September 11, 2001

Suburbs of Chicago

24 years old.

It wasn’t even a year since I had been hospitalized. The road to recovery was long and arduous and I was still in the thick of it. The very thick of it.

That is why I was still asleep at noon that day. My future husband, who I had been living with for almost a year, had gone to work. It was one of the rare times during our relationship he was able to hold a job.

So, I was alone. In my sleepy state, I thought I could hear the phone ring. Over and over again. Why was it ringing so much? I repeatedly rolled back over and went to sleep.

That morning, I dreamt about my older brother. I had not heard from him in so long. A sense of dread washed over me when I finally got out of bed and headed down the hall.

Something was wrong with my brother, I kept thinking. Something horrible had happened to him. I just knew it.

By the time I reached the phone, it had stopped ringing. I checked the ID and saw it had been my parents.

My stomach fell. I knew then that something definitely was wrong. They never called during peak hours.

I picked up the receiver and dialed them back.

It was my dad who answered the phone.

No hello.

No how are you.

No what are you doing.

Just, “Have you been bombed?”

He had to be kidding me. What kind of greeting was that?

“What are you talking about?” I asked, wondering what he would possibly say next. My father is known for his ability to play tricks and joke sarcastically. Anyone who has spoken to him knows he can start off with an outlandish statement and then link it to something he has recently found ridiculous.

But, I was a little agitated. Asking if I had been bombed was not a mannerly thing to do. It was inappropriate, even.

What he said next flooded my senses with confusion, pain, and a sense of urgency.

It wasn’t my brother.

It was something else.

Dread paralyzed my soul.

I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand.

I stopped him from his horrible, ongoing list.

I had to hang up. I had to hang up.

My God, I had to hang up.