She pressed “Send” on her cellphone again. The digital ring sounded out, an electronic mimicry of long since defunct technology. She watched the smoke billow past her window, twenty stories above the sidewalks of New York. After three rings she heard the familiar sterile voice.
“Hello. You’ve reached Jeniffer Endiger. Please leave a message.”
Jane signed, pressing ‘end’ to stop the call.
The images on the TV repeated over and over. Vague figures leaping from blurry windows to a better fate. Flames licking the sky and a stream of speculative information rolling underneath. The news replayed the man with the blue tie holding hands with the blond as they tumbled from a shattered window as the camera panned away. The device was on mute. Her corner apartment was a cool serenity in the midst of unthinkable bedlam.
Twenty stories below dust covered bodies scurried through the streets. Plumes of ash and debris chased them down sidewalks. They pulled their shirts over their faces, covering their mouths and eyes, and ran blind. Whether they were running towards safety or away from danger was irrelevant. Jane only knew they were running.
She’d felt the first tower collapse. Thousands of tons of steel and concrete tumbling in upon itself, shaking the foundations of her own building away. The trembling had roused her from a vodka induced sleep. As her bed shook her eyes flashed open and sun light beat down on her strained eyes. Her last memory was of moonlight pouring in her window over the New York skyline. Jane’s latest painting wasn’t going well. The colors wouldn’t match and the form wouldn’t take. At three in the morning she poured a glass of vodka and lime and circled her easel. Rusty streaks of red crept over blotches of baby blue. By five the colors swirled as she drained her third glass. The world was hazy and spinning and her consciousness vanished in a cyclone of alcohol.
The bed shook and her easel fell. The undried oils on the canvas smeared across the floor. Instinct sent her to the window. The scene below set her heart pounding. Chaos in New York was to be expected. Something was always happening. At first she thought someone was filming a movie. But whens he clicked on the television her heart sank into her stomach. Blood pounded in her ears and her already churning stomach twisted.
“America Under Attack.” She repeated with dry lips.
The images on the screen were unthinkable. Smoke pouring from the twin towers. Grainy replays of jumbo jets flying crashing through reflective windows. She’d run to her cellphone and immediately scrolled through her contact list. It took her twenty minutes to get through. All circuits were busy. Millions of frantic calls bottlenecking in insufficient circuitry. When she finally got through she heard the pre recorded voice, “You’re call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message service.”
And then the familiar monotone, “Hello. You’ve reached Jeniffer Endiger. Please leave a message.”
She’d clicked the phone off and opened her laptop. Her e-mail client was right where she’d left it. Her head pounded. Her fingers were numb. It was a dream. A movie. Unreal.
She scrolled back two days in the e-mail client. Past letters from her brother on the west coast. Through notes form her agent on the gallery opening next week. She scrolled through countless spam messages, fan mail and erotic messages from boyfriends. Then she saw it. The note which had caught her off guard over the weekend. The e-mail from an old friend. An invitation for drinks the previous Sunday, a chance to get reacquainted. Jane’s teenage friendships had been swallowed by her adult obligations. Before she had to worry about selling paintings to pay the rent, or taking temp jobs to afford groceries, the friendship had seemed more important. For a brief moment in her youth she’d defined herself through it. But, as will happen, the drama of youth gave way to the demands of real life.
She’d forgotten to reply to the invitation. But now she re-read the message.
“The job with American Express. I’ll be working in the World Trade Center. Though which part of the world they are trading seems to generally be the third. If you know what I mean. Anyway, I start Monday. Would be nice to meet up Sunday and catch up. “
She input “American Express” and “World Trade Center” into a search engine. Tower one. 94th floor. Her eyes returned to the news. For the tenth time they replayed the footage.
She pressed “Send” on her cellphone again. This time it dumped immediately to voice mail.
“Hello. You’ve reached Jeniffer Endiger. Please leave a message.”
She hung up and redialed.
“Hello. You’ve reached Jeniffer Endiger. Please leave a message.”
Let me hear it again.
“Hello. You’ve reached Jeniffer Endiger. Please leave a message.”
Just one more time, Aimga. One more time.
“The inbox of the user are trying to reach is full.”
Please no.
“The inbox of the user are trying to reach is full.”
No.
“The inbox of the user are trying to reach is full.”
God no.
“The inbox of the user…”