Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [55]
The noise begins to quiet, and another dust cloud crawls by. Thank God, this time the cloud misses us.
“Mike,” says David, “there is no World Trade Center anymore.”
We stand there, the three of us, not knowing what else to say or do. I am nearly undone. I am a survivor, but I feel no joy. I am numb.
Then I think of Karen. I haven’t talked to her since that moment I called her in the office after the first explosion. She is waiting to hear from me.
I pull out my cell phone and punch 1, the number assigned to Karen. Somehow I get through. It rings once, twice; then she picks up.
More calls. People want to know if Mike is okay. “I don’t know,” I tell them. “I’m waiting to hear from him.” I feel like I can’t catch my breath.
Every minute, every second, I am praying for Mike and Roselle. I know my husband; he is resourceful and capable. He’s great in emergencies, thinking through the problem and taking the time he needs to decide on the best course of action. But what is going on is so far beyond his control and something no one could ever really be prepared for. I think back to Roselle’s reaction to the early morning thunderstorm. How is she guiding? Is she afraid of the noise and the smoke?
I’m still alone in the house except for Linnie and the cats. I can’t tear myself away from the TV or the phone. Suddenly I remember the cleaning people are supposed to come today. I wonder if I should cancel? Usually I pick things up before they come so they can do some deep cleaning. The house is pretty messy right now. My mind begins to wander, thinking about what the rest of the day will bring. If Mike makes it home okay, we’re going to have people coming over. And if he dies, we’re going to have even more people, so I better get ready for them. I guess thinking about practical things like cleaning house for guests gives me a break for a brief moment. It helps me focus and gives me something to do so I don’t think too much about what could be happening to Mike.
Then the other tower collapses, exactly like the first, into a giant, gray dust-and-debris cloud. And the phone rings again. “Hello?” I answer. My voice is hollow and small.
“Karen.” My heart jumps. “It’s me, Mike.” Then he says the two best words I’ve ever heard. “I’m okay.”
I give in to tears. There are days Mike drives me crazy, but there are other days I know we were meant for each other. I know what it’s like to live with a limitation. My legs have been paralyzed since birth. Right before she gave birth to me, my mother became very ill with a kidney infection. I was released from the hospital before Mom was, and I think we almost lost her. Doctors weren’t sure whether the damage to my spinal cord came from the kidney infection or if it was related to my breech birth. Neither Mike’s parents nor my parents were of the litigation era, and although they might have had cause, back then you just didn’t sue doctors or hospitals.
I was the oldest child, and my parents had another girl and a boy after me. My dad wanted to be a doctor, but the war interrupted his plans. He served as an army medic then came back and went into psychology and teaching. During the war, Mom and her sisters drove school buses. They not only drove the buses but also brought them home each night and serviced them themselves.
I did well in school and got placed in the gifted group. I went to college at UC Riverside and wanted to become a school librarian. I had been working at the high school library since ninth grade.
I also attended Council for Exceptional Children conventions with my father and got to spend time with gifted researchers. They challenged my goal of working as a school librarian, and I remember them saying over a glass of wine, “Do you want to work with people? Or things?” People, of course. When I researched graduate schools, there were three major schools of library science on the West Coast: UC Berkeley, USC, and the University of Hawaii. But all three were