Shock waves racked my body, causing me to double over. Tears streamed down my face, beneath the collar of my shirt. I couldn’t breathe. I choked, clawing at the top button until it popped open.
The woman in the seat beside me at the airport, dead. The flight attendant chatting with the gate attendant before going to prepare the plane, dead. The cute kids in the corner, dead. Everyone on the plane plunged into the south tower, their lives extinguished in an instant. Everyone except me.
Dan. Holy fuck, I killed Dan. He never would’ve been on the plane if it weren’t for me. His death was my fault. Despair overwhelmed me.
I should be dead. Brett Cooper was supposed to be on Flight 175, sitting in seat 23A. Brett Cooper is dead. I’m dead.
With a gasp, I shoved myself away from the counter, dropping a twenty into the soggy mess that used to be my eggs. In a daze, I wheeled my suitcase to the attached hotel, plunked cash on the counter, then asked for a room. Mechanically, I followed the clerk’s instructions to the elevator, stepped off at the third floor, and staggered down the hall. Finally, I dropped onto the bed and allowed CNN to fill my brain with information.
A couple of hours later, I turned it off, unable to watch anymore. My entire body shook. My thoughts whirled.
Jess wrote down my flight information. I should’ve been on the flight. The only person in the world who knew I didn’t board that plane was dead. Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of how easily I could’ve been among them.
The media would release passenger lists from all of those flights. My name would be on one of those lists. I’d checked in for the flight, shown my driver’s license. Dan only showed my boarding pass—no one checked ID at the gate. My parents and brother would see my name, think I was dead. They’d never learn the truth about me.
As soon as she verified the flight number, Jess would think I died on that plane. She’d call my parents, and she would grieve. My parents and Brad would comfort each other; they’d be fine. One day, Jess would move on. She’d find someone more open, less conflicted. Calling her now, telling her I was okay, felt like the most selfish thing I could possibly do. She was so much better off without me. They all were.
Our marriage could never last, but if I went home, we’d try. I’d pretend nothing was wrong, we’d even have kids to see if that helped fill the void inside me. What was worse: the pain of losing me now, in a heartbeat, or the pain of losing me slowly over the next twenty-five years? She deserved to be free, to find someone who was free to love her. Jess’s future children deserved a better father. I couldn’t love a family when I didn’t know how to love myself.
For weeks before the interview, I was tense. I’d thought being married would make me feel like I fit in, like I was the man my brother Brad always told me to be. I wanted to be what Jess needed, but my unease with myself—with my body—kept growing. Faking contentment it didn’t help. Starting over somewhere new might be the answer, but deep inside, I doubted it.
As we’d driven up I-93 to Logan airport, Jess had remained quiet, lost in her thoughts. Part of me wondered what she was thinking, if she realized our marriage was wrong, if she ever noticed I was wrong. But mostly I’d wondered what would happen if I got on the plane, got off in Los Angeles, headed for Mexico, and never turned back. She’d be better off without me.
Jess wasn’t happy. She pretended things were good, and I knew she wanted to make it work, but her posture told me she sensed my weirdness. She didn’t understand it, but she reflected it back at me, anyway. Things kept getting more awkward.
She deserved better.
She’d snuck a glance at me, which I saw reflected in the passenger’s side window. I waited. If she had something to say, we had another five miles for her to get around to telling me.
“I got a letter from UCLA’s School of Medicine yesterday,” she said finally.
“Oh, yeah?” My heart sank, although I tried to sound excited for her.
I didn’t want to move to Los Angeles, didn’t want to live in the land of perfect beach bodies, glowing tans, and tofu. I also didn’t have the slightest idea how to tell my wife that I had been hoping not to get the very job I’d been about to fly out to interview for. But if she got into medical school, everything changed. It would be much more difficult to stall and avoid the move without pissing her off. I might have to make a decision I’d been terrified to make.
“Yeah. I’m in!”
“That’s amazing, Jess! I knew you’d do it!” Although a pit was growing in my stomach, I grasped on a tiny strand of hope. “What about the financial aid package?”
Jess furrowed her brow, attention suddenly very intent upon the road. “They offered me a small scholarship.”
“How small?”
“The cost of living is lower in Los
Angeles—”
“—than in New York City and Boston and San Francisco and virtually nowhere else in the United States. We’ve been over this. How much, Jess?”
Jess cleared her throat. “Five thousand a year.”
“That’s it?”
“We may qualify for low-cost student housing, but otherwise, yeah. That’s it.”
What a shitty financial aid package. Okay, we wouldn’t have to move. A wave of relief hit me before I realized it made me a total ass for being glad we couldn’t live out my wife’s dream. Maybe I should encourage her to go without me. She’d be happier in the long run.
“That’s less than Boston University offered. And if we stay in Boston, I have a job and we have a place to live and we have friends and—”
“We’re buried in snow every winter and we forget what the sun looks like and, God, I’m sick of having this same conversation. I want to move to L.A., Brett. Whether you get the job or not. I want to go to UCLA and get an M.D. and get a change of scenery at the same time. We’ll figure everything else out once we get there.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I focused on the city skyline drawing near, my gaze planted on the window as we curved down the ramp connecting I-93 to the Mass Pike. What if I told her how I felt? Would it make anything better?
“Please say something,” Jess had said.
No, it wouldn’t.
The car entered the Ted Williams Tunnel. We’d be at the airport in less than ten minutes. I didn’t want to leave for three days after telling her how scared I was that our fledgling marriage might be over already. Or telling her how messed up I was.
When I got back, I’d make an appointment with a therapist and find a way to work everything out. It was the only solution. Otherwise, this awkwardness between us would continue to grow until one of us snapped.
“I’m sorry, Jess. Just nervous about making the flight. We left the house late, and I’ve never flown before.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said for the four hundredth time. “I’ve been having trouble getting out of bed in the mornings.”
“It’s not you. It’s fine. It’s hard for me to make life-changing decisions when I’m afraid I won’t even make it onto the plane. I don’t know what I want. But I don’t think racking up a ton of debt is the best way to start married life, do you?”
“Do you think being poor and miserable is the best way to start married life? Working at a crap nine-to-five job knowing I’ll never make anything of myself?”
The car pulled off the highway, so I didn’t answer while she maneuvered through the cloverleaf making up the airport, other than to point at the exit for my terminal.
Jess took a deep breath. She sounded much less pissed when she spoke again. “One thing at a time, okay? I’ll look into grants and scholarships while you’re gone. This job is a huge jump for you. If you get it, that’ll make our decision much easier. Let’s see what happens.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said dully. “Let’s wait and see.”
My flight took off in less than an hour. Getting to my gate in time wasn’t guaranteed if the security lane got backed up.
“Do you want me to park and walk you to the gate?”
The last thing I needed was to argue about our future while waiting to board. “No, I’m fine. I’ll see you when I get home. Pull in over here and I’ll jump out.”
Before she shifted into park at the curb, my door flew open. I jumped out of the car, hoping it looked like I was worried about being late and not trying to escape our conversation. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, then leaned through the front driver’s window to kiss her cheek, almost as an afterthought.
I started to walk away, well aware that she held her head rigid, didn’t turn to let me kiss her lips. She must be really angry. Poor Jess. She deserved better.
“Brett!” she called. I stopped and turned around. “I love you!”
“I love you, too, Jess!”
I blew her a kiss, turned, and disappeared into the crowd. If I’d known I would never see her again, I’d have stood watching until she drove out of sight.
As terrible a tragedy as the crash was for the rest of the world, for me, a golden opportunity presented itself. This was my chance to start a new life, without hurting Jess any more than absolutely necessary. My wallet held cash for the trip, not a ton, but some. I could walk away. Jess could be free. I could be free.
∞ ♡ ∞
A couple of hours later, I made myself get up and leave the hotel. Nearby, I found a consignment shop where a forty-year-old woman with blood-red nails and a black bob stood behind the counter. She offered me a hundred bucks cash for all three suits in my suitcase.
“That’s it?” I asked.
She rifled through them a second time. “If you wanted to leave them here until they sold, you could probably get more, but you said you need the cash now.”
My eyes met hers in a silent plea. Mascara caked her lashes, muddying, rather than enhancing, her hazel eyes. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the make-up tip, though.
“Okay, fine,” she relented. “I’ll give ya fifty cash and a hundred in trade if you throw in the suit you’re wearing. Plus another fifty for the suitcase.”
The carry-on sized roller bag I’d packed to take on the plane served no purpose in my new life. Jess’s parents bought us this gorgeous leather set for a wedding present. Intact, the whole set must’ve cost them a couple grand. At the time, it was a much better gift than the life insurance policy my parents gave us. But I didn’t need the reminder of my old life, and I no longer owned enough clothes to fill it.
The woman coughed, derailing my train of thought. “It’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
I rolled the bag around the counter, handle pointed toward her. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”
An hour later, I wove through a sea of pedestrians on the sidewalk, carrying a slightly-worn red backpack full of jeans and T-shirts and wearing a brand-new fake Boston Red Sox cap bought for ten bucks from a street vendor, pulled low over my now beardless face. The extra cash in my wallet added a spring to my step.
Someone shoved a microphone under my nose. “Sir, what do you think about today’s shocking terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center?”
Behind a fake-tanned, overly-made up woman with perfect hair stood a man holding a camera displaying a solid red light. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Oh no. I couldn’t afford to get caught on video while fleeing from my old life.
I pulled the cap lower over my face and planted my gaze firmly on the sidewalk. “No comment,” I mumbled before I took off into the crowd.
Block after block passed in a blur before I stopped to catch my breath. I had no way of knowing how much time passed. What if they used the footage? What if Jess saw it? Would she recognize me?
Something in the backpack dug into my hip as I walked. I welcomed the pain, the chance to feel something for the first time in days.
It was time to come up with a long-term plan. Staying here forever wasn’t an option. Too expensive, too close to home, too much chance I’d run into someone who knew me or Jess.
I slowed to a walk, moving up and down the sidewalks, trying to figure out where I’d wound up. Street signs provided little help since Boston streets liked to tell a person the name of cross streets only, not the name of the street you’re actually walking on. There weren’t any gas stations in this residential area, so I kept going. Boston was a walking city. Even if most people were inside, mourning or glued to their TVs, I’d eventually find another person to give me directions back downtown.
The sun rose high in the sky before I turned down a random street and spotted a small park at the end of the row of brownstones. The pinprick in my hip grew more obnoxious. The name of the park told me nothing; I wasn’t familiar with this part of the city. Finally, I dropped to a bench to figure out what the heck was poking me and what to do next.
The backpack contained a ton of pockets. In the largest one, I found only the “new” clothes I’d bought, none of them with tags, sharp angles, or anything in the pockets. I turned my attention to the other zippers. The front pouch was empty. Behind it, I found another zippered compartment. Squeezing the bag, I felt something hard and square near the bottom. No, rectangular. This had to be whatever I kept feeling when the bag jostled.
The zipper stuck at first, but I eventually coaxed it open enough to stick my fingers inside. They closed against something smooth and hard. Slowly, I pulled the item out until I held a Canadian passport in my hand.
The book looked brand-new, although it was issued in 1998. The only stamp marring the perfect pages showed the day this person—Christina McCall—entered the U.S., more than a year ago. I wondered what happened to her. If she ditched the bag and the passport on purpose.
On the main page, Christina stared out at me with dark, serious eyes and lips thinly pressed together. She hadn’t smiled for this photograph. Her hair was about the same color as mine, her skin a few shades lighter. There must not be much sun in her part of Canada. The book said she’d been born in Saskatchewan. I didn’t have a clue where that was.
Trees rustled in the breeze, pulling my attention away from the book in my hands. White clouds drifted across the sky. Birds twittered in the trees. It was a perfect day to lose yourself. Maybe that’s what this Christina did. Lost herself in the city, changed her name, ditched her passport to become someone new. Having never met this woman, I identified strongly with her fictitious desire to start over.
Across the park, a guy about my age sat on a blanket, reading. I approached, hoping he’d be able to direct me back toward downtown. Nearly all of my belongings rested on my back, but I wanted to retrieve a picture of Jess left next to the nightstand in the hotel and catch another night of sleep. Figuring out where to go would be a bonus, but whatever. One thing at a time.
When he told me where we were, I just blinked at him. I’d come further than I thought in my daze. Maybe the long walk back would clear my thoughts.
Then I spotted something resting against a nearby tree. Something to help me get out of town much faster.
“Thanks for the directions,” I said. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for your bike.”
He clapped my back with one hand. “My friend, you’ve got yourself a deal.”