It’s sort of an East Coast thing—a rite of passage—moving to New York. I grew up in a suburb outside D.C. Relative to New York, D.C. is amateur hour. So, when I got into Cardozo—a young, progressive law school in New York—I didn’t hesitate. Goodbye, small potatoes. Hello, Big Apple.
In the grand tradition of moving to New York, I was just 22—naive enough not to think of myself as naive—and wholly unworried about dangers that may lay in store. You know, the kind people warn you about—pickpockets, subway creeps, lurkers in the park.
In fact, my instincts were correct. In 2010, New York bore little resemblance to the gritty cesspool represented in Taxi Driver and The Panic in Needle Park; that brand of trepidation belonged to people who’d never actually lived here. The danger ahead was of an entirely different variety. The kind that visits you no matter where you live. The kind that arrives politely—a phone call, a knock on the door—and casually blows up your life.
My boyfriend—a soon-to-be relic of my past—dropped me off. I remember it so clearly—standing there in the cold, my suitcase at my side like a comrade, my own R2-D2. The taillights of my boyfriend’s car receded, glowed brighter, turned a corner, and disappeared. It was January 4 and 17 degrees Fahrenheit—so it’s fair to say the moment is frozen in time.
I lived in “intern housing” for five months—the average amount of time required to secure an apartment that is both affordable and doesn’t resemble a Soviet-era interrogation room. Intern housing turned out to be the New Yorker Hotel, which was terribly cool to me at the time. Cardozo had reserved an entire floor for students and interns from all over the world. Before long, I was doing things like walking briskly to the subway, Greek coffee cup in hand, giving tourists directions and skirting dead rats with aplomb. I was, at last, a bona fide New Yorker (or at least someone who could be mistaken for one).
Of course, I still called my parents. A lot. I even listened to bedtime stories. Technically.
My dad and I both loved reading. He was always giving me books, talking to me about books—and now, reading aloud lengthy paragraphs from books over the phone. He always wanted to talk about it—the story and the writing and the symbolism—and how it made him think and feel. I loved it. I’ll never forget the pride I felt the first time I recommended a book my dad enjoyed in the same way I enjoyed books he recommended to me. Perhaps—even more so than moving to New York, going to law school, and keeping a houseplant alive—successfully recommending a book to my dad made me realize I’d made it. At long last, I was an adult.
I woke up that morning racked with nerves. It was the first day of my clinical internship—January 27, 2012—my final semester of law school. I chose my outfit carefully—black pantsuit, pale blue button-down, sensible heels—then showed up to discover it was a casual office, everyone in jeans and T-shirts. The rest of the day was dull, boredom breaking only once, in the middle of orientation, when my phone went off like a nuclear meltdown alarm. Embarrassed for the second time that day, I turned it off and apologized. When I turned it on again, at 5 p.m., the screen lit up with a dozen missed calls—all from my mom. I knew something was wrong. She picked up on the first ring.
When I turned my phone on again, the screen lit up with a dozen missed calls—all from my mom.
“Just so you know,” I said. “I’m in an elevator with someone else.”
I’ll put it this way: When I entered the elevator, I was one person; when I exited, I was someone else. Sometimes I look back and imagine the “someone else” in that elevator was me—the version of me that would never receive this call, the version that emerged from the elevator’s sliding doors to walk through the lobby, hail a cab, and meet friends for drinks. Maybe she’s out there somewhere, living my parallel life—the one in which my dad didn’t die suddenly of a heart attack.
My friend Jess was already waiting outside the building. The second I saw her, I collapsed. Poor Jess—she’s really tiny—and yet, somehow, she managed to practically carry me the three blocks to my apartment. My childhood best friend met us there. She and Jess packed my suitcase. I was so out of it, I couldn’t even recall where my clothes were. As though clothes belonged to some other realm in which people had bodies to clothe. I had no body. I was a vapor, the puff of smoke after the rabbit disappears.
My dad was an artist. The house always smelled like paint, or sounded like whatever tools he was using. A hammer could actually be soothing, so strongly did I associate it with him. He was always listening to music. He had a motorcycle that shook the whole house when he started it up in the garage. When my friends put me in that cab to LaGuardia, I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t hear. And I’d discover a short while later that people don’t die all at once. It’s more like an earthquake, with endless rolling aftershocks; even years later, when the aftershocks mostly subside, you’ll find it difficult to adapt, like a sailor on steady ground. My father died the first time when my mother told me so over the phone. He’d die again when I got home to a house bereft of certain sounds.
I got through security, somehow, and sat on the floor against a wall, my phone plugged into the outlet. I called a friend to see if he could pick me up when I arrived—my mother couldn’t drive. After that, I just sat there, pitiful, crying. According to social contract, no one noticed—or rather, everyone pretended not to notice.
And yet, someone did stop. He might as well have been the Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, he was so nondescript—a 40-something commuter of average height, dressed in a button-down tucked into work slacks, holding a briefcase. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Do you need anything? Are you by yourself?”
It’s funny in retrospect, because my dad would have been super mad knowing I told this strange man in the airport—“Yes! I am all by myself.” But I took it one step further and told him my whole sad situation—I was flying home, my dad had just died, I’d bought the earliest flight I could, but it wasn’t leaving for hours and I got to the airport super early.
The man took all this in with a look of concern—sincere, authoritative concern, like President Obama in the Situation Room.
He told me to wait where I was: Not a problem, because I was as attached to that wall as my phone charger. When he returned—it could have been five minutes, or 50—he told me he got me on an earlier flight. It wasn’t a lot earlier, but the smallest amount of time mattered so much to me. I was taken aback by this unexpected act of generosity, even in my current state. I don’t remember his name—I’m not sure he even told me his name. I didn’t know what he did for a living. And yet, he carried my bag to the gate, sat across the aisle from me, and held my hand. He asked me questions. He asked about my dad. He talked to me that entire flight, and when we landed, he walked me all the way to the door to where my best friend from high school picked me up. I think he waved goodbye. I’m not sure I thanked him—I hope so.
Like my father’s death, this anonymous act of compassion changed me forever. I’m less afraid to approach the crying girl on the street to ask, “Are you OK?” I haven’t saved any lives, or counseled anyone through grief. But I have made friends for the night. I don’t walk by, pretending not to see.
If I were to cross paths with that man today, I wonder would I recognize him? When I think of his face, it’s a total blank. It was his kindness that left the indelible impression.
I was so young—24—when I lost my dad. None of my friends could relate. For years I felt really alone—stranded on my planet for one. I still feel that way sometimes. But I think about the man who helped me that day—every time I’m at a gate, every time a plane takes off, every time I’m looking for my ride. I don’t feel alone when I fly. His kindness keeps me company. 