Before and After
That morning I woke with a start. White light was filtering through the blinds. The night before had been nearly sleepless. My mother had been rushed in for emergency surgery. All night I waited for the phone to ring; I waited for the worst. But Saturday morning dawned and no news was good news. Dan and I were supposed to meet a friend in New York City. I decided I had to overcome my worry and go.
That day – October 19, 2000 – would be our last visit to the old New York.
It’s amazing, what I remember and don’t remember. I can see us missing the Metro North train to the city, stuck in traffic on Interstate 95, fretting over our nearly empty gas tank. I picture us arriving at cavernous Grand Central Station, the echo of voices, the bumping of elbows, pushing toward the outside. I remember the Pier, purchasing tickets for a Circle Line boat cruise; grabbing a bite to eat at McDonalds; climbing aboard the inside part of the boat, behind the glass, and finding seats, slowly rocking back and forth.
I don’t remember the World Trade Center. I don’t believe it ever crossed my mind.
We took the three-hour ride that sailed all the way around Manhattan. Dan, our friend Kathy and I sat on the right side of the boat. As we pulled out into the water, we had a spectacular view of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.
I enjoyed listening to the voices all around me. There were British accents and others speaking in French, Spanish; maybe Italian. As we approached the Statue of Liberty, tears inexplicably filled my eyes. I had never seen it up close. I thought for a moment so many others who came before me, seeing this very sight for the first time.
Then we began to turn, curving around the southern tip of Manhattan. The day was glorious. I took off my sweatshirt, baking in the sun. To our left was the city, but being so far out on the water, and being inside rather than on the top level of the boat, it was impossible for any of us on the right side to see it. Only the bottom-most tips of the buildings were visible.
Maybe those on the other side were looking up with their mouths open in awe at the sheer size of the twin towers. Maybe. I only remember being slightly irritated as we buzzed along. But then I looked up as we chugged directly under the Brooklyn Bridge, and, thrilled at the unique perspective, forgot about being perturbed.
That was the opening day of the much-hyped Subway Series between the Yankees and the Mets. We sailed right past Yankee Stadium, where Game 1 would be played that evening. The leaves on all of the trees along the side of the water were just beginning to be tinged with color.
My legs grew stiff and my seat became sticky. As we drew near to completing the circle, I began to fret about home again. It had been three hours since I'd called home about my mom. Anything could happen in three hours. I needed to get to a phone.
Everyone was outside that afternoon. I saw ESPN interviewing people about the baseball game. Music came from somewhere; teenagers were dancing as a crowd circled around them.
I pushed through the bodies and called home. My mom was doing OK; just very sleepy. I heaved a sigh of relief. We’d made it. Everything was going to turn out all right. My heart stopped pounding.
Sometimes memories linger like colors or textures in my mind. Different days take on different shades. To me, that visit to New York was a soft, golden day – like the afternoon sun, sliding to a lower, more distant autumn angle, but still keeping us warm.
I picture the day we returned to the city – October 21, 2001 – in terms of piercing oranges and gray-blues. Orange was the fires still burning that I could not see but could smell, and for the sun that cracked between the downtown buildings, hurting our eyes. And the blues were the cool shadows of the silent streets, and the concrete free of cars, stretching before us.
But that time was still far removed from us, as we climbed back on the train, feeling a little sweaty and a little rumpled, but satisfied. We were ready to go home. By the time we pulled out of the station my thoughts had turned to my next day plans.
I think of that afternoon often. I remember it now as an imperfect day, sprinkled with worry but intrinsically good, like a favorite picture framed behind glass that is just slightly cracked.
Whenever I leap back to then I stand frustrated beside my former self. Look, look around, look up, I silently urge. Let it sink in your mind. I wonder why, being the prescient person I usually am, I felt no urging, no nudging. Someone, something should have warned me this was the last day. Someone should have told me to cherish it, painstakingly carve it into my memory, and make sure I said goodbye.
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