Episode 38, 39, and 40:  The Day Time Stood Still.

Joseph T. Buff 

September 11, 2001

New York City

     The big airplane crashed into the tall building.

     Liz sat alone at her table in the hotel restaurant, her eyes glued to the TV screen, mesmerized at the catastrophe unfolding before her.   

     Breakfast customers at tables around her thought as she did, that the crash that occurred at 8:45 a.m. was accidental.  Liz continued sipping her coffee, her eyes still frozen on the TV picture.  Voices around her were suddenly strident, and specific.

     “The World Trade Center.”

     Startled, Liz sat her coffee cup down and repeated the words to a man at the table next to her: “’The World Trade Center?’” she asked him.

     The man nodded.  “North Tower.  A commercial airliner hit it.”

     Stung by the words, Liz stood.  She didn’t know what to do.  “My husband’s in the North Tower,” she said.

     “Use your cell phone,” another man urged her.

     Liz quickly pulled out her cell phone and punched Doug’s automatic cell phone number.

     “We’re sorry,” a droning female voice reported, “but the number you called is not in service at this time.”

     Liz panicked.  She had just talked with Doug on his cell phone thirty minutes earlier.  Doug had met CAFÉ’s New York City salesman, Ron Richland, and called Liz on her cell phone to tell her he and Ron were going into a meeting in the North Tower and would meet Liz and Beth, Ron’s wife, back at the hotel for lunch at one o’clock.  Doug had come to New York City specifically to accompany Ron Richland on a major call for a nine million dollar order.  They had moved to Chicago two weeks ago in order to get Timmy into his new high school.  Liz had tagged along with Doug on the trip to New York City, which would combine business with pleasure.  She had planned to call on a major headhunting client at 3:00 in the afternoon, and then she and Doug were to attend a Broadway show tonight with the Richlands.

     The TV announcer was now reporting that the commercial airliner that had crashed into the 93rd floor of the 110 story building had not been an accident but a terrorist attack.  Hijackers had taken over American Airlines flight 171 from Boston.

     Pandemonium broke out in the restaurant.  People stood at their tables debating with each other what they should do.  There seemed to be two major thought processes at work, two groups forming:  one wanted to go to the World Trade Center, only twenty blocks away, while the other thought it best to wait for word from friends or relatives who knew how to contact them at the hotel.   

     After repeated attempts to call Doug’s cell phone number produced the same droning voice recording each time, Liz could not decide which option to take.  

     “I can’t just sit here and do nothing!” one stout man shouted.  “My brother’s in the North Tower.  I’m going to the WTC.  Maybe we can help. At least we’ll know what’s really happening.   Let’s catch a cab.”

     Liz turned back to the TV set, high on the wall, to watch a second plane, United Airlines flight 175, also from Boston, crash into the South Tower of the WTC at 9:03 a.m., some eighteen minutes after the first plane had hit the North Tower of the WTC.  The plane appeared to have plowed straight through around the 80^th floor of the 110 story building to the other side. 

     The second terrorist airplane attack convinced Liz that she could not simply sit in her hotel room and wait for a call from Doug.  She had to go.  She joined the man, along with another fifteen or twenty people who hustled to the outside of the hotel.  At the bell captain’s booth in the front of the hotel, cabs were hard to come by.  But Liz and two men finally got a cabbie who told them police lines would be up and he would be forced to let them out wherever the barricades were erected.  The three agreed they would walk the remaining distance to the WTC. 

     The cab drove south on West Broadway at first, before the driver turned right, then left, then right again and left again.  The southbound streets were filled with fire trucks, police cars, ambulances and paramedics, along with City of New York cars and vehicles; the northbound traffic was mostly civilian vehicles.  The cab hurtled through the busy streets until the driver slowed to announce that he could see police barricades ahead at Vesey Street.  He told them they would have to get out and walk to the World Trade Center, or as far as police would allow them to go.

                                    #

     Liz and the two men each gave the cab driver a twenty dollar bill.  One of the men, Larry, from Brooklyn, pointed to the southwest where fire and black smoke were pouring out of the majestic North Tower.  “We go this way,” he directed, pointing. 

     Liz and the other man hustled along behind Larry into the throngs of people coming at them, some running, some crying, some shouting, and most angry.  These people were fleeing the disaster.  Liz was glad she was wearing jeans and sneakers.  She had not planned to wear her business suit until her 1:00 lunch with Doug, Ron and Beth.    

     At the next police barricade, Larry said, “I know this area real well.  There’s a short cut.  We’ll circle behind this street and the barricade.  Follow me.”

     Liz had only a general knowledge of New York City streets so she and the other man, Smitty, he called himself, from Philadelphia, whose wife was in the South Tower, fell in line behind Larry again.  They set off walking south again into the faces of throngs of terrified people fleeing the disaster, their arms covering their heads.  The sky was filled with fine gray soot that coated Liz’s long black hair like a frosted hair spray.  Her face felt greasy.  The soot quickly penetrated her mouth and nose.  The taste was awful, made worse by Smitty’s remark that they might be ingesting remains from human victims on the airplanes, or those in the building killed by the crash.  The two men doused handkerchiefs with water from a water bottle one carried, then doused Liz’s gold scarf.  They covered their nose and mouth and tied off their masks in the back of their heads as they continued walking.

     “Keep trying your cell phone,” Larry told Liz.  “Maybe he’ll answer.”

     Liz tried several times but got the same recording.  Neither man needed to tell her the reason the phone was out might be because Doug’s phone had  been destroyed in the crash, or subsequent fires and destruction.  They paused for a moment to look at the tragic scenes on a TV in a snack shop. They could look up and see the famous twin tower skyscrapers, now only four blocks ahead.   Liz prayed that Doug had escaped from the North Tower, that this morning would not be the last time she would ever see him alive.  She tried to recall if she said, “I love you,” tried not to think that those words might be the last she would ever speak to him.   

     When they were within three blocks of the North Tower, the sky turned ugly black.  Ever larger pieces of glass particles and chunks of concrete rained down on them like a hail storm.  She could see Fire fighters lining up outside the Marriott Hotel, a bridge between the two towers.  Policemen were telling people to hold their hands over their heads to protect them from  large pieces of glass, strips of metal and chunks of concrete.

     “Get the hell out of here!” a policeman screamed at them.  “We’re evacuating!  You’re going the wrong way.  That building may collapse!  If it does, the shock waves will knock you off your feet or hurl debris at you that could kill you.  Go!”  He pointed in the direction the three had just come.

     Liz stepped forward and yelled so she could be heard above the tumultuous cacophony of noises.  “My husband is in there!” she shouted at the police officer.

     “Lady, you can’t help him!” the policeman shouted.  “He’s in God’s hands now, along with the firemen and policemen!  You’re a liability down here!  He might survive in there and you might die out here.  Get the hell out of here before I have you hauled off!”

     Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the area, a dull rumble, followed by a deafening series of successive metal and concrete ramming noises, one after the other.  Liz looked up to see the top of the South Tower, the one farthest away, collapsing into the middle of the building, a chain reaction that slammed the top of the building downward into each floor like a concrete elevator that could not stop, leaving a void in the sky behind where the building had stood.  The sky turned a sickening, murky gray around the building, obscuring the pile of rubble at the bottom.  Fine gray silt was biting her eyes.  

     “Run!” Larry yelled.  “The pressure from that collapsed building will hit us like a hurricane!”

     They turned and ran, along with multitudes of people shouting and screaming as they attempted to flee the powerful winds created by the collapse of the building.  They could hear the rush of air screaming a block away as it closed the distance on them.

     “Get under something!” Larry yelled.

     Liz saw a big truck with no driver parked on the side of the road.  She scrambled under the truck along with the two men just as the tide of air hit like a powerful ocean wave sweeping debris along that peppered them.  The truck rocked back and forth as the powerful blast thundered past them.

     After the blast waves passed them, Liz crawled out from under the truck to stand with Larry and Smitty.  She was standing in a gray dust fog bank so thick she could see only ten feet away.  Breathing was difficult.  Every inch of her exposed body seemed to be covered with gray concrete dust.  The taste in her mouth returned, forcing her to lift her bandana to spit the nauseating taste from her mouth.  She took a swig of water and handed the bottle to Larry, who also took a swig and spit. 

     “A horrible taste!” Larry screamed.  “Let’s get out of here.”

     Liz took one last glance at the empty space where the 110 story South Tower had just vanished.  Her hands were shaking as she thought about Doug being in the North Tower, which was still standing.  If the North Tower collapsed like the South Tower, she knew that Doug would have almost no chance to survive if he was still inside the building.  Frantically, she punched her cell phone again, but again got the same droning message that Doug’s phone was not in service.

     Liz and the two men continued marching north with the sea of people flooding the concrete canyons of Manhattan, which reminded her of a scene from a science fiction movie she had seen.  Many people were crying that they had no option but to leave the fatally damaged building.  Liz and Larry talked openly about the heroism of the firemen and policemen who had just entered the South Tower moments before it collapsed.   She doubted any of them had survived.  Liz continued to glance backwards toward the North Tower as she walked, prayed that it would not collapse.

     About twenty minutes later, Liz and the two men stopped when they heard the same deathly exploding sound as they realized the North Tower was now collapsing the same way the South Tower had, with the top imploding into the middle and smashing downward floor-by-floor.   In a matter of seconds the powerful pressure was chasing them the same as it had with the South Tower.  Only, this time they were much closer to the collapsed building.  

     “Run!” Larry yelled.  He pointed.  “Get behind that building!”

     They ran and ducked into an alleyway just as the powerful wave of air and debris hit them.   It seemed to last forever.  Actually it was only seconds because Liz was staring at her watch second hand, wondering if Doug had made it out of the North Tower.  When tears came to her eyes, she wiped the grease and concrete dust from her eyes with the bottom of her face mask.

     Scattered around them was the litter from the collapsed buildings: chunks of glass and concrete, mangled pieces of metal, furniture parts, luggage, and parts of human bodies.  As they started walking again, Liz saw a woman’s arm that had been ripped from a body.  She was so mesmerized she almost walked on the leg of a man torn away at the knee, a brown winged-tip shoe still on his foot.  She gagged at the sight, leaned over, put her hands on her knees and threw up.  Then she smelled the new menace, the sickening odor of jet fuel, which Larry said was nothing more than a fancy grade of kerosene, but it was fueling the fires.  Liz threw up again.  She draped an arm around Larry and another around Smitty and fought off dry heaves as she struggled to walk.

                                     #

     Liz limped back into the hotel, finally arriving inside around noon. She thanked Larry and Smitty as they rushed off to their rooms, but she had to  admit to herself the trip to the World Trade Center had been hapless, produced nothing.   She refused first aid treatment as she raced to the front desk to ask if she had any messages.   

     “One,” the clerk replied.  He handed her a scribbled note from Three in Chicago asking her to call him with the status.  Liz raced to the elevator to get to her room on the fourth floor.  She prayed there would be a message from Doug but seriously doubted there would be because she had called his cell phone repeatedly and got no answer, and she had her cell phone on the entire time and had received no calls.

     Inside her room, Liz quickly dialed the hotel operator to check for voice mail messages and found only two, one from Gina, the other from Doug’s father, in Reseda.  She sat by the telephone, her eyes glued on the TV.  She learned that another plane had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, and yet another had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.   She was frustrated, angry, and shouted, “Where the hell is our military?  We’re being attacked!  Why don’t they do something?”

     Liz wasn’t certain how long she had sat motionless staring at the TV, praying that Doug would call, when she realized she had to make some telephone calls.   The first to Timmy required all the courage she could muster to sound upbeat, to assure Timmy that she would find Doug.  Timmy started sobbing before she assured him, “Timmy!  We’ll find him!”

     But on the call to Doug’s dad in Reseda, Liz broke down and was almost incoherent as panic seized her when she started describing what she had actually seen.  He wanted to come to New York City but she persuaded him to wait, promised to keep him updated.

     After the calls, Liz wet a wash rag and rubbed soap and water into her face and hands.  She gargled and spit, aghast at the idea that she might be  spitting out remains from her own husband.  There was nothing she could do about her frosted hair.  She dared not take a shower and miss a possible call from Doug.

     Liz dried her face with a towel then walked back out to get on her knees to pray to God for a miracle, because after what she had seen, and with no telephone calls from Doug, she knew she would need a miracle if she would ever see him again.  She first asked for forgiveness for all the sins she had committed.  She worried that God was being besieged by thousands of prayers from all over the world at this moment in reference to the terrorist attacks, and that hers was but one of many unworthy prayers, undeserving of any miracle because of the many sins had committed in her life. 

                                    #

     Three was sympathetic when Liz called him after lunch and told him what she had seen. 

     “We’re on our way,” he assured her.  “All flights have been grounded until noon tomorrow, so we’ll have to take the train.  But, we’ll get there.  Hang on!  Do what you must!  Beth has heard nothing from Ron either.  I’ll call Beth and tell her to stay in touch with you.  Also, we contacted one of our Manhattan dealers, Bernstein-Manhatten Office Furniture.  Bernie Bernstein, the owner, will have four of his project managers, two guys and two gals, report to you at the hotel to work with you night and day any way you need them.  We’re paying them overtime for as long as you need them, so use them, direct them, and listen to them.  They all have cell phones and laptop computers, so make use of them.  They manage furniture installation projects all over Manhattan and know the streets and buildings and hospitals . . . “

     When she heard the word “hospitals,” tears came to Liz’s eyes.  She lost it.  Her ears closed off the outside world as her legs collapsed.  She heard nothing.  She fought to maintain control of her emotions, not to let the situation get the best of her.  She knew she had to stay focused, had to learn all the places the injured, and even bodies were being taken.  The World Trade Center was gone.  Nothing was left but the hateful dust of human tragedy.  At this moment, finding Doug in a hospital would be a godsend, would remove him from the identified dead and the missing, who might never be found in the rubble she had seen firsthand.

     “Liz!  Liz!”

     Liz heard Three’s voice calling her.  She had drifted off into another world.  He called several more times before she finally drifted back to the present.  She told Three that she heard him.

     “Don’t give up hope,” Three said softly.  “If Doug’s out there some place, we’ll find him.  You have carte blanche to spend anything necessary.  Use your credit card or charge it to the hotel room.  Get pictures of Doug for your project managers to use in identifying him.”

     Three gave her his cell phone number and Four’s, with instructions to set up the command post in her hotel room because that is the place Doug would call if he lost his cell phone and was injured.  “And Liz,” he added, “you and Doug have become family to us, especially after what we just went through.  You’re about to learn what the word ‘family’ really means.  We’ll stay in touch by cell phone, let you know where we are as we try to make our way to New York City.”

     Liz felt comforted by Three’s words.  He was bringing his wife, Rosalind, and Four and Gwen with him.  Along with the four project managers she would at least have some help.  Three had also hired a private detective to begin an investigation and report to Liz.  The Wallington’s wouldn’t arrive until after noon tomorrow.  Twenty-four hours seemed like an eternity to her.  She wasn’t certain she could hold up, maintain her focus and vigil  without help.  But she had to get underway immediately.  There wasn’t a minute to waste, but all she could do until help arrived was sit in the hotel room by the phone.

     The phone rang.  Liz raced to snatch it and say, “Hello?”

     “Mrs. Modino?” a male voice asked.  “This is Brad from Bernstein’s.  We’re on our way to your hotel.  Give me your room number and we’ll come right up as soon as we get there.”

     Liz was disappointed that it wasn’t Doug.  She gave Brad her telephone and room number.  She was relieved that they were going to get the search for Doug underway quickly.  But, the photos of Doug bothered her.  It would take days to get them and she needed to give them to Brad and the others now.

     Brad and his group of project managers arrived shortly after he called.  Brad was early forties, a lean six-two, with stark blue eyes, a pug nose and tinge of gray painted on his wavy black hair.   He was the senior project person in the group.  Anton, a thin Nigerian, was the other man.  Linda, a cute ash blonde in her mid-twenties said she was from Albany, while Maria, who had a great figure, was Puerto Rican, and had been born in New York City.  Brad asked Liz how many pictures of Doug she hand and she told him two, asked him what would be the quickest way to get photos of Doug to New York.

     Brad thought a moment, and then asked, “You know any computer geeks in Chicago or L.A.?”

     “Gina!” Liz roared.  “She’s got a PhD in computer science, teaches the stuff in college.”

     “Get her on the phone,” Brad ordered.  “We’ll talk digital.”

     Minutes later, Liz had Gina on the phone.  She explained her predicament, that she was in Manhattan and needed digital photos of Doug.
     “The wedding!” Gina exclaimed.  “Of course.  All the photos are digital, hundreds of them stored on my computer.  Let me talk to your geek.”

     Liz listened to the flowing conversation between Brad and Gina, the final reference being to Emailing jpeg files.  

     Brad handed the phone back to Liz, saying, “We’ve got it.  Gina will Email some pictures to my laptop, right here.  I’ll insert Doug’s name, age, and your telephone number with the word, ‘missing,’ and I’ll shoot the photo down to a friend in a photo shop two blocks away.  We’ll have several hundred photos ready to go within the hour.  I’ll also Email the photos to the other project guys so they know what Doug looks like and anyone else we can find.  I told Gina to send us a picture of Doug clearly showing his face and anything she could get on his physique, how tall he is.”

     Liz took the phone, saying, “Gina, you’re a lifesaver.”

     “We’re just beginning,” Gina told her.  She would conduct online searches and post Doug’s photo and information in chat rooms and bulletin boards on the internet.  She told Liz that if Doug had not been found by Thursday morning she was coming to New York City to be with Liz.

     “Gina, you really do not have to--“

     “Don’t argue with me!  I know I’m a grouchy, bitchy pregnant old Neanderthal, but gal, you need friends around you with street sense and moxie, and I’ve got both.  Besides, us Neanderthals have to stick together.  I’ll call you Thursday morning.  If you haven’t found Doug by then I’ll be on the next plane.  Liz, right now you need to be Zingara again.  You need to be a shovin’-pushin’-god-awful bitch trying to get answers.  Go kick some New York butt!  They’re so immune they’ll think you’re being nice to them.”

                                    #

     Wednesday morning, with her command post set up, and plenty of photos of Doug and Ron Richland, the CAFÉ salesman who had been with Doug, Liz tried to go back to the scene of the disaster to get information from eyewitnesses, police, families and friends who, she discovered, were quizzing each other to trade information.  Mayor Rudy Giuliani had closed off Manhattan from Canal Street south so Liz was forced to work the north side of the disaster, while Brad started on the southern perimeter, around 2^nd and 3^rd Place, since he knew the area and would attempt to weave his way northward and westward in and around numerous small streets near the WTC.  Liz was groggy from the nightmares she experienced several times last night.  She had awoken drenched, her hair soaked, shouting, “Doug!  Doug!” after seeing Doug’s dead body floating eerily in space.

     Liz was choked with emotion as she stood staring at the empty spaces where the North and South Towers had stood yesterday morning.  She was so far away from the collapsed buildings she stopped to watch TV several times, observed the diligent efforts of crews and heavy equipment scouring over the rubble to find any living people in the mangled metal and concrete piles.  Liz taped a photo of Doug, standing in a line at Gina’s wedding, to the front of her blouse and a photo of Ron Richland to the back of her blouse.  She had spoken briefly with Beth to tell her of their efforts.

     Liz spent the morning talking to police officers and firemen, and to the hordes of families and friends searching for missing loved ones.   Like her, they all had stories to tell, and they all held out hope of finding their loved ones.  A common bond developed between those working and those searching for loved ones.  There were cheers on finding a few of the missing and tears all around when a dead body or piece of a body was identified.

     By lunchtime Liz was ready to give up the search at the WTC site.  There were too many people trying to get answers from too few eyewitnesses and authorities, most of whom had little information.  She herself had been an eyewitness many families wanted to talk to, but after looking at a lot of photos of missing people and being unable to identify a single one, she realized how hard it was going to be to find someone who had seen Doug.

     Liz checked in with Maria who was maintaining their command post in her hotel room.  Doug had not called; there was nothing new to report.

     Liz had three hospitals to contact Wednesday afternoon, while Brad had three more, and Linda had been making the hospital rounds on the east side of Manhattan.  Anton had been dispatched to the New Jersey side where ferries had carried people to hospitals Tuesday afternoon, 9-11.

     Mid-afternoon, when she was passing a Catholic church, Liz slipped inside to pray.  As she started to leave, she saw a priest talking to a group of people so she joined them and listened.  He told them of several hospitals and several bulletin boards where they could post photos and contact information, which Liz jotted down.

     Liz didn’t want to stop at sundown but knew she had to.  She was exhausted and wanted to feed her crew and exchange information with them and talk to Beth Richland to see if she had heard any information on Ron, since he had been with Doug.

                                   #

     The Wallingtons arrived in Liz’s hotel room Wednesday evening.  They had worked their way in by train and cabs.  All four of them surrounded her in a circle and hugged her and offered words of hope.  Liz cried as they huddled around her.  She felt like she was getting a father’s help for the first time in her life.   All the reports from every place were negative, including the private detective, who reported that so far he had encountered no one who had seen either Doug or Ron.  That sounded ominous to Liz, like neither of them had made it out of the North Tower.  She knew of no other sensible explanation.

     Thursday went by quickly with Liz and Gwen staying together to visit  hospitals and churches.  Thursday evening Gina walked into Liz’s hotel room.  Liz hugged her and thanked her for coming.  Liz and Gina and Gwen had coffee and a chat session and a quick review of the current status.  Gwen told Gina that Liz had called her a Neanderthal, which changed her life.  The remark made Gina giggle.

     “A modern Neanderthal woman is what I called Liz originally,” Gina declared, as she explained the book she was writing with another professor.  “Now I guess I’ve reverted to that inimitable cursed woman.”

     “Well, “Liz began, “I misjudged Gwen at first, labeled her a phony.  Guess it’s ironic, but I suppose it’s OK to have three Neanderthals in the same place, with the same common purpose.”  She sighed.  “Just when everything’s perfect in our lives and we think we’ve learned all of life’s lessons and know everything, we learn that there are new lessons to learn.”   

     “I like her,” Gwen admitted, when Gina left to go to her room.  “She’s real and she’s sincere and she’s brilliant.  Just the kind of person we need around here right now.”

     Friday morning a report came in from Linda of a man matching Doug’s description in a hospital on the east side.  Gwen and Gina escorted Liz as they caught a cab and met Linda inside the hospital.    

     “They don’t know who he is,” Linda reported.  A perky blonde, she added, I asked for permission to see him and they said it was OK.”

     A nurse led them into the small semi-private hospital room where a heavily-bandaged man lay on the bed.  He had been brought in Tuesday afternoon, the day of the attack, but no one knew his name.  His head had been shaved and was exposed, but bandages covered his face.

     Liz took one look and said, “No, it’s not Doug.”

     “How can you tell so quickly?” Gwen asked.   

     Liz smiled.  “He’s twenty pounds heavier than Doug, and he’s not wearing his UCLA ring.”

     Later that afternoon Gwen and Gina came and got Liz and took her outside her hotel room, away from where others were working.

     When each of them came to clamp her arms, Liz feared they were going to tell her the worst: that Doug was dead.  “No,” she said warily.  “No.  Please, God, no.  Tell me Doug’s not dead.”

     Gwen told her that they did not know anything specific, that a report had come in from a morgue of a man with no ID who fit Doug’s general profile.  The man had been crushed.  The only way the man could be identified was  to go the morgue and view him.

     Gwen and Gina latched onto Liz’s arms again, clutched her hard as they walked into the room in the morgue where an attendant in white waited.  “It’s gruesome,” he warned.  “Take a deep breath.”  He pulled the white sheet covering the man back, exposing the face and chest of a man who looked like he had been crushed between two concrete slabs.

     Liz almost fainted as she studied the crushed face.  Finally, she shook her head silently, saying, “No, that’s not Doug.  Doug was not wearing an earring.” 

     All three of them prayed silently for the man.

     Friday night the nightmares returned, only this time, Liz could see  Doug’s face on the crushed man.   

                                  #

      Saturday morning at breakfast Three made an obvious attempt to prepare Liz for a sad conclusion: that Doug was dead, or one of the missing, and she might never see him again.  “We haven’t had one single report of either Ron or Doug from police or firemen or anyone else who had been inside or outside the North Tower,” he declared.  “This is the fifth day.  The private investigator is advising that the odds are extremely high that Doug did not make it outside the North Tower before it collapsed.  We’re all praying that he did, Liz, but the facts appear to be otherwise.  None of us want to get into the gruesome details of those buried at the bottom of those piles of concrete.”

     Liz nodded understanding.  “I’ve had the same thoughts,” she admitted.  “I just didn’t want to say it out loud.  I don’t know what else to do other than what we’ve been doing.  I have to stay here and hold out hope for a miracle.  I just have to.”

     Gwen came to hug Liz, saying, “I’ll stay with you as long as it takes for you to be convinced.”

     Gina was on the other side of Liz, saying, “I agree.  The three Neanderthals will never give up hope.”

     Three nodded.  “You three Neanderthals--whatever that means--have been magnificent.  You make me proud to be a part of this.  I’ll certainly support you as long as it takes to get a factual answer, because I know that’s what you need.  Our four project managers have worked long and hard and deserve a break tomorrow, which is Sunday.  Today, the private investigator recommends we revisit--I’m sorry, Liz--the morgues.  There’s just no other factual approach to take.  You’re a business woman who has made some hard-nose decisions so you know what I mean.  We must eliminate some possibilities by closing off anything we can, so let’s all concentrate on those morgues in the area and leave Maria in the command post again today.  Tonight, we’ll meet back here to make some final decisions.”

     Liz felt Three was trying to set her up to be receptive for the worst news possible. 

     The troupe fanned out of the hotel in different directions to visit every morgue within a sensible range for unidentified bodies.  Liz, accompanied by Gina and Gwen, viewed three different bodies at three different morgues, and each time Liz held her breath and prayed as attendants pulled the sheets back on three male bodies, none of them Doug.

     “I know it’s wrong,” she told Gina and Gwen at dinner Saturday night, “but each time I’m just thankful the body is not Doug.  But the unidentified bodies do belong to someone who must be searching for them.  There were so many families and friends at the morgue today . . .  I feel so sorry for them.”

     The miracles of live people being found in the rubble had drastically tapered off by Sunday morning.  Saturday’s grim faces in the hotel room had switched to morbid.  Liz could sense that Gina and Gwen and Four were constantly trying to prepare her to accept the worst possible news.   The tension was so strong that at noon she slipped off to a nearby Catholic church to pray.  She also went to confession and babbled her entire story to a priest who told her, “Do not give up hope.  Just remember that your God is with you.  Use Him.”

     When she returned to the hotel room, Four told her the private investigator had called to say he had completed his rounds of police stations and had found nothing on either Doug or Ron Richland.  “He suggested that the weakest points of our investigation at the present time are the hospitals on the New Jersey side,” Four stated.

     Gwen said, “Let’s hit them tomorrow.  Take the ferry over and stay until we’re satisfied,” she added.

                                   #

     Early Monday morning, Liz and her group stepped off the ferry on the Jersey side armed with hospital locations.  Gwen and Gina stayed with Liz, while Three and Four each caught separate cabs to visit their list of hospitals.  Rosalind stayed in the command center to sit by the telephone.

     The first two hospitals produced no unknown patients.  On the third, a receptionist said there was one, a male in his early thirties who had been badly injured, had been brought in with the first round of casualties late Tuesday afternoon, and was still in intensive care.  “He may not make it,” she said somberly.

     At first glance, Liz was certain the man was Doug.  She called out to him, “Doug!  Doug!  Speak to me.”

     Liz felt the firm grips on her arms from Gina and Gwen as they tried to assure her that the man was not Doug.

     Liz was disheveled.  She was certain she had seen Doug’s face in the heavily bandaged face of the man.

     “Not Doug,” Gina assured Liz as she hugged her.

     Gwen added, “We know how much you wanted the man to be Doug, but he most certainly is not.  Don’t give up hope.”

     Liz sank to her knees as tears filled her eyes.  “Hope,” she whimpered.  “That’s all I’ve got left, isn’t it?  He’s gone, isn’t he?” she asked.

     Gwen and Gina sank to their knees beside her and held her hands, tried to comfort her as all three of them cried.

     Later, the fatigue factor was wearing heavily on Liz when Gwen took a cell phone call from Four.  Their cab was somewhere east of Jersey City.  Gwen yelled the name of a hospital to the driver of the cab they had hired for the day and he wheeled off to the west at high speed.

     Four was waiting for them at the Emergency Room entrance of the hospital.  “This man fits the description,” he said.  “But he’s so banged up I just can’t tell.”

     “’Hope,’” Gwen said as she squeezed Liz’s hand.   

     All four of them went to stand outside a hospital room on the second floor.  Liz had no idea what to expect.  At least it was a hospital; an unidentified man was alive, not dead like the crushed man in the morgue.

     The wait was testy, filled with meaningless conversation she was tired of hearing.  A candy striper led them inside to the bed where a man lay unconscious. 

     Liz stiffened as she walked to the bed.  She leaned down to study the man.  Finally she stood erect and said, “No, it’s not Doug.”

     The disappointment showed in their faces as they left the room.

     “Are you certain there is no one else?” Liz asked politely.  They asked the same question at all the hospitals as a last resort before they left and marked the hospital off their list.

     The candy striper, a high school girl, said, “I don’t think so.  We’ve had a lot of visitors from the World Trade Center disaster the past few days searching for loved ones.”

     Liz was near exhaustion but knew they were running out of options.  If they found nothing in the New Jersey hospitals, the search would be limited to morgues, and the inescapable conclusion that Doug was indeed dead.  Liz started humming "Arrivederci Roma" as they walked.

     Startled, Gwen glanced at Gina with a quizzical look.

     Gina winked.  “Liz is a singer.  Singing relaxes her.  She sang "Arrivederci Roma" at my wedding.  It was--is--their song.”

     Gwen smiled an acknowledgement.

     Liz knew they were concerned that she was going off the deep end.  But the music she hummed did make her feel better.  She pictured Doug smiling at her as she sang the song at Gina’s wedding.  She could hear Doug’s voice saying, “You are a beautiful piece of Italian skin . . . “  She said the words out loud.

     Gina asked, “Are you OK, Liz?”

     “I’m talking with Doug,” Liz replied.  “He’s dead, you know.  He is telling me his famous one-liner, that I’m a beautiful piece of Italian skin.”

     “Why don’t we sit down and rest a moment?” Gwen asked. 

     “No!” Liz snapped.  “Doug is telling me something.  I can’t make out what he is saying.”  She turned to the candy stripper to ask if she could look over the list of World Trade Center victims who had arrived.  She got the list and studied it.  Something urged her to study the list carefully.  “The little voice inside,” she said to no one. 

     “What are you looking for?” Gina asked.  “Maybe I can help.”

     “No,” Liz said.  “No one can help.  I hear Doug’s voice . . .  he keeps saying, ‘I’m here.’“  She smiled at Gina.  “I’m not crazy,” she added as she continued to study the list, which showed the unidentified man they had just visited, and six lines below, a man identified as John Doe.  She asked the candy striper about the discrepancy.  “Why is one listed as John Doe and the other as unidentified?  They’re both John Does.”

     “I don’t’ know,” the girl replied.  “Maybe it’s a computer error.”

     Gina was furious.  “Let’s see this John Doe,” she demanded.  “One glance is all we need.”

     “He’s here,” Liz insisted.  “I can hear him calling me.”

     They took the elevator to the fourth floor and followed the candy striper  down a long hall to another room.  They went inside to a single bed where a heavily bandaged man lay on the bed, with a white sheet pulled up to his chin.  The nurse said the man had been burned on the legs and had lost his pants, which had his identification and that he had been heavily sedated while the burns were being treated and for a concussion.  She added, “We don’t know who he is.”

      Liz studied the heavily bandaged head, the only visible part of the body.    Liz leaned over and shouted, “Doug!  It’s Doug!”

     Gwen and Gina came quickly, each holding one of Liz’s arms, babbling that she had made a mistake before, that they couldn’t tell if it was Doug because the man’s face was so heavily bandaged they could not see him to help her identify him.   

     “Are you certain?” Gina asked. 

     “It’s Doug,” she assured them.  She felt suddenly woozy, her vision dimming.  She felt her legs collapse beneath her.  Strong hands caught her as she fell.  Her eyes closed.  She drifted away but could still hear people talking.

     “It’s not Doug!” she heard someone say.  “Liz is delirious again, just like the other man she thought was Doug.”

     “Yeah!” a man’s voice said.  “I think Doug’s dead and I think it’s about time we tell her what we really think.”

     But Liz continued to hear Doug’s voice saying, “I’m here . . . “  

                                   #

     Liz smelled something strong, acrid.  Her eyes popped opened.  A haggard woman’s face was glaring at her.  “Who are you?” she asked the woman.

     “Nurse Carter.  Do you know where you are?”

     Liz tried to think, tried to answer the question but she did not know where she was.  She shook her head.  “In the World Trade Center?” she asked.  “Did you know the tower collapsed on top of Doug?  But he’s here.”

     She could see another woman’s face; hear a voice calling her name, the sound echoing through a tunnel, a broken record in her mind.  “Liz!  Liz, it’s Gina.  Do you know me?”

     Liz stared at the face a long time.  She wasn’t certain.  Were they going to tell her that Doug was dead?

     “She’s been through hell,” the voice declared.  “Remember the  Neanderthal woman?”

     Something snapped in Liz’s mind.  “Neanderthal,” Liz repeated.  “Yes, I’m a Neanderthal.  Old-fashioned and backward.”

     “I’m also a  Neanderthal,” the woman answered.  “Remember when you called me that?”

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