It is an end of the summer, pure blue morning, eleven days before Peter’s wedding.  Peter is our number four child who lives in New York City. He and Trish decided they wanted to be married here, in the Philadelphia suburbs, away from the city, near trees. It has been a joint family effort planning this event. Their big day is the only thing on my mind this week; count the number of guests, get the table place cards ready, order the ivory table cloths, check on the florist. Trish wants mostly white flowers, hydrangeas and roses and lots of greens. I have taken my morning walk and am at the computer with my cup of tea at my side.  I e-mail a “to do” list to Peter: 

     “Give ring and marriage license to Best Man…remember to call Father Reedy…bring your video camera…tell the groomsmen time of rehearsal.”

The telephone interrupts me. “Mom, it’s Erik. Do you have the TV on?  Go turn it on. Now.”

      I move quickly to the closest television in the bedroom.  On channel ten I see a building in flames against a cobalt sky. The voice says something about the World Trade Tower.  We had dinner there once, Windows of the World.  What is going on?  Just a few weeks ago we had been talking about those buildings gleaming in the sunlight- how imposing their profiles- as we drove up the turnpike to New York City on a hot August afternoon. It had been a record breaker, one hundred and five in Manhattan.  We were going to a surprise shower for Trish, just the girls, off for a night in the Big Apple.

       But now, on television, I see an orange and gray ball of smoke and flames near the top of one of the tallest buildings. The TV announcer says it was a plane crash. How could a pilot make such a mistake, I wonder.

     I think of Peter who has recently moved two blocks away from the World Trade Center. I try to call him but each time I dial, an automated “ all circuits are busy” puts me off.  Finally, he calls.  He is watching the tower burn from his apartment window. He sounds shaky, confused.

     “I’m getting out of here right now, Mom.” With that, we are cut off. Just then, on the screen, I see a plane come toward the other building.  It looks like a cartoon.  I expect the plane to cut through and fly out the other side. But instead, it disappears into a fiery explosion.  There is no Spiderman or Mighty Mouse. The voice on the TV sounds unprofessional. It screams something about an attack.  What is happening?  I think of Peter leaving his apartment and hope he is quick about it.  I call his younger brother, Paul, who lives in the West Village on Jane Street and try to remember how far away that is from the Towers.  I know he is near the Holland Tunnel but where is that?  He had a job interview, maybe near Wall Street. I get his answering machine. I leave a frantic message. “Paul, where are you?  Call me as soon as you get this.”

    I try to call Jerry, my husband.  He is not at work.  Try his car phone.  Where is he?  What is going on?  Erik calls again.  “Where is Dad?”

    “Maybe he went to the gym before work.”  I call Jerry’s cell phone again. We finally connect.  He tells me he too saw it on TV.  I hear worry in his usually calm and reassuring voice. He is driving to the office.  I talk and watch the TV.  
    “Oh my God.”    I tell him one of the buildings is falling.  It drops to the ground. The TV does not relay the thunderous roar there must have been. I see only smoke, like the implosion of an old Atlantic City Hotel I watched once on TV.

    ‘‘What’s happening?” Jerry asks me from the car.

     “The building just collapsed,” I say. Soon the other identical twin falls in its place. I see people running from the tidal wave of smoke that chases them through the canyon of buildings. Sirens, chaos, bits of paper falling from the sky, right before my eyes on NBC. 

    Another news flash, the Pentagon, hit too by a plane. A plane crashes in western Pennsylvania. I am numb.  I do not process the terror yet, but move frenzied about the house, watching the news coverage on every channel in different rooms.

    Erik calls again. I hear panic in his voice as he asks about his brothers. “Have you heard from the boys?”  It is then I cry.  He tries to reassure me.

      “They’ll be fine, Mom.” 
 
    We promise to call one another if we hear from them.  My daughters, Stephanie and Kristin, call from work again and again inquiring if I know where their brothers are.  I tell them, “I talked to Peter.  He saw the first crash.  We can’t find Paul.” 

     Both girls tell me they are coming home, to our house. 

      Finally, Trish calls from her cell phone in Manhattan looking for word from Peter.  They cannot find each other.  She has been evacuated from her office building in Times Square.  She tells me she is scared. I tell her she should not worry.  I’m lying.

      “If he calls you, tell him I am walking up Fifth Ave,” she says.

       I think of how comfortable Peter has become in New York City.  The last time we were with him, he toured us through his neighborhood in the West Village and took us to his favorite Italian restaurant, Picolo Angelo, where the owner knew him by name. 

       “Angelo,” Peter said, “Meet my Mom and Dad. What’s the special tonight?”  We had osso bucco and home-made red wine.  The next day Peter showed us the bakery and the corner where he bought a Christmas tree.  We stopped for a beer and onion soup at a French bistro called Pastis.

      Now he has moved to a new neighborhood, “closer downtown,” he told us. “We have trees and a baseball field right outside our window and a view of the World Trade Towers.”  I am worried.

    Now, as in most family crises or celebrations, our children who live close by are all together at our house. Jerry and the girls have come home from work, and Erik and Karen, my daughter-in-law, arrive with baby Carter. His fat cheeks are red today and he looks grown up in jean overalls and a blue polo shirt.  He’s just learned to crawl.   Like a cat, he moves across the hardwood floor after a plastic ball, under the chairs, behind the couch, distracting us as we huddle in front of the television, hoping for a message from the missing two.

       It is close to four o’clock when Peter’s call comes. He sounds tired, sad.

       “Paul and I are together, walking uptown.  This city is a nightmare.” 
 
       I take up Carter into my arms, and I thank God.  I am one of the lucky mothers today.

    The next few weeks are a blur to me.  I remember sunny days sitting outside in Villanova with our friend Casey, newly married, whose husband Chris Clarke, nick-named Buddha, was missing. Together we waited at Janet’s, his mother’s house, for any word on him.  He was on the hundred and fourth floor when had he called his wife.

       “We’re getting out of here, Pumpkin,” he had said.

       Jerry and I brought hoagies and sodas to Buddha’s five brothers and sisters, and countless friends, who manned cell-phones and lap tops, contacting every hospital in New York City and New Jersey asking for information on him. 
 
    “He has on a French blue shirt, red tie, Gucci loafers, no wedding ring and answers to Chris, Buddha or Clarkie.”  

       All week they sat in the sunshine hoping for a miracle that never came. 

       We went to church, duck-taped flags to our cars, and ate pizza in front of CNN. I can still see Jerry, my usually take-charge husband, sitting in helpless silence at the far end of our back yard, both dogs at his feet.

       In New York, Peter and Paul took bags of socks to the firemen and canvassed hospitals and crisis centers for updates on Buddha and other victims they knew.  I was touched by Kristin who collected money at work and went to K-Mart and bought eye drops and t-shirts and peanut butter crackers to donate to the cause.

       I soothed my Mother when she called frightened and disoriented. “Turn off the TV, Mom,” I coaxed.  I tried to comfort Stephanie as she left with her brother, Erik,  to go to a memorial for their friend Pete in the Bronx, and cried with her when she came home depleted and exhausted late that night.

       And with confused and displaced emotions, I called the florist, counted the guests, ordered the food, wrote out the place cards; chores that a week before had seemed so important.

       Two days before the wedding Peter, Paul and Trish came home from New York City on a rainy Thursday night. We all gathered at Erik and Karen’s house for lasagna.  Erik saw his younger brothers for the first time since the attack. From the living room, I could see my grown sons, in the kitchen, hugging one another and unashamedly wiping their tears.  



       On September 22, 2001, Jerry and I sat in the front pew at St. John Vianney Church, in Gladwyne, Pennsylvania, and watched Peter and Trish beam as they exchanged their wedding vows. For the first time in weeks I felt hope. 

       At the reception, after grace, Jerry took the microphone and greeted the guests.  “Welcome to Peter and Trish’s celebration.  Tonight we are going to party. We are going to eat, to drink, and to dance.” 

       White roses and pale green hydrangeas decorated the round ivory-clothed tables.  Erik and Paul both toasted Trish and Peter with old tales and best wishes. “Trish the Dish” they called her, and the bride cut the cake.

       As I watched everyone move to the music under the green striped tent on that hot September night, I felt normalcy creeping back from its hiding place. And I knew that even though we had faced terror, we would not stop dancing.




       It is one month since the attack.  Peter and Trish are home from their honeymoon, a driving trip to Lake Placid and Canada, a last minute change from the Mexican vacation they had originally planned.  They returned with Just Married posters still on their car, to find their apartment fenced-in and policed by the National Guard.  They must show identification to enter the area and may not have visitors.  The baseball field next door is now a parking lot for construction vehicles and the roofs they view from their window are covered with debris.

        My confused mother constantly talks about “terrorists” and “anthrax” when I visit her, or she calls me late at night to tell me she cannot sleep. It is the first time I have ever seen her afraid of anything.

       Most of the funerals and memorials are over but obituaries of the missing appear daily in the paper.  In Sunday’s New York Times, I read about a friend, Dave Bauer, who worked at Cantor Fitzgerald and is gone.  He was the father of three young boys and had just competed in a triathlon the weekend before the tragedy.  I understand my tears when I read these notices, but I do not know why, as I go about my normal life, and see the turning leaves, vibrant reds and yellows, glowing in the sun, I cry.





Ground Zero, October 20, 2001


       It is another brilliant blue October Saturday in this tragic season that seems to hand out only perfect days as if to mollify us. Jerry and I are driving to New York City with a carload of wedding gifts to visit the newlyweds, Peter and Trish, and see their new apartment for the first time. I can’t wait to see how my stylish daughter-in-law and artistic son have decorated.
 
       As we approach the exit for the Holland Tunnel an overhead electric sign warn us, No Commercial Vehicles –Cars with two passengers or more only. I thought I had finally outgrown my tunnel phobia, but today it is back in full force.  I am happy to see the entrance heavily guarded by policemen, but disappointed that they do not look in our car.

       We are not allowed to drive into the area where Peter and Trish live without going with them through a police checkpoint, so we have a plan.  We call Peter as we enter the tunnel.  He says they will start walking uptown to find us as we exit.  “Watch for me in my orange sweater,” he tells me.

       Jerry and I ride the five-minute trip through the tunnel in silence.  I let out a deep sigh when I see the New York sunlight, and actually enjoy being in the city traffic.  Within minutes, we spot Peter and Trish, and pull over just long for Peter to jump into the back of our car that is stuffed with presents.

    “You go with Trish, Mom. Dad and I will meet you at the apartment.” 

       I get out of the car, and Trish and I walk downtown through the streets of Tribeca.  She points out their favorite restaurants and shops. Every storefront waves an American flag. Each restaurant displays pots of red or yellow mums. I compliment her new haircut. She talks about their honeymoon and the Lodge at Lake Placid.

       “The meals were amazing,” she says.  Then she points.  “Look ahead. See the Farmer’s Market down a little farther.  They’re here every Saturday morning.  I’m going to see if they have any dill.” As we approach the market, I notice a change in Trish’s mood and conversation.
 
       “You’ll smell it now,” she says.  She is right, suddenly the air is heavy and I smell the smoke for the first time, like burning tires. Within seconds, I see the low, gray cloud that slowly rises from the hole between the buildings straight ahead.  The area is crowded; Saturday shoppers, local walkers, tourists and policemen, lots of policemen. 

       On the next corner, at Chambers Street, I see cyclone fencing and a sign made from a cardboard box end with homemade letters, BP Residents only.

    “Battery Park, this is where we have to show ID and our lease to get into the area,” Trish tells me. “The Forbidden City.”  
As soon as we cross that line, there are no crowds or cars, only police officers, utility trucks and emergency vehicles.  In order to cross the West Side Highway we have to walk over the Tribeca Bridge, a walkway to Stuyvesant High School and Riverview Terrace, where they live.  From the bridge I have my first glimpse of Ground Zero, the smoking rubble and the leaning burned steel beams protruding like a grotesque sculpture. 

       Underneath us, on the highway, are lines of dump trucks, carrying debris to the cranes and front end loaders by the river, where they sort it, lift it and drop it into barges to float away to New Jersey.  As each truck leaves the World Trade Center site, it is hosed down with water.

       “That’s to be sure any fires are out and all the contaminants are washed away,” Trish tells me.

       I am not prepared for the crushing, sickening feeling I have, as I look at this bizarre scene, in a place I had known in a better time. I am speechless and frozen, and I can tell my reaction is not helping Trish’s wounded spirit. 

       We both try to focus on the positives of their riverside address.  The building faces on the Hudson.  We can see sailboats and kayaks on the deep blue river.  In front there is a park along the water.  We watch a young man throw sticks to his dog. How different the scene is on this side of the complex.  
“Helicopters land here in this park now,” she says. “This building is brand new but half of the residents have moved out. See the high-rise next door?  It’s vacant now.”

       At the front entrance of their building we meet Jerry and Peter and we all  fill our arms with the wedding gifts to take them up to their apartment on the twentieth floor.  “It was all freshly painted before the wedding,” Trish says. The small apartment is yellow and bright with sunlight. The matching sofa and chair, they bought in Soho, are covered in chic, fun fabric. Framed photos and books line their shelves. 

       Peter walks to the window.  “Look at the view from here, Mom.  You can see the Statue of Liberty.  That’s Jersey City. Not quite like the view from the other side of the apartment.  I’ll take you up to the roof terrace before we have lunch.”

       From the roof, Jerry and I see the breadth of the destruction, the giant mound of smoldering rubble and mangled steel, and a forest of machinery. As we look at the vastness of the metal, I imagine it all coming down and think about the people buried there.  I am shocked as I realize how close Peter and Trish have been to the terror. I am not prepared for the emotional impact that seeing this, now sacred ground, has on me. I hug Peter and I cry. The tears do not soothe my burning eyes and throat, but only help to release my stored up feelings.

       As we spend the day with them, we walk through the gray powder of pulverized concrete.  Our shoes are covered with man-made clay. I don’t see pieces of shattered glass like I would expect from these giant buildings, made almost completely of glass, just a thin layer of dust.  We walk by the baseball field, now a black parking lot paved over for telephone trucks and construction vehicles. A passing police officer asks us if everything is ok.  Jerry hugs him and thanks him.  Occasionally a plane flies overhead and Peter looks up.  That’s an F-14, or a 747, he tells us.  He says it has been hard getting used to planes flying over the city again. 

       We go to an outdoor café on Broadway.  Over lunch, they tell us about their neighbors, with baby twins, who are moving from the building and having trouble getting out of their lease, and about the retirement home next door that has been evacuated.  They hate the sound of the trucks that continue their trekking and dumping, day and night. 

       “We can’t get a cab within blocks of the apartment and have to cross that bridge each time we come and go,” Peter says. 

       Trish adds, “At night the site is lit up with eerie spotlights.  I hate looking over there especially at night. When I see it, I’m reminded again that it really did happen.” 

       They are concerned about the health risks.  They were told that the burning debris contains hundreds of gallons of toilet bowl cleaner, asbestos, yards of synthetic carpeting, thousands of computers and screens containing lead and other toxins.  We talk about the newest threat of anthrax and small pox and how Trish has been evacuated three times from her Times Square office building, where she works for Conde Nast, a media company.

       I listen to them describe this agitated life and I wish these newlyweds could return to the innocent days they knew before September the eleventh.  We coax them to consider moving. They promise to think about it.

       As we walk back to their apartment, the late day sun turns the layers of smoke into a pink haze against a backdrop of two high-rise buildings covered in a filmy crimson drape.  I can see a flag waving in the distance.
 
    I want to get closer to the ruins, to find for myself, the heroes, the camaraderie, the spirit and optimism of the welders, crane operators and rescue workers that I have seen so much of on television, but we are prohibited from entering the “red zone.”  
Back in the apartment we look at their honeymoon photos, colorful shots of the New England countryside and pictures of Peter and Trish posing on cobbled streets of Quebec City and in front of the quaint inns and grand hotels where they stayed along the way. 

       Then, we help them pack up the wedding gifts into cartons and place them in the closet.  As I label the boxes, “good china, silver candlesticks, Waterford vase.” I long to bring Peter and Trish, and all their belongings, home with us, to start their life together as we did, raking leaves, making meatloaf, sharing babysitters and carpools, in a neighborhood where we never locked our doors.  But I know they are New Yorkers now, and they must stay to eat “the special” at Piccolo Angelo’s or the onion soup at Pastis, to ride the subway, to shop at Barney’s, to cheer the Yankees. Peter and Trish are not ready to abandon their wounded city.


Biographical Note for Kristin Flick Strid: I started writing stories and poetry as a young mother of five, sneaking time at my typewriter while the children napped. In the early 80’s I enrolled in an autobiographical writing class and have been there ever since. Every Monday morning, I would steal away to my secret place, behind the heavy wooden doors, in the parlor of the old Victorian house, where we read each other’s work, talked, and listened to each other. It was there, engrossed in the works of my classmates, that I forgot if we were out of milk, if the dog needed his shots, and didn’t care what was for dinner. I made many life-long friendships and began to learn the art of good writing.  My published works include The Swimming Lesson, an eighty-three page collection of poetry, two children’s stories, and inclusion in Monday Mornings, an anthology of short stories and poetry. For more writing by Kristin Flick Strid, see Author Index Prose L-Z and Author Index Poetry.