Zoe
“Mom, I got it—the job. I got it!”
Cami’s voice was filled with confidence rather than the amazement that I might have anticipated given her anxiety about whether she was qualified.
“That’s wonderful, Cami,” I said, even as I marveled at how this bright young woman who not only understood stocks and bonds and other assorted mysteries of the economic world but also relished the chance to play that game had come from me. “When do you start?”
“I’m not sure. I’m going in this morning to complete the stuff for HR—human resources,” she added, obviously certain that someone like me who had never darkened the door of a corporate American enterprise, would need the jargon explained. “I’m wearing the gray Armani—you know, the one Gramma Kay insisted I buy?” she continued, and I could hear the sounds of the city coming to life and going to work in the background.
“Okay, so even though that suit cost a fortune, I have to admit that it’s paying off now,” I said, reminding us both of my reservations about spending that kind of money for one suit. I’d commented that it was ridiculous at best and obscene at worst.
“I’ll let you borrow it next time you go begging for money for the botanical gardens,” she joked, then her voice changed. “I’m so nervous, Mom. Not sure what that’s about. Could you just talk to me about stuff there? It might help.”
This was the daughter who rarely had turned to either Spence or me for help, so if she asked, we understood it was serious. “Let’s see,” I said. “Well, the artisans that designed and built the sala are arriving today,” I added.
“What’s a sala, anyway—some kind of religious temple or what?” She already sounded more at ease.
“Not religious at all. In Thailand it’s a shelter for people from rain or heat.”
“Like bus stops?”
“Well, I haven’t noticed any American bus stops that feature gold leaf with bright red lacquer, but I suppose that’s one comparison.”
“So, the crew is coming to set it up and you’re no doubt going to be right in the thick of it,” Cami said.
“The crew—as you call them—arrives at O’Hare this morning. I’m putting the finishing touches on tonight’s reception. We’re holding it here at the house—in the garden. And tomorrow we start reassembling the pavilion. It’ll be all done when you’re in for Thanksgiving. You are coming for Thanksgiving, right? I mean, this new job…”
“I wouldn’t miss Turkey Day, Mom. Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July are my favorite holidays.”
“No presents, no fuss and you know the menu,” we said together.
“Mom, do you ever have regrets? I mean, about leaving when Peter ran for governor. You probably could have ended up the mayor or a senator or something.”
“I have no regrets,” I said. “I have filled my life with so many wonderful people and projects, and you and your brothers are certainly up there near the top.”
“Right below Dad?”
I laughed. “Right below Dad,” I assure her.
She sighs. “I can’t help it, Mom. I want it all. Career, kids, a man like Dad who thinks the sun rises and sets on me. I had this crazy feeling this morning that I was on my way, you know?”
I felt something deep inside in that moment that made me pause in my normal multitasking any time I was on the phone and sit down at the kitchen table. “Cami, Dad and I are so very proud of you,” I said, and was surprised at the emotion that filled me as I thought about this child who was perhaps more like me than I had ever dared to hope. Cami had always been independent and determined to succeed at anything she did, no matter how difficult. She wasn’t as smart as Taylor or as practical as Todd, but she had gotten to where she was all on her own.
Her voice wavered. “Thanks, Mom. You don’t realize what that means to me—especially today.” There was some static on the line, and, afraid that I was losing the connection I said, “Are you on the subway or…”
The line cleared. “…concourse,” she said, obviously finishing a sentence I hadn’t heard. “Do you want a play-by-play?” she teased.
“As a matter of fact I would like one,” I replied. “It’s not every day that the daughter of a throwback hippie lands a major job at one of the world’s top investment firms before she hits thirty.”
“World’s top firm might be stretching it, Mom,” she said. “Okay, on the escalator on my way up to the main lobby—prophetic, don’t you think?”
“Very. What floor are the offices on and do you get a window?”
“Seventy-fourth and practically everyone gets a window.”
In the background I could hear a jumble of movement and voices. “Impressive,” I said. “How many underlings will you be supervising?”
She giggled the way she had when she was thirteen and on the phone with her girlfriends dissecting the merits and pitfalls of the latest crop of boys in her class. “I do have an assistant,” she said. “Imagine me ordering somebody around?”
“Well, your brothers certainly could.”
She laughed. “How are the monsters?”
“Your brothers are grown men, Cami. Show a little respect.” But I was smiling as I chastised her.
“Well, they turned out pretty great, didn’t they? My influence, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” I hooked the receiver between my shoulder and ear as I placed the chicken pieces in the marinade, covered the bowl and put it in the refrigerator. “One of them is talking about making you an aunt.”
Cami squealed with delight. “Sandy and Todd? Really? That’s way beyond cool.”
“Where are you now?” I asked, laughing because she suddenly sounded far too young to be climbing the corporate ladder.
“Elevator doors opening—express, of course.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s packed, Mom, and I don’t want to get labeled a total geek. I’ll call you back, okay?”
We hung up and I gathered the notes and materials I needed for the meeting scheduled later that morning at the botanical gardens. It occurred to me that in many areas I had achieved so much more than I had dreamed I would ever do in my lifetime. And none of it was what I had planned. Spence and I had raised three children who were actually sane and well-rounded and on their way to successful and happy lives. I had finally found work that gave me the sense of accomplishment I’d always sought—even if I was no longer being paid to do it. On top of that—to everyone’s surprise, including my own—I had become a passable—if not a gourmet—cook and a master gardener. I paused for a minute and gazed out at the gardens—resplendent in the colors of autumn—reds and golds and purples against the backdrop of the still-green trees and the deep, clear blue of the lake. Beds were arranged in the kind of organized chaos that I preferred in stark contrast to the formality of my neighbor’s equally impressive yard. Yes, life was good, I decided as I turned to load the files and papers I would need for the day into my tote bag.
In the background Al Roker delivered the weather report for The Today Show. He was speaking in mime, because I always muted the sound when one of the children called. I glanced at the time, automatically calculating what Taylor would be doing in California—sleeping—as well as what Todd would be doing thirty miles away on the farm he and Sandra now managed for Hal and Marie. I called Spencer’s office and reminded his assistant to get him out of there no later than five so he could come home and change before the reception. It crossed my mind that Cami’s express elevator was certainly taking its time.
As soon as I hung up the phone rang. “Slow elevator,” I said, ready to pick up the conversation with Cami where we’d left off.
“Mom?” Her voice sounded far away and scared.
“What is it?” I was on instant alert, a dozen scenarios racing through my mind in the split second before she answered me. Had she been attacked on the elevator? No, she’d said it was packed. Maybe the elevator had stalled. She never could stand tight spaces.
“Mom, there’s…” Her voice was obscured by the shrieks of panic and screaming. My heart actually stopped for a split second.
“Cami! What’s happening?”
“Move on,” I heard some stranger say close to the phone. “Can you walk?”
“Sure,” I heard my daughter reply. Then I only heard her breathing—hard and fast as if she was running a marathon.
“Lose the shoes,” I heard the same man say.
“Cami?”
“I’m here, Mom. I think there’s been a fire on the floors above us and the smoke is pretty intense and…Okay, we’re in the stairway—also packed and smoky…” She forced a laugh and I heard voices around her.
I turned to the television and saw a picture that would haunt me for every day of the rest of my life. One of the twin towers of the World Trade Center was indeed on fire. I forced myself to remain calm. “Now, Cami, I’m watching the television, and yes, there’s a fire, but it’s well above you. Just take your time, stay calm and keep heading down the stairs, okay? And stay on the line,” I added.
“Well, at least we’re not having to go up the stairs.” Her voice was shaky.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, my eyes glued to the television as I tried to think of ways to keep her talking while I made some sense of the fact that Matt Lauer was telling me that a plane had flown straight into the building—an enormous jet plane.
On the other end of the line I heard a thunderous reverberation—like a sonic boom that had just happened in your own backyard. “Cami?”
“Mom?” she shrieked at the same time. “What was that? Do you have the TV on? What are they reporting?” Then I heard her talking to others around her as the news spread. “Mom? People here are telling us that planes are flying into the towers—huge planes. What’s happening?”
“Keep moving, Cami. The fire and police departments are on the scene. The best thing you can do is get out so they can do their jobs.”
“Stay on the phone, okay?” she begged. “Don’t talk. Just stay on, okay?”
“I’m not leaving you,” I promised, and knew it for the lie that it was. I was safe in my kitchen in Madison, Wisconsin. Minutes passed as I chattered on about the weather and the news at home. Outside it was a glorious September day—one of those stereotypical Americana mornings you see in the movies—blue skies over the calm waters of the lake with the flag over the Capitol building. As the flag rippled lazily in the light autumn breeze, the situation in New York suddenly seemed surreal. My daughter—my firstborn—was trapped in a stairwell filled with panicked people and smoke, while above her the fire raged and an ominous black pillar of smoke obliterated an identical blue sky in Manhattan.
I felt the tears I’d been holding back start to spill over as the signal faded. “Cami?”
“Right here—[crackle]—and here—[crackle]—are the good guys.”
For endless minutes all I could hear were other voices ordering people to stand aside and then the trampling of heavy feet and shouted commands.
“Firemen,” Cami explained after they’d passed. “Hope they—”
The line crackled and I prayed our connection would hold. “Cami,” I shouted as I watched the second hand tick off the minutes.
After what seemed like forever, I heard Cami say, “Okay. Making some progress now.”
Another boom—this one prolonged and so loud that I nearly dropped the phone. I spun back to the TV in time to see the south tower collapse like the blocks that Todd and Taylor had delighted in knocking over as children. At that same moment I heard Spencer’s car in the driveway.
I stumbled to the door as he ran to the house, leaving the motor on and the car door open. “Have you heard from Cami?” he asked, and I understood that my face must have mirrored what I had just seen.
Spence
I pried the phone from Zoe’s fingers as she held it toward me. Her face was ashen and she seemed incapable of breathing, much less speaking.
“Cami?” I shouted, then more calmly added, “It’s Dad.”
“Daddy? What’s happening? The walls are cracking like enormous zippers and there’s so much smoke and—” She started to cough.
I followed Zoe into the kitchen and blinked at the television replay of the collapse of the south tower. My daughter was trapped in a stairwell in the north tower. How much time did she have to get out? “Cami, keep moving,” I ordered. “Just keep going. I’m right here with Mom and we’re not going to leave you, okay?”
Above the thousand other voices around her I could hear my daughter breathing. Just keep breathing, I pleaded, whether to Cami or God or both I couldn’t have said. Keep moving. One foot, then the other, then…
I forced away from the horror repeated incessantly on the television and focused on the lake. I remembered the day I sat in the old rowboat we’d inherited when we bought the house. Cami swam alongside. Breathe—stroke—breathe—stroke, I’d coached.
“You breathe,” she’d snapped back when she’d gulped a healthy mouthful of lake water instead of air and emerged coughing as she clung to the side of the boat. Then, with the mischievous twinkle she’d gotten directly from Zoe, she tipped the boat so that I landed with a splash next to her.
“Cami?” Zoe had picked up the portable phone from the family room and returned to stand next to me. “We’re here, Cami,” she yelled.
“Just tell me what that noise was,” Cami yelled back, her voice breaking in the separate syllables laced with panic.
“The south tower collapsed, Cami,” I told her as my eyes met Zoe’s. “You have to get out of there.”
“I’m trying, Dad. But…”
“Cami, remember that time you were training for the swim meet and I was in the boat and—”
To my relief she laughed. I exchanged a look with Zoe and saw that she understood what I’d just realized. If this was our daughter’s last hour on earth, we were not going to waste it reprimanding her. Zoe gave a quick nod.
“That was the same summer you decided to take up cooking. Remember?” Zoe said. “Grandma Marie taught you how to make her famous coconut cake? How about making one when you’re home for Thanksgiving?” Zoe stretched out her hand to me.
I flicked off the television and grasped Zoe’s hand.
“Almost there—losing you,” Cami shouted. “Almost there…”
I suddenly could not speak around the enormous lump that had formed in my throat or the weight that pressed down on my chest. This is what it feels like when your heart breaks, I thought. Zoe took the phone from me and kept shouting Cami’s name and redialing the number as I switched on the television. Minutes later we watched as the north tower crumbled to the ground. In the silence of that perfect day, the only sound I heard in that house where we’d raised our beautiful daughter was the phone hitting the granite counter. When I turned, Zoe was sliding to the floor, her legs liquid, her face a mask of grief and disbelief.
Zoe
By noon the house and yard were crowded with people—family and friends who had all watched as the unimaginable had happened. But for most of them this war had not yet hit as close to their homes as it had to ours. And so they came or called. Neighbors, coworkers, Spence’s students and former students deposited their offerings of food in the kitchen with Marie and Todd’s wife, Sandra, who had arrived and taken charge of the kitchen seemingly within minutes after we lost contact with Cami. The guests would say a few words to one family member or another and then wander out to the lawn to speak quietly in small groups of their own disbelief and shock.
The chair of the committee in charge of the sala called to tell me that the Thailand delegation had been on the last plane allowed to land at O’Hare before they stopped all air traffic. As if that would somehow comfort me. Of course he hadn’t heard about Cami yet. I glanced at the sky and realized how quiet the day had grown. In contrast to the chaotic sounds of the morning—the screams, the shrieks, the sobs and the sheer thunder of supposedly indestructible buildings collapsing like playing cards—had been replaced by this silence. As if the world were holding its breath, waiting for what would happen next.
Todd—so like his father—stoic and unflappable in the face of any challenge—moved from group to group, thanking people for coming, enduring their expressions of sympathy while I stood at the window of our bedroom, observing the scene. Taylor had phoned to say he was driving cross-country and would drive through the night to be home as soon as possible.
I had excused myself, citing the need to keep trying to reach my parents in New York. Understandably the lines to the city had been jammed for hours. The truth was that once I reached the safety of our bedroom and closed the door, I had spent the entire time dialing Cami’s cell phone.
“She isn’t dead,” I muttered as I stood at the window, observing the mother of one of Cami’s closest friends break down in front of Spencer and have to be led away by her husband. “We don’t know that yet,” I added, wanting to shout it at all of them as I let the blind tumble back to the sill.
I prayed for Spence to do something, to assume command, to reassure us all by putting on the mantle of leadership he had worn so well in Vietnam and in his career as a doctor and professor. I watched him through the slats of the blind. He stood off to one side of the yard—the same way he had stood on the fringes of the gathering after my brother’s funeral. He looked the way my father had—shell-shocked and broken.
I threw the portable phone on the bed and cast about for something concrete I could do, some action I could take. My daughter called out to me. I stood in front of the closet, staring at the contents, seeking answers in whatever had made me cross the room and stand there. Finally I took down a duffel from the top shelf and positioned it on the bed. By rote I opened dresser drawers and deposited items in the duffel—underwear, socks, T-shirts for Spencer, then the same for me. I turned to the closet, ignoring the tap on the door.
“What are you doing?” Spence asked as he walked in and closed the door behind him. His tone was lifeless and held no real curiosity, just weariness for what craziness he might be called upon to deal with.
“Packing,” I replied, and continued depositing clothing in the duffel, stretching it to accommodate each pile. “Should I pack your electric shaver or a regular blade?”
“Zoe?”
I looked at him then, his handsome faced aged at least ten years in just the past few hours. His eyes red-rimmed from the tears he refused to allow others to witness but had shed freely behind the locked door of his study. His shoulders stooped with the weight of the day’s events.
“We don’t know, Spence. We don’t know anything. We’ll go to New York. We can stay with my parents. And we will find Cami,” I pleaded. “If we drive through the night, we’ll be there by morning. Todd and Sandra and your folks can stay here in case Cami calls. We’ll have our mobile phone.”
Spence gave a dry shuddering sob and nodded. “Let’s go bring our daughter home,” he said.
We traded off driving—two hours on, bathroom and coffee stop to switch drivers, then back on the road. We talked only if there was some question about a detour for road construction or a way around a city that could be bypassed. The one who wasn’t behind the wheel slept or pretended to. The driver plowed on, with the strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing repeatedly on the audiotape that had already been in place when we began the trip. Marie had packed a hamper with enough sandwiches and bottled water and fruit to sustain us for several trips between Wisconsin and New York, but we devoured them hungrily and without much appreciation along the way.
When my shift at the wheel came around just after midnight, Spencer crawled into the backseat and curled himself along the width of it. I tossed him the small pillow that he kept at the small of his back when driving. In minutes I heard the soft rhythm of his breathing and knew that I was alone with Vivaldi and my thoughts for the next couple of hours at least.
How can he sleep? I fumed, the anger I’d felt throughout the day finding a target at last. Then I recalled when Cami had asked the same question, probing for answers I neither wanted nor could give her.
Earlier that summer Cami had burst into the house, clearly expecting the usual frenzied activity that had been the hallmark of all our years as a family. But with Taylor off at college in California and Todd married and living on the farm, it was just Spencer and me. “How can he sleep?” Cami had asked me that night after supper when Spencer had settled into his den on the pretense of watching the news and promptly fallen asleep. What she left unsaid was When I’m here for just a couple of days?
“Your father works hard,” I told her. “And neither one of us is getting any younger, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She studied me for a long moment. “So, are you two okay? I mean, please don’t tell me that you stayed together for the kids and now that we’re all out of the nest, you’re falling apart.”
That was the night that I saw her across the kitchen table where we had conducted a thousand mother-daughter talks and accepted that she was no longer coming home to seek our guidance and advice. That was the night that I realized that without my being aware of the exact moment—as I had always been aware of milestones in the lives of my children—she had evolved into her own person, made her own life. That was the night that my daughter and I talked until four in the morning about everything that two grown women might entrust to each other upon realizing that they had passed the parent-child milestone and blossomed into the best of friends. That was the night that Cami had dared me to go into the den, wake Spencer and announce that the three of us were going out for breakfast—at four in the morning, as he and I had done in those days when we’d been students…and madly in love.
Spencer stirred in the backseat, unfolded his lanky frame with much grunting and groaning and leaned over the console between the front seats. “Zoe, it’s almost four. You must be beat. Why didn’t you wake me?”
I shrugged and pointed to a billboard advertising a truck stop that served breakfast twenty-four/seven. “How about some pancakes?” I asked.
Mom and Dad were waiting for us when we pulled up. Dad had called in every favor he could to get us through the detours and barriers that had locked down the city. Now he arranged for the doorman to handle parking the car while we rode with them in the elevator to their penthouse—a place Cami had always adored.
“Gramma Kay has the most incredible taste!” she would exclaim after spending summers working in the city and living with my parents during her college years, implying that I was definitely lacking in that department. “I mean, the way she uses antiques and mixes them with contemporary art. I mean, wow!”
In the living room, a large canvas that usually occupied the wall opposite the sofa was missing. It was Cami’s favorite, and I felt a sudden need to make sure that it hadn’t been sold. “What happened to the Pollock?” I asked.
Mom glanced at the empty space on the wall, burst into tears and left the room. “We gave it to Cami for a housewarming present when she moved into the loft,” Dad explained.
The loft. I glanced at Spencer and saw that we were thinking the same thing. It hadn’t even occurred to us to try the loft. If Cami had made it out of the north tower before it collapsed, she might have found her way back there. She might be lying there hurt, unable to call us. I grabbed the phone and dialed. A disembodied voice informed me that the number was temporarily out of service.
Mom returned, carrying a tray with coffee mugs and a plate of breakfast rolls. “I made some herbal tea,” she said. “You’ve both probably had enough coffee to keep you going for days, but you need your rest. You’ll be no good to Cami if the two of you collapse.”
This was the mother I had always leaned on in hard times. The no-nonsense, let’s-be-practical woman who could chair any committee or group and turn it into an institution through the sheer force of her organizational skills. I glanced at Spence and saw him manage a smile as he accepted the mug of tea that Mom handed him.
“What’s your plan?” Dad asked as we all settled around the coffee table.
Spence waited for me to answer, but I really hadn’t thought much beyond where we were now. Get to New York and find Cami.
“Ah,” Dad said. “Perhaps your mother can help.”
To my astonishment, Mom produced a folder of neatly printed papers—names and numbers of hospitals where survivors had been taken; names and numbers for rescue groups and hastily organized survivor contact groups. “I’ve called them all at least once,” Mother said. “With no luck, I’m afraid, but everything has been such a mess,” she added.
Dad reached over and pulled out more papers—at least fifty copies of a single sheet that featured the heading: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Underneath was a recent color photo of Cami, along with information about age, hair and eye color, height and weight and what she was wearing when last seen—the Armani suit. Then, in bold print at the bottom, IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT: with three phone numbers I didn’t recognize.
“Your father has set up a phone bank at the office,” Mom explained.
“Have you heard from anyone?” Spence asked.
My father nodded. “We’ve had dozens of calls, but only one seems to relate to Cami—so far.”
Spence and I both leaned forward, and Dad’s eyes skittered away.
“Someone saw her get onto the elevator,” Mom said. “Someone who worked with her from her previous company.”
Spence slumped back on the sofa and focused on his hands. I got up and roamed the room. “We already know she got on the elevator,” I ranted. “We know she got off the elevator. We know she made it all the way down to at least the nineteenth floor before…before we lost contact. Where is she now?” I spun around toward the fireplace and pounded my fist on the marble mantel. “Where is my daughter?” I said once, but did not stop pounding the cold white stone until I felt Spencer’s hands on my shoulders.
“Lie down for an hour, Zoe, and then we’ll go there. We’ll go to the loft. We’ll go to every hospital. We’ll go to every temporary shelter. We’ll go together, okay? We will find her.”
I watched the antique clock as it ticked off each second. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” I whispered. “Why does it seem like forever?”