“We have to go to New York,” she said. “We have to get to him.”
Her eyes were wild. Unfocused.
Someone whispered that we should call an ambulance.
I didn’t.
I knew better.
I didn’t know what was in her medicine cabinet. I didn’t know what she took, what she mixed, what she couldn’t afford. And I knew—knew—that an ambulance bill would destroy her.
So I left the building.
I found a payphone on the corner. Dug a quarter out of my bag with shaking fingers and dropped it in like it was 1985 instead of 2001.
Tony’s home phone rang.
He picked up.
“Tony,” I said, and my voice broke. “It’s Sage. Ethan’s in New York and she’s… she’s losing it. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m coming,” he said immediately. “Where are you?”
He showed up in his massive Ford SUV like some kind of rescue vehicle. We loaded Sage into the backseat. She cried the whole way. Sobbed until she hiccupped and couldn’t breathe.
At Tony’s place, he gave her a sleeping pill. Just one. Sat with her until her breathing slowed.
We turned on the TV.
We didn’t turn it off again.
We sat on the floor. On the couch. Shoulder to shoulder. Strangers to the outside world, family to each other. We always had been. It hadn’t even been a year, but it felt like longer. Like lifetimes stitched together by work and summers and boats and late nights.
I loved every one of them.
Deep down, I believed Ethan was okay.
I knew he wouldn’t have been at the World Trade Center that morning. We would’ve gone there for dinner, not meetings. That mattered. I clung to it.
But he was still in the city.
And no one knew if it was over.
No one knew if there would be more.
Chris talked about Maine. About his uncle’s cabin. About going north by sea if we had to. Tony joked darkly about hotwiring a fishing boat if a nuke hit New York.
We laughed once.
Then we stopped laughing.
I called my mom. Told her I was safe. Told her I was with coworkers. She told me to stay put.
So we did.
We slept on Tony’s floors that night. None of us really sleeping. Just waiting.
Waiting for phones to ring.
