Read the previous chapter here.
The scenery changed quickly from the lovely hills of the Appalachian mountains to the pastoral scenery of horse and farm country, and then to the bustling suburbs of Washington, DC, where their new life was located. They maneuvered past the traffic circle at the end of the block and pulled into their driveway. It had been a long trip. A trip full of cats.
Their house was much too large for two adults and four cats, and the cats immediately set out to hide themselves in the rafters and the nether regions of the basement. Having lived in apartments all of her adult life, it was an adjustment to have too much space. Closets sitting empty, bedrooms unoccupied. The neighborhood, too, stood in contrast to what they were accustomed to. Acres of leafy parks, expansive, grassy yards, gauzy flowering trees and manicured azalea hedges.
They had little time to soak in the atmosphere. School was starting. New Teacher Orientation crawled by. A week of heat and a monotone presenter describing the finer points of the disciplinary policy made the experience moderately excruciating. The girl brushed up on the curriculum she was expected to teach, looked over the book list, shopped for her first day of school clothes, and made friends with her department members. She marveled at the resources at her disposal -- having just worked at a school with intermittent electricity, no textbooks, no supplies at all, actually -- this school seemed like some kind of teaching Mecca.
What was this? A cabinet full of supplies? And this? A room full of textbooks? Post-Its? Markers? Paper? Functional photocopiers? It was amazing that every classroom had a computer with an internet connection, and that there were multiple computer labs for student use in the building. She felt as if the other shoe would drop at any time. Where was the catch? Why were these schools so well equipped when schools elsewhere lacked basic anything?
Classes began, much too early in her estimation. August heat still permeated the region, and she glanced longingly at the wool trousers and sweaters hanging in her closet, lonely from lack of wear. The girl got to know her students, many of whom were the children of diplomats, defense contractors, and government security officers. The school district official who hired her was right when he said people here were absolutely rabid about education.
Three weeks after the start of school, the girl's principal made an announcement over the intercom. They were dismissing school early, and buses would be arriving to take the students home in 30 minutes.
Planes had just been flown into the World Trade Center and Pentagon.
She careened toward her desk chair, cognizant of the 32 pairs of eyes watching her. Her husband worked four blocks from the White House. They had relatives in New York. Her students had parents who worked in the Pentagon. What do I do, what do I do, what am I supposed to do? This was not something they covered in New Teacher Orientation, or any sort of university class. She felt a surge of adrenaline mix with the fear in her chest. Pretend to be calm, she told herself. Soothing. She watched as dozens of yellow school buses roared into the parking lot. There was no whooping and hollering in the hallways as 2,000 teenagers streamed out of the building, only worried faces with lips pressed together.
The girl returned to her department office, where other teachers watched the cable news channels that replayed the horrific images over and over. No one was answering the phone in her husband's office. No one was answering her husband's cell phone. She drove home, listening as every radio station suspended their usual programming to pick up news feeds.
The peaceful appearance of her suburban neighborhood belied what was happening just miles away: jammed Metro trains, clogged cell phone towers. Every available EMT unit called to the scene of the Pentagon bombing. Men driving armored Humvees, others patrolling on foot with machine guns, their camouflage highlighting the black uniforms of the city police officers standing on nearly every corner.
She found herself glued to the television, crying, seeing news of the 4th plane that crashed into an empty field in Pennsylvania. The phone rang off the hook as every friend and relative called when they saw the news. "I'm fine," the girl said. "I haven't been able to reach my husband yet."
Panic began to set in as 7:00 pm neared and she hadn't heard from her husband. She was sure she had dialed his number 300 times, to no avail. At 7:30, the key in the lock flooded her with relief. Her husband had been unable to call because DC's land and cell phone circuits were so inundated. He'd been waiting for a Metro train on the platform for hours, trying to exit the city like tens of thousands of others.
The couple later found out that a relative had been in the World Trade Center when the first plane hit. She had been shopping on the first floor and left as soon as she felt the building shake. She'd gone outside, only to look up and feel screams strangling her chest. She had many friends in that tower.
What kind of life was this, here in this city where people fly airplanes full of innocent people into buildings full of innocent people? What kind of life did the people here have, with their lawn services and their perfect schools?
School was closed the next day as a precaution. On September 13th, the girl was midway through a class discussion on terrorism -- how do you resume a normal lesson plan under the circumstances? -- when another teacher walked into the room and handed her a note. It read:
You have an emergency phone call from your husband. Go take it in the department office. I'll stay here with your class.
The girl nodded, and once again felt panic rising. "Honey, I'm in the emergency room. They think I might need surgery. I need you to come."
All of the free Post-It notes were not worth this. A husband in the hospital. DC swarming with National Guard, soldiers patrolling the city with machine guns, news organizations discussion terror alerts. Driving into the city where her husband was in the hospital took hours, as she encountered road closures and checkpoints, and her own lack of geographic knowledge. When she finally reached the hospital, she found her husband in bed, drugged and asleep.
A nurse informed her that they thought her husband had some kind of painful GI infection, and that they were giving him antibiotics and morphine. He would likely be fine, but would need to stay in the hospital for a few days. The girl tried to wake up her husband to let him know she was there. He stirred and said hello, but it was clear he had little awareness of his surroundings.
She accepted the police officer's offer to walk her back to her car in the warm night air. Home to an empty house. Home to a house with French doors that overlooked a brick patio and a lush backyard. Home to a place where terror could strike in the middle of a school day.
Her husband was better by September 16th, and she tried to navigate the newly circuitous route out of the city with him in the front passenger seat. It didn't seem right. He always drove when they were together. The noontime sun seemed blinding. He was much better the next day, and on the 18th, they both returned to their jobs -- he in an office building by the White House, her in the sparkling school building.
And then, on September 19th, amidst the chaos of a new job and a new city in a new house that was yet to be completely unpacked, the girl discovered there was a new Irish baby on the way.
Continue reading here.
Sunday, June 14, 2009 at 7:28AM 
