low, and I remember it tickled the inside of my chest.” He blinks, his jaw working.
“It sounds like you really loved him,” I say.
“I did,” he says, and his voice is flat and heavy. “I wish I could be more like him.”
We continue on in silence. I slide my hand down the rail, feeling the slick dampness and knowing it’s the sweat of the thousands of people who have come down these steps in front of me.
As strange as it seems, and as scared as everybody is, walking down the flights of stairs has gotten boring.
“Anybody want a Mountain Dew?” someone calls, appearing in a stairwell door with a bunch of sodas. People reach for the drinks, but I shake my head, smiling my thanks.
Travis plods down next to me, his head lowered, and I wonder what he is thinking. With one hand, the one not holding Julia, I adjust my scarf, pulling it tighter around my head, and try to think about happier things.
I decided to fast full-time for Ramadan when I was eleven. I was determined to do it for the entire month, because I was saving for a Game Boy and if I broke the fast I’d have to give my money to the poor. Ayah took it very seriously when I told him I wanted to try, and sat down with me to make sure I understood why we were doing it, that it was during Ramadan that God first revealed the Quran to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and that we were not only refraining from eating and drinking but also from evil actions, words, and deeds. “Live as if every day is a miracle,” he told me, and then hugged me hard.
Fasting that month was the hardest thing I’d ever done, but thankfully Ramadan was in January that year, so the days weren’t so long. I haven’t done a summer Ramadan yet, when the sun rises so early and sets so late that we could be fasting for fifteen hours.
I felt so grown up getting up with Mama and Ayah and Ridwan before dawn so we could eat, and I could never wait for the elaborate, noisy iftar dinners to break our fast at night. When we got word that the moon had been sighted, and that we would be celebrating the end of Ramadan the next day, I could barely contain myself. The next morning, I got dressed up in my new pink dress, and made sloppy handmade cards for my family, and we asked for forgiveness for any bad things we had done to one another that year. All our friends and family came over, and I remember Mama and Ayah hugging me and telling me they loved me, and were so proud of me.
I wanted to feel like that forever. What had changed?
When was the last time I told my parents I loved them?
It wasn’t that I didn’t love them, of course I did, but “I love you” regularly got steamrolled by loud words and stupid arguments. Their expectations were like carrying around something delicate and unwieldy, something way too heavy for me. I always thought I’d go to college, and they’d accept me for who I was, and we would go back to being friends like we used to be.
But what if I never made it down these stairs?
What if I never saw them again?
“My parents and I fought this morning,” I blurt out. “Why of all mornings did I have to fight with them today?”
“My dad and I haven’t talked in over a month,” Travis says, and adjusts Julia’s weight on his shoulder. “I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?” I ask.
But he doesn’t answer.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jesse
I can hear the crackle of Fourth of July fireworks as I search my parents’ room. Emi, Teeny, and Myra invited me to go to the fairgrounds to watch them, but I can’t get the thought of the scarf out of my head. Dad left a while ago, and I know he might be back anytime, so I’m trying to hurry.
Yes, I could have just asked Mom about the scarf, but lately my mother has seemed so fractured that I’ve stopped myself every time I’ve wanted to ask the questions that are piled up inside me. I’m afraid that just one more thing will break her open at the fault lines.
I find the scarf tucked into the bottom drawer of my mother’s dresser inside a plastic grocery bag, and it would be funny if it all weren’t so stupid. What is wrong with my family? It’s like we’re all carrying around puzzle pieces of Travis, hugging them jealously to our chests, trying to keep our small part of him to ourselves.
The scarf is yellowed with age, and the delicate red and green flowers and yellow designs are faded. Streaks of dirt mar its surface, and other, darker stains, which I’m afraid might be blood.
I shake it out, and dust flies up, lingering in a thick shaft of light from the lamp. The faint smell of smoke wafts through the air.
I run my fingers over the silky material, tracing the swirling patterns.
Was this Alia’s?
Who was she though, and why did my brother have her scarf?
“Jesse! Can you check on the lasagna?” Yalda calls to me.
I nod and maneuver my way through a crowd of chattering people intent on their own culinary tasks to peer into the oven. The lasagna isn’t bubbling yet, so I close the door and go back to helping Sabeen spread tablecloths over the tables.
The Peace Center has been transformed. Green tablecloths cover the tables, twinkling Christmas lights hang from the ceiling, and a pile of wrapped gifts sits on a table. Tonight is Eid al-Fitr, which I’ve gathered is to celebrate the end of Ramadan, and the Peace Center has invited people in the community to come celebrate. I’ve been here since four helping set up, and as Sabeen and I billow the last tablecloth onto a table, she says worriedly, “The thing about parties is you never know if people are going to show up, you know?”
“They’ll show up,” I say.
“Are you staying?” she asks, her eyes direct.
“I’m not sure anyone would want me here,” I say honestly. “I was just going to help set up and leave.” I didn’t have to be here tonight but I’d volunteered anyway.
“You can’t set up for a party and then not attend.” She smiles
. “I’d like you to stay.”
I nod, trying not to show how good her acceptance makes me feel. I straighten and stretch my hands over my head. I catch Adam’s eye. He is standing on a ladder fixing a strand of lights, and he smiles.
Sabeen sees him, and he looks away, his smile fading. I’m embarrassed for some reason.
“Sometimes I think I have it easier, wearing the hijab,” Sabeen says, lighting the candle in the colorful lamp being used as the table’s centerpiece.
“Why?” My eyes are drawn back to Adam, and he looks so good with his jumble of dark hair and deep blue eyes that I swallow hard.
“Adam doesn’t look different; he got Mom’s light skin and blue eyes. I’ve always wondered if that makes it harder for him to be Muslim. People don’t expect it from him, so he has to go out of his way to prove what he is.”
I think about Adam’s cocky attitude and easy confidence and realize maybe it’s not easy at all, but a defense against a world that insists on seeing him as something he’s not.
“Anyway,” she continues. “I like wearing the hijab, so there’s no doubt about exactly what I am. When I cover myself”—she holds out her arms to indicate her long-sleeved sparkly shirt and matching ankle-length skirt—“no one can judge me by what I’m wearing, or the way I look, or by my bra size. You either like me for me, or you don’t. It’s as simple as that.”
“Do you date?” I ask suddenly, and she smiles at me almost in sympathy.
“No, Muslims don’t date. They marry.” She gives me a level look, and I realize she’s telling me something. “The way I see it, teenage dating sucks,” she continues. “It never lasts, and then you break up, and you mope around writing crappy poetry and generally feeling awful about yourself. After a while you find another guy, and it starts all over again. Why is all that pain worth it if you know it’s not going to work out?”
I’d heard some version of this from Teeny. She doesn’t seem to mind not dating, says it’s all BS that never ends well. Are they right? I cried about Nick for weeks, and while I didn’t write crappy poetry, I’d spent hours curled up in my closet listening to my sad song list and feeling sorry for myself. I never thought I was going to marry him or anything, so were the months with him worth the pain of the breakup?
