Unexpected Page 5

  He takes another drink, this time finishing the bottle. “Honestly? Because I feel an obligation to do something.” He points to the photos on the wall in front of us. “See those guys? A lot of them used to come in here. I remember them.” I scan the firemen in the pictures as he talks. “They’d do anything for anybody. Even if it meant facing hell on earth.”

  He balls his fists as tears stream down his face. “They didn’t deserve it. No one deserves a death like that.” He breaks down, resting his head on the bar.

  I pat his back. I don’t know what else to do.

  After a few minutes, he pulls himself together and reclines back on the stool, his face blotchy from crying. “I apologize. I haven’t done that in a long time. I don’t mean to burden you with my problems.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re in a bar. I’m sure it happens all the time,” I say as cheerfully as I can muster.

  He lets out a half-choked laugh. I take it as a good sign. Getting up, I walk behind the bar and pop open another bottle of the beer he’s drinking. “This one’s on the house.”

  “Only if you’ll have one with me.”

  I smile. “Absolutely,” I say, opening one for myself. Raising the bottle to my lips, I stop midway. “I never asked your name.” Even though I already know it.

  “It’s Miguel.”

  “Cheers, Miguel,” I say, clinking my bottle to his. “I’m Michelle.”

  “Nice meeting you, Michelle. You’re a great addition to the place.”

  “My boss doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “Connor? Trust me. You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want you here. He just has a lot on his mind.”

  Miguel’s remark floors me. Connor has a lot on his mind? Like what? Who he’s sleeping with tonight?

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

  Miguel studies me as if debating whether or not to say more.

  “I’ve known Connor for a long time. Give him the benefit of the doubt. He’ll come around.”

  “You’re a good guy, Miguel. Too good.” I lean forward and give him a quick peck on the cheek, causing him to blush profusely.

  “If only I were thirty years younger,” he jokes.

  A wintry mix rattles the windowpanes, calling our attention to the weather. “I better get going while the trains are still running.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Hoboken. Just across the river.”

  “Have a safe trip home, Miguel.”

  He collects his things and zips his coat. Before heading out, he turns around. “Michelle?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  They’re two simple words, but they mean so much more. I know it, and he knows it.

  “You bet.”

  I watch him walk out the door. With a sigh, I pick up the empty bottles and toss them in the recycling bin. I fail to notice the slight shaking of the kitchen door and Connor behind it, crying silently.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My encounter with Miguel disturbs something deep inside of me. Something I let fester for too long. Something I should’ve dealt with sooner.

  Today’s my day off, and I know exactly where I’m going. I can’t put it off any longer. I know what I need to do.

  What a difference a few weeks can make. Once the calendar turned to April, spring arrived with it. The sun is shining and the temperature is expected to reach the nineties. I take it as a good omen.

  “Where are you off to by yourself?” Connor leans against the doorway, watching my every move. We’re not on the greatest of terms. He’s still keeping his distance, but he’s speaking to me again.

  “I have some things I need to take care of.” The less I say, the better.

  “If you wait until one o’clock, I can go with you. I gotta finish up some paperwork, and then I’m free.”

  Okay, awkward. I’m about to endanger our fledgling truce, but I don’t want him to come. This is personal. I have to do it on my own. But how do I tell him that?

  “I kinda said I’d meet up with Emily for lunch. She’s working today, so she only has a half hour around noon.” The lies flow easily off my tongue.

  He eyes me suspiciously. Does he buy it?

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “The Sbarro’s over on Broadway.” Please let that sound legit.

  “Do you know which subway to take?”

  “I’m gonna hail a cab.”

  “Big spender, huh?”

  “I’ve been making a killing on tips. So why not?” Thanks to Tammy’s help.

  “Call me if you get lost. I’ll have my cell with me.” Does he think I’m that incapable of fending for myself?

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” he says as I scoot by him and out my bedroom door. My shoulder brushes against his arm, and I hear his breath catch. But I keep going. The last thing I need is for him to run away from me again. Instead, I run away from him.

  Jogging down the steps, I’m out the front door in no time. I fall into pace with the pedestrians on the sidewalk and turn right at the next block. Connor thinks I’m heading uptown, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s tailing me until I’m safely bestowed in the back of a cab. It’s moments like this that I really miss having a car, but I’m a hot young thing in New York City. Hailing a ride should be a piece of cake.

  As the traffic light changes, I step off the curb and raise my hand. Within seconds, a cab pulls up alongside of me. Now that was easy. I slide in and give the driver the address of the Sbarro’s. I have to make it look authentic until I’m out of Connor’s neighborhood.

  I wait until we’re stopped in traffic before I tell the driver where I really want to go. He shakes his turbaned head at me like I’m nuts and flicks his turn signal on to double back. I assure him that his tip will adequately compensate him for his trouble, but he keeps muttering under his thick mustache.

  When Connor invited me back here, I thought he’d give me more of an insider’s view of the city. But since I moved in, all we’ve done is work. He hasn’t taken me anywhere. I didn’t expect this level of reluctance on his part. I was hoping he’d be more open about showing me the ins and outs of his hometown.

  The driver turns at the intersection, and we’re headed back down Broadway, not up like Connor believes. We’re not even a mile away, and I don’t have much time to compose myself. Staring through the glass, it’s hard to pick out any particular person walking by. They all start to blend together. There’s a ringing in my ears, and I break into a cold sweat. No. Not here. Not now. I have to conquer this, once and for all.

  Unbuttoning my denim jacket, I lower the back window, letting the cool air hit my face. It helps relieve some of the dizziness. The cabbie is oblivious to my distress. The red digital display on the meter changes, upping the current fare to $4.85. I force myself to focus on the numbers, the cold, impartial numbers.

  And then, we’re here.

  The cab glides to a stop beside a wrought iron fence covered in flags and hand-drawn posters. Across the street behind a plywood barrier is sacred ground. I can’t believe I’m finally here.

  I give the driver a twenty, and he sputters a profuse litany of gratitude through the plexiglass divider separating us. I step out of the cab, and the noise on the street engulfs me. The incessant car horns, the beeping of construction vehicles in reverse, and the grinding of backhoe shovels on concrete all bellow, but I don’t hear a thing. I’m in a place I’d never thought I’d be, but it’s where I knew I had to come.

  Ground Zero.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s like an out of body experience. The atmosphere is weighted. The colors are muted. The energy is heavy, contained even.

  Every step is an effort, but I press on. Signs pointing to the World Trade Center remain fixed to the steel light poles. The jagged rooftop of a nearby building is a visible scar of what transpired here. Another is completely draped in a
black tarp with an American flag affixed to the exterior.

  There’s a small crowd gathered in front of the metal barricades that prevent anyone from getting closer. They’re snapping pictures, taking videos, and talking quietly or not at all. I join their ranks.

  Workers are milling about in orange safety vests and hardhats. Their gait is methodical. They all look tired. I think of Miguel’s demeanor, and I get where they’re coming from and what they’ve had to endure on a day-to-day basis for so long.

  There’s activity in the hole beneath sidewalk level, hidden from view. The crater-turned-excavation-pit is now a massive construction site—dusty, cluttered, and full of machinery. Wood sawhorses line the periphery to a series of red trailers and portable toilets. If not for the entrance to the Cortlandt Street subway station, I’d think I’d stumbled on the creation of some random industrial park.

  A young female cop is in charge of keeping curious bystanders from crossing the street. She’s doing her best to answer their questions. Her badge still displays the letters WTC. The staccato scratching of her walkie broadcasts a constant stream of chatter.

  Scanning the scene from my vantage point, I notice numerous boarded up windows in the adjacent structures. Yet the windows in another bear white stickers signaling they were all recently replaced, story upon story of brand new panes.

  But what captures my attention above everything else is the cross. Flashed repeatedly on the nation’s TV screens since 9/11, it is an enduring symbol of comfort and hope. The two rust colored girders were found positioned that way in the aftermath sticking out of the rubble. To see it in person, I’m not going to lie, is tough. It makes it all too real.

  I overhear a guy talking to his friend. “I literally didn’t come back here until half a year later. I used to walk up and down this street right onto Broadway on my way to work.”

  His friend responds. “This is just, like, I don’t know. This whole area got seriously damaged. They’re gonna be recovering for a really long time.”

  If not forever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In hindsight, I shouldn’t have come here alone.

  In a daze, I wander aimlessly trying to find my way back. I’m not getting in another cab. I can’t face an interrogation from Connor right now. I’m all screwed up inside.

  I’m in a part of the city that’s unfamiliar to me. The streets aren’t numbered. They have names. I don’t know what direction I’m heading or if I’m going the right way. At this point, I don’t even care.

  Images from that day come flooding back. I try to keep them at bay, but I can’t. I turn up one street and down the next. I’m hopelessly lost.

  People whiz by me knowing exactly where they’re headed—men in business suits, bike messengers, UPS drivers. I’m the only one without a destination.

  That’s when the panic sets in. Picking up my pace, I start to run and brush by anyone who gets in my way. Several give me dirty looks or yell at me to watch where I’m going. But I don’t stop. I keep going, now positively frantic.

  Why did I come back here? What was I thinking?

  I clutch a pain in my side as my breathing becomes labored. I’m lightheaded, and I haven’t had anything to eat. Disoriented, I hurtle myself down the next block and recognize the flower shop on the corner. I’m almost there. I can do this.

  My hair comes loose from its ponytail and spills down my shoulders and across my face. I brush it away. I’m back on Beekman Street. Oh, thank God.

  Panting, I lean against the door under the awning of Donnelly’s Pub before collapsing to the ground. Closing my eyes, I begin an inner mantra to steady my nerves. I’m home. I’m safe. Everything’s going to be okay. Trying to pull myself together before going inside, I don’t notice that I’m being watched until I hear, “You must be Michelle.”

  Slowly opening one eyelid, I glance up.

  It’s the old man from the pictures behind the bar, the ones with the firemen.

  Connor’s father.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Concern is etched across his face. “Are you all right?”

  I must look like a wild woman, a disheveled, hysterical mess. He must think I’m absolutely crazy, certifiable even, witnessing me at my absolute worst.

  Shuffling forward, he crouches down and sits on the ground beside me. “I don’t think any of us are really going to be okay again, are we?”

  I shake my head, trying to hold back the tears.

  He pats my shoulder. Taking a drag from the cigarette he’s holding, he exhales. “Connor doesn’t want me smoking after my heart attack, but it’s the only thing that relaxes me anymore. So I come out here when he’s not looking. You won’t tell on me, will you?”

  Again, I silently shake my head.

  Smiling, he lets out a chuckle. “Good. I like you already. I’m Billy, by the way. Connor’s father.”

  He extends his hand. I shake it, looking him in the eye for the first time as my racing heart begins to quiet. “Connor can certainly drive a person up a wall,” I admit, sniffling.

  “Honey, you ain’t kiddin’ and you’ve only been here a month. Wait—it gets better.”

  His frankness makes me laugh.

  Relieved to see me settling down, he goes on, “But Connor’s not all that bad. He’s had a really tough time, losing Danny and all.”

  My head pops up. “Who’s Danny?”

  “For crying out loud, he didn’t tell you about Danny?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, Jesus.” He flicks some ash onto the sidewalk. “He was Connor’s best friend since they were kids. They grew up together, did everything together. They were inseparable.”

  The boy in the Little League picture in Connor’s room—it has to be Danny.

  Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, he hunches forward. “Except after high school, Danny joined the fire department and Connor came to work with me at the bar. He was furious, of course. Cursed me for saddling him with the family business, determining his future for him. But he respected my wishes, and took up the mantle.”

  Sitting up, I cross my legs in front of me. I’m overcome with dread. “But what happened to Danny?”

  Staring at the oncoming traffic, he doesn’t look at me. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Pulling my ear plugs out, I sit up in bed. Connor suggested I try them, and so far I’m sleeping better. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tune out the sirens and car horns that puncture the night. Maybe then I’ll be a real New Yorker.

  I didn’t approach Connor with my new knowledge about Danny. How could I? If he wants to talk about it, he’ll bring it up. I’m not going to push him. My heart aches when I think of what he must be going through. No wonder his behavior is so erratic.

  It makes me ashamed of my own inability to cope. I didn’t lose anyone I knew on 9/11. I wasn’t there when it happened. I was two miles away, locked safely behind my apartment door. Dust didn’t envelop me. Debris didn’t cut me. Flames didn’t rain down on me. So why am I taking it so hard?

  I can understand why Connor feels disgusted with me at times. Knowing the full extent of his loss, I see that the patience he has shown me is unbelievable. How can he stand to be around me? My moping, my fear, my insecurities—he must want to scream at me to snap out of it already. I have no reason to be acting this way, but he does.

  The signs were there. I just failed to read them. He was there for me when I needed someone. Little did I realize that he was hurting even more. His brother, Sal, was aware that Danny died. Why didn’t he tell Tony to give me a heads-up? It’s hard to believe that what happened to Danny never came up when the three of them had their pow-wow about me over the holidays. It crushes me to think that Connor is carrying this inside of him. It’s too much for anyone to bear alone.

  Tossing my feet over the side of the bed, I cautiously slide my door open and stealthily move across the hall. It’s early, a few minutes after sev
en. The bar is open tonight, so Connor won’t be up for a few more hours. His door is ajar. I hesitate before peeking through the crack.

  He’s propped up on the window frame, smoking, lost in thought. He doesn’t notice the shadow I’m casting on the rumpled sheets of his bed. I hang back and watch him. His leg is twitching, but as the cigarette burns down, he starts to relax and his outward nervousness ceases. Wearing only his jeans, he’s reading today’s New York Post. A steaming cup of coffee waits on the bureau. He must have gotten up at the crack of dawn.

  It is stifling on the third floor. Maybe he couldn’t sleep. It’s not often that New York City gets a heat wave in April. He has the window all the way up, but there’s only a whisper of a breeze providing any relief. Creasing his brow, he swears before tossing the newspaper on the floor. He’s upset. I better go. But right when I’m about to leave, his head turns and he catches me staring at him.

  I can’t run now. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look away either. Slowly, I enter the room. His eyes seem pained, tortured, like a wounded animal. In his gaze there’s a yearning to be comforted that he’s trying to resist.

  “So now you know, huh?” His expression is threatening.

  All I do is nod.

  “Shit.” Reaching for his coffee, he takes a sip. “Leave it to Dad to not keep his mouth shut.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I blurt out. “He was trying to help me…”

  “Help you?” His face is livid. “How exactly is this about you?”

  “It…it’s not,” I stutter, afraid of how he’s reacting. “He thought I knew. It just slipped out.”

  “He had no right telling you about Danny.” Frustrated, he sets down his coffee and yanks the blanket off the bed.

  “I don’t understand.” My temper rising, I charge farther into the room and get right in his face. “Why don’t you want me to know?”

  “Because.” He grumbles turning away from me.

  “That’s not good enough,” I say grabbing his arm. “Look at me.”