Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [57]
I don’t think I’ve ever been loved by anybody as much as he loves me.
(And I hope he knows I love him back just as much. Or more!)
I’m not a man who cries easily. I can count on one hand the times I remember crying. But a sob rises in my throat when I hear Karen.
“Hello?” Her voice is quick and sharp. It’s higher pitched than usual. It’s just about the best sound I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Karen, it’s me. I’m okay. I am out. Roselle and I made it out of the tower.”
I hear Karen weeping on the phone. It’s 10:32 a.m., almost two hours since our phone call just after the explosion above my office. Then we are quiet, with nothing else to say just yet.
You know what they say about the two becoming one in marriage? It’s true. Just like Roselle and I are close partners, relying on each other in a symbiotic relationship that transcends the average dog-owner relationship, so, too, do Karen and I rely on each other. We are both wounded. Our bodies don’t work quite right. While I have been blind from birth, Karen has been paralyzed from birth. She can’t walk and gets around in a wheelchair. She is my eyes, and I am her feet. We need each other. Like most other guys, I don’t like to ask for help, and growing up blind intensified my natural bent toward independence. I’ve always been used to figuring things out, doing my homework and finding ways to adapt and even excel. But I need Karen. She is beautiful inside and out. She keeps me grounded with her common sense. She matches me wit for wit. Her creativity and wisdom light up my life. She loves dogs. And she drives me around. What more could a guy want?
Because we both have managed to thrive in a world where our needs are not often met, we are kindred spirits, two halves of one soul. And today, we were almost torn apart.
Before we hang up, Karen tells me what is really going on. There are terrorists—no one knows how many—carrying out a coordinated attack on the United States. There are four airplanes involved so far, maybe more. The first plane hit our building, Tower 1. Fifteen minutes later, a plane struck Tower 2, the twin to our building. A third plane attacked the Pentagon. A fourth plane is still unaccounted for. Every plane across the country has been grounded, and the president is in hiding. No one knows what is going on or what will happen next. New York is in chaos, the country at a standstill. And the world is watching.
I breathe it all in. It’s hard to accept. We are quiet for a moment. Then I tell her I love her and close up my phone. I want to get out of here. David, Roselle, and I continue trudging north, joining the throngs trying to flee Manhattan by car, bicycle, and on foot. At some point we cut back over to Broadway and decide to rest on a bench at a small Chinatown plaza near Canal Street, called Chatham Square. We sit down near a statue of Lin Ze Xu, a national hero of China who battled the foreign-backed opium trade in the nineteenth century.
I pull out my portable radio from my book bag and start scanning AM stations. All of them are reporting on what is happening at the World Trade Center. The mayor is on, asking everyone to remain calm. He goes over the details, most of which Karen already told me. Then he fields questions from the press. We listen for ten minutes or so, Roselle asleep on my shoes. Then the mayor gives us direct orders. Everyone is asked to evacuate to points north of Canal Street. Our rest is over. Once again, we get up and head north.
David remembers a friend who lives in Manhattan, a woman named Nina Resnick. He calls and tells her what we’ve been through and asks if we can stop at her apartment. She agrees without hesitation and tells us she will meet us there in a couple of hours.
We walk some more, and at noon we find a small Vietnamese restaurant open. I order soup. The warmth is soothing, and