Instead of watching something stupid on that tiny little screen in front of me, I pull out the phone Jimmy made me buy. An iPhone X, whatever the hell that means. I had a flip phone when I went in, but those don’t work anymore, apparently. So now I have this sleek looking thing that doesn’t even have fucking buttons.
Kyle showed me how to work it. He even downloaded something so I could play Sudoku on it. I got pretty good at those inside. It’s a great way to kill time, I’ve discovered. So great, I don’t even notice an hour and a half has passed, when the pilot announces over the intercom we’ve started our descent and the seat belt light dings on again.
Instead of joining the slow-moving throng for the exit, I stay in my seat until the aisle is free before grabbing my overnight bag from the bin.
“Thank you,” I mumble at the flight attendant, who tries to grab my hand, but I’m too adept at avoiding physical contact and am already out the door. A quick glance over my shoulder shows her crouching down to pick up a piece of paper I’m pretty sure holds her phone number.
Without any baggage to collect, I make my way to the exit, flinching at the smells, sounds, and crowds. I flag down a taxi, and give the driver the address to the hotel.
It’s only seven fifteen in the morning and already I feel like I traveled to a completely different world.
The clerk at the hotel desk tells me it’s too early to check in, but I can leave my bag with the concierge to pick up later, which I do. Then I walk out into the street, following the directions I printed out in Jimmy’s office at the back of the shop.
There’s already a substantial crowd gathering around the monument. For a moment I contemplate heading back to the hotel, but I came here with a purpose. I owe Reagan a proper goodbye.
I make my way through bodies to the edge of the first of the twin basins, cascading into the void left behind by the buildings that once stood here. I’d seen pictures of the memorial left in their place and know somewhere on the bronze parapet, lining the north pool, the name Reagan Bennet would be engraved.
Eighteen years too late, but I’m finally here to claim my sister.
Robin
“What are you doing up so early?”
Shit. I’d hoped to slip out and leave her a note.
Mom walks into the sitting room of the small two-bedroom suite I booked when she told me she was coming. Paige has a tiny spare bedroom that only fits a twin bed, so instead we’re in a hotel only a block away from her place.
“I was just going to head out for a bit, Mom.”
We arrived here the day before yesterday and had a chance to spend some quality time with Paige, who had to work today. My plan had been to grab a taxi downtown, just a twenty-minute ride from the hotel, and then come back here to take Mom out for lunch. Tonight Paige is supposed to join us for dinner and to see the Tribute in Light.
“You’re going there, aren’t you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Do you mind?”
“No, sweetheart. I understand you need some time by yourself. I have no intention of interfering in that. I’m happy to putz around here, maybe read a bit, until you come back.”
I walk up to her and wrap her in a hug.
“Thanks, Mom. We’ll grab a late lunch when I come back, okay? Maybe try out that Caribbean place down the street? They have a nice outdoor patio and it’s supposed to be a clear, sunny day.”
“That sounds wonderful. Be careful out there.”
I press a kiss to her cheek and throw her a smile before exiting the room.
Half an hour and forty bucks later, I’m let off at the curb and climb up the steps to the memorial. They’ve already started with the reading of the names and I find a spot sitting on the edge of a planter where I can listen. It’s a long process—a lot of names—and as much as I ache for those grieving around me, I can’t help closing my eyes and blowing out a deep breath when I hear the name I’ve been waiting for.
It’s the same every year, the pain of loss so thick around me a good reminder how fragile we are. Yet with each return to this place, I feel more blessed.
“It never gets easier, does it?” A woman around my age takes a seat beside me on the ledge. I don’t have the heart to disagree with her.
“It doesn’t.”
“Do you come every year?”
“Since they finished the memorial, yes,” I inform her.
“Me too. Powerful, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Your husband?” she asks.
“Yes. And you?”
“Me too. Firefighter.”
“My husband was here for a meeting.”
We share the details quite matter-of-factly, nodding at each other in acknowledgment. Something brings each of us back year after year, but I doubt our motivations are the same.
“Do you have children?” I ask, curious.
The woman smiles.
“Two boys and a girl. It was the boys’ father who died, I had my daughter with my current husband.” She tilts her head slightly. “What about you?”
“We had a daughter together. No other kids.”
“Did you remarry?”
Under any other circumstances these questions would be too personal for such a casual meeting, but somehow it doesn’t feel that way here.
“I never did.”
For some reason that makes me tear up, and the woman—whose name I don’t even know—briefly squeezes my hand. Little does she know, my emotions have little to do with the loss of the man who was my husband. I grieve for the years I allowed him to take from me long after he was gone.
That’s why I come here. To remind myself I’m still here, still breathing, still very much alive.
“Are
