September 2001

Caitlin

I HAD NEVER HEARD OF malaria before Martin told me that his mother had it. I looked it up online and was startled. How could somebody die from a mosquito bite? It made no sense. Then I remembered a line from an early Martin letter where he wrote about Zimbabwean hospitals. He said that many people share one bed. And then he wrote Fun. That comment confused me back then, but now I know he was being sarcastic. There was nothing fun about any of it.

I read that quinine was used to combat the disease, which was potentially fatal if not treated. One website reported that Tylenol could help ease the symptoms. My urge to jump on a plane with two suitcases packed with pills was great. Instead, I went to Heather’s house to talk to her dad. He worked in the pharmaceutical industry. I figured he could help me figure out what to send, and the best way to do it.

“Caitlin, you cannot send medication to Zimbabwe in the mail,” he explained. “It is illegal.”

Too bad, I thought as I walked back home. My mom bought aspirin in bulk, and I had already put aside two extra-large bottles for Martin and his family. Now I just needed to figure out how to get them to him without getting arrested. I asked my mom to talk with Solange, who confirmed what Heather’s father had told me. Then one day I was talking to my nan, who is my mother’s mother.

“Doesn’t quinine help?” she asked.

“It does,” I said. “Why?”

“I have a bottle you can have,” she said.

“Nan, are you sure it’s quinine?” I asked, slightly exasperated. How could she have malaria medicine? She’d never been to Africa.

“I’m sure,” she said. “My doctor prescribed it for leg cramps, but it made me nauseated. The bottle is sitting in my medicine cabinet!”

I was flabbergasted. My grandmother had pills that could save Martin’s mother’s life.

“I will take them!” I said.

After we sent the last package to Zimbabwe, my mom set up a new box in the corner of our dining room—a place to put things for future deliveries. Richie was still living at home, going to community college. I hardly saw him, but I did notice one night that he’d thrown in a few T-shirts along with a pair of sneakers. I added Nan’s quinine pills and two bottles of Tylenol.

By then, I had started my junior year at North Penn and enrolled in a woodworking class.

On my first day, before I even sat down, the teacher said, “You have to wear covered shoes in this class.”

I was wearing my favorite wedge flip-flops and assumed he was joking.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Well, if you value your toes, and I can see you do, then you would want to protect them with proper shoes,” he responded sternly. “I recommend steel-toed boots.”

My mom and I went to the nail salon every Friday afternoon. That day, my toenails were painted a pale purple with silver swirls, which stood out against my black sandals. Stunned, I looked around the room and saw that I was the only girl in what was otherwise a sea of boys. They all wore sensible shoes. I grabbed my book bag and headed straight to the guidance counselor’s office.

There, I sat down with a woman who reminded me of my mom. I told her my predicament.

“Don’t you have closed-toe shoes?” she asked.

“I do,” I explained. “But I don’t want to have to wear them every day.”

We discussed my dreams and goals beyond college, and when I told her I was considering mechanical drawing, she sighed.

“That means you would have to take other classes like woodworking, where there are uniform rules,” she said.

“Well then, I need to think of a new career,” I answered. I know it sounds silly, but I didn’t want to be in a profession where I couldn’t wear open-toe shoes. Period.

I explained the entire situation to my parents that night over dinner. My dad remained quiet.

“Well,” my mother finally said, “you’re the only one who knows what will make you happy. And it’s better that you figure that out now than later!”

The only problem was that I had no idea what I wanted to be. I actually felt a bit jealous of Martin’s focus. I knew I had the freedom of choice, but I was finding it difficult to settle on one.

A few days later, I woke up late, as usual. After hitting snooze for a third time, I dragged myself into the shower. Heather and I made it to school just in time for the first bell, which meant I got to class just as everyone was saying the Pledge of Allegiance. I was waiting to get called out by my teacher, but she seemed preoccupied. She asked everyone to take a seat and then stepped into the hallway.

During my first period, my home economics teacher asked us to open our textbooks and do an exercise, which was also unusual. I was on my way to third period when I saw a few teachers huddled in the hallway. One was crying.

Finally, in my fourth-period history class, our teacher made an announcement.

“This morning two planes hit the twin towers in New York,” he said. There was a collective gasp as he switched on the television in the front of the room. The two skyscrapers looked like smokestacks, each spewing thick, billowy black clouds. A street view showed hundreds of people craning their necks, looking up in shock. Our teacher flipped through a few channels—every single one was talking about the twin towers. In another shot of one building, it looked as if Godzilla had taken a big bite out of its neck. Flames poured out of the gaping wound. It was like watching a horror movie, yet this was real.

All anyone talked about that morning was what was happening in New York City.

After lunch, I was in the auditorium waiting for English class to start when Richie came flying through the doors. He spotted me, and waved.

I waved back.

He yelled, “Caitlin, get your stuff. We have to go. Now.”

I knew it must be serious, so I grabbed my book bag and started making my way down the aisle.

“What’s up?” I said when I reached him.

He grabbed my elbow and started ushering me out of the auditorium.

“Mom told me to come get you,” he said.

“Why?”

“Haven’t you heard the news?”

“About the World Trade Center?” I asked.

“And the Pentagon?”

“No,” I said, still unsure of what any of it had to do with me.

“Caitlin, another plane also crashed in Washington,” Richie said. “The government is on lockdown—and we don’t know if or when they may strike again.”

“Who are they?” I was getting more and more anxious with each snippet of information.

Richie was five paces ahead of me, both physically and mentally.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked. She’d make sense of all of this for me.

“She has to stay with her students at school,” he said as we got into his car.

“Why do I have to go home now?” I asked. “We’re not in any danger.”

Richie must have sensed my panicked confusion, so he finally stopped to look me in the eye before he turned the ignition. “There was another attack in Pennsylvania,” he said. “North Penn High is right between Washington and New York. Mom thinks it’s an easy target and does not want to take any risks.”

Those words sucked all the oxygen out of the car. I cracked open the window.

“And,” he said, pulling out of the school’s driveway, “Mom hasn’t heard from Dad. He went to a military base this morning, Caitlin, and has not called since. She wants you and me to stay at home until we know he’s okay.”

I started connecting all the pieces: My dad worked for the government; he was at a military base; the Pentagon had been hit. I jumped to the impossible notion: My dad may be dead. I shook my head. That was preposterous. But then I remembered the fire I saw in the sky on the TV earlier that morning. That seemed impossible, too.

Once home, I clicked on the TV. The images were even more frantic, as the buildings had collapsed by then. It looked as if it was snowing in downtown New York. I heard a reporter say, “The ashes are scattering as far as Brooklyn,” and turned off the TV. It was too much to take in.

An hour later, I heard the dogs barking. Mom was home.

I ran downstairs.

“Have you heard from Dad?” I asked as soon as she walked in the door.

Her face was slick with tears so new I guessed that she must have just been sobbing in the car. When she shook her head, more tears sprang from her eyes. I ran over to give her a hug.

“He’s going to be okay, Mom—he has to be,” I said as I squeezed her. But I was not sure. All kinds of crazy thoughts went through my head, but rather than sit in front of the TV with my mom, I went up to my room and put Incubus on my CD player.

“I dig my toes into the sand,” the song started slowly. When it hit the “I wish you were here” chorus, I turned the volume up.

Three hours later, the phone rang. My mom shouted, “Thank God it’s you.”

I ran down to hug her as she continued to talk to my dad. I’d never been happier hearing his deep voice booming through the receiver. He said that he had been stuck on the military base, which was on red alert. All cell service was blocked. He was finally on his way home.

I stayed home from school the next day—and the rest of the week. My parents were rattled by the experience, and so was I. Especially when we learned that the plane crashes were an act of terrorism. I’d learned that word the year before, after the embassy bombings. I never expected anything like this would ever happen on US soil. Damon thought it would lead to a full-fledged war. We talked on the phone every night for hours.

“If there’s a draft, I’ll have to go,” he said somberly one night.

I kept quiet, but there was a maelstrom forming in my chest. The weekend before, Damon took me to Six Flags amusement park. We rode the Vertical Velocity and I had never been so scared in my life. That was just a ride. The thought of Damon leaving to go fight in some faraway war was terrifying in a different way.

“We can go to Canada,” I responded. “My family has friends there.”

“Baby, I will do what is right for my country,” he said.

“I won’t let you go!” I said. As those words left my mouth, I understood how everything I once knew to be true about my country had changed in an instant. My safe little world was quickly becoming unraveled.

I thought of Martin for the first time in days. Had he even heard about the attacks? I owed him a letter.

I eased in with a bit about my life in school before getting to the heart of what had been consuming me for the past six days since the attacks.

I guess by now you have heard of the terrible terrorist activities that have plagued our proud nation, I wrote. Those words released a torrent. I shared every single detail of that day, scene by scene. It was the first terrible thing that had happened to my country in my lifetime and I was still grappling with what it all meant. This tragedy touches all who believe in freedom, I continued. Although the terrorists were nameless and faceless, we will recover. Our strength comes from knowing that we are a strong nation who believes in liberty and freedom for all. Our buildings may crumble, our hearts will bleed, we shed openly our tears at the loss of loved ones, but we will survive. These terrorists have not won anything.

I did not even notice the tears that were streaming down my face until they splashed onto the keyboard as I typed. Please pray that our leaders find the appropriate answer to all this violence and find inspiration and intelligence to provide the plan to hit this terrorism in its heart.

There was so much more to say on this issue, one I thought Martin would somehow understand.