My 9/11

Where I was and what I did that tragic morning

It wasn’t quite 8:00 a.m. CST when I opened my eyes that morning. I had plenty of time to get to the café, which didn’t open until 10:00, when the rest of downtown Columbia businesses started opening.

I woke with the wet of tears on my lashes, a feeling of a sadness weighing upon me… Whatever I’d been dreaming faded as quickly as the time it took to look over to my still sleeping husband. Hamid looked peaceful in his sleep. I wondered if he had been dreaming something sad again. He often dreamed sad or traumatic memories of his life before he immigrated, of all he had to leave behind… of all he lost.

I never dreamed his dreams. But, I often felt the sadness of his dreaming, especially of those most intense memories. This didn’t feel like that.

Hamid had worked a private church party in our café the night before until nearly midnight. With cleanup after closing and his need to mentally decompress once he got home, he hadn’t come to bed until 2:00 a.m. I slid out of bed, padded to the bathroom, and eased the door shut so I wouldn’t disturb him. 

Usually, I come fully alert and wide awake as soon as my feet hit the floor. But, this morning, I couldn’t shake off the fog from my mind as I showered. Is it a migraine coming on? Just great.

I couldn’t put my finger on the reason… neither could I shake the weight of sadness. Just in case, I took migraine preventative. I dressed, feeling like I might be going to become queasy. Opting not to eat anything, I left my hair wet, in hopes it would make the cool morning air more chill and help stave off any queasiness. It was a clear, comfortably cool Missouri morning. And, I did feel that bit of extra chill from my still wet curls cascading down my back as I settled in the car. My wet hair still smelled from the aroma of the chemicals of my recent perm. The smell sent a not unexpected wave of light queasiness through me that soon passed.

When I started the engine, the Simon and Garfunkel cassette was already queued up in the stereo. I remember chiding myself for leaving the stereo in the on position because, when car started, there was that dragging screeching sound unique to a stressed cassette running. The short drive to downtown was uneventful. Traffic was unusually light for early morning rush hour. But, I the weight of sadness was becoming oppressive as I turned onto Providence. When I turned onto Walnut, the feeling became overwhelming… a sudden rush of tears fell down my cheeks.

What the heck? I shook myself, trying to banish those foolish tears.

As I pulled into the Cherry Street parking garage entrance, the strains of “The Sounds of Silence” began. I pulled into my space, along the empty row of spaces in front of the back door to the café. I turned off the engine, but kept the power on and sat listening to the rest of the song. The tears kept falling as I sat there, singing along with the music.

When the song finished, I popped out the cassette and the stereo auto-switched to radio, back to NPR, the station I favored in my car. As I was digging for the empty cassette case, I heard the announcer reporting that a second plane had crashed into the New York Trade Center Tower. A second plane?

* * * * * * * * * 

The breath escapes from me as if I’ve been punched in the gut. I sit there trembling, queasiness rising again… listening to the reporting… in the grips of waves of nausea. 

At 8:37 my time, while I listen, a third plane smashes into the Pentagon. 

There’s reporting of a fourth plane out of its flight path. Reporting thinks it’s headed for the Capitol. Oh, God. I cry out, then press both hands over my mouth with so fiercely it hurts. The pain… it helps shake my focus on the words… those unbelievable, horrific words…

I needed to tear myself away from this auditory horror breaking me with every word. 

I can’t tear myself away as, at 8:59, the South Tower of the World Trade Center collapses.

A moment later, at 9:03, that fourth plane crashes into a field in Pennsylvania. 

I’m holding myself, gripping my upper arms tightly… rocking back and forth. All those poor people…

At 9:30 a.m. CST, the North Tower collapses. 

I need… 

I need to do something… I need… I need…

I need.

I force myself to shut off the car. I need Hamid. 

I hurry into the café, intending to call him. The phone is ringing. When I answer, it’s Hamid. His English has always been very good and usually only lightly accented -- at least to my ear. But that morning on the phone, his accent was stronger than I’d ever heard it. 

I could hear the strained calmness with which he was trying to speak with gentleness, “Denise, everybody call me. Denise… Love… someone is attack America.” 

I let my tears fall silently and listen to him breathing on the other end of the line.

“Khonoom mousheh? I can’t recall how long it’s been since he’s used that pet name. 

It was something cutesy he used to call me when we were first married a decade ago meaning, “Mrs. Mouse” -- In those early days, he thought it was cute because I was anything but mousey. “Denise… are you o-kay?” I don’t know what to say. “Are you still there,… Love?”

With a sob, I tell him, “I’m not okay.” 

“Denise, did you open the café yet?” 

When I told him I haven’t, he tells me, “Stay closed. Lock the back door again and wait.” lost his “w” sound again. “Sit and drink some water. I come now.” I hear the “v” sound for wait and water; he’s dropped his “w” sound again, and he’s adding the “eh” sound before words beginning with s.  

He arrives surprisingly fast, so fast that I was startled when the lock turned and he yanked open the back door. Hamid strides over to me. He wraps his towering form around me and we just hold each other.