Prologue
I run my hand along the smooth wood of the balcony, watching another plane take off. I watch it gracefully soar into the sky, its pure white silhouette beautiful and free against the cool blue.
Turning away from the window, I start to feel an icy foreboding slowly consuming me. Taking a breath of warm air I close my eyes against it, beginning to realize the true meaning of what I’m about to do. There are so many reasons to turn back now; to soar back just like the plane…free and beautiful.
But when you love someone, you stop at nothing to protect them—even when it means putting yourself in danger.
And yet I am afraid. So many things can happen, and there are too many things that can go wrong. I don’t know what to expect or what to do. The chances are great that I will not be able to untangle myself from this mess. I start to realize that there is a real possibility I will not come out of this alive—that everyone I love could be at risk.
But as I open my eyes and watch another plane take off, I feel a determination spread through my body. I remember my promise to myself—I will protect those I love. No matter what that means… no matter how much pain I am forced to go through or land I have to cross. No matter what I have to do, I will keep that promise. I will die before letting someone I love be put in danger, and that may be what I have to do. But I am able to brace myself for it… and I am finally able to accept it.
Because some things are worth dying for.
*Chapter 1*
In Washington DC, winters are cold and harsh. Snow and ice are constant, unforgiving elements everywhere in the city, and the cheery mood associated with spring and summer plummets faster than the temperature. My family and I live in a relatively safe area near the capital; there’s not as much violence in that area as in the suburbs. At least, not the kind of violence you hear about.
DC may have a high crime rate, but it is also exceptionally beautiful, a kind of beauty that most people cannot understand unless they live in the city itself. Even in the winter, there is a calm strength that echoes through the streets. In the wake of a blizzard, when the ground is blanketed by freshly fallen snow, there is a certain feeling of hope that laminates the sky and seals up the city’s shattered pieces.
The icy wind that strokes the morning sun blows a new perspective into our eyes as we go about our life. Somehow the snow covers our problems, at least for the day, and the comfortable crunch of our feet against it soothes and nourishes our youthful purity. For that first moment when we walk out onto the smooth white surface of new-fallen snow, we are able to stop for a moment. We are able to stop, and look out at a new city—one where icy air is enough to give us a new perspective, and one where fresh snow can mark a fresh beginning.
I turn away from the window, where the sun is barely rising over the skyline, and collapse on my bed. I don’t have to go to school for a few days this week, but the freedom doesn’t come with as much excitement as I had expected. I should be hanging out with my friends and having fun, but today's different.
I look around my room, its crème walls and wooden surfaces bland and unexciting. Three pictures sit on my otherwise clean desktop, the faces watching me as I stand up and walk across the room to them.
The first two that are facing me are pictures of my friend Nate and I hugging and laughing as though nothing’s wrong. His open and smiling face makes my chest ache, and I rest my hand against one of the wooden frames, wondering why we were so happy.
There’s another picture, still turned down on its face. I close my hand over it, remembering my baby brother’s laugh and the way his eyes were turned toward me, open and trusting when the picture was taken. Remembering the way I had my arms around him, warm and safe for the last time. I slowly move my hand to the picture, pressing it into the table. I don’t lift it yet; I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to see this picture again.
I look away at the wall behind me. The calendar across the room says it's the eleventh, and I feel myself tense up with a mixture of anger and fear. I don't want to watch TV today; there will probably be something on about it. Some footage of the plane crashing, the building going up in flames. Vibrant red will streak across the screen and instead of feeling sorry for everyone else, for all the thousands of others that died, I'm only going to remember my little brother.
A few months before the attacks, my other brother Jack signed up for the army. Angry and determined, Jack was deployed a few days after my baby brother—Graham—died. I still remember the last time I talked to Jack. We didn’t say goodbye, because goodbye is for people who need words to express their feelings. I just looked at him, and he looked at me, and a thousand words wove through the invisible web between our eyes. There are so many things that could have been said—and this way, we said them all. That, if nothing else, is something to hold on to—I don’t have to regret those last few moments we had together before he left.
I call Nate when I feel myself starting to think about Graham. He was the first person to know about Graham’s death, and I stayed with him for a couple of weeks while my parents were in New York. We’ve known each other for years, ever since I moved to DC.
I stretch out on my bed and dial his number, which I know by heart. The phone rings, and I silently beg him to pick up.
“Hello?”
Thank God. “It’s me.”
Nate’s familiar voice is rough and distorted over the phone as he says, “Lily! Hey… I was actually about to call you.”
“Oh,” I reply, not sure how to respond.
I press the phone against my cheek, waiting for Nate to say something.
“Do you wanna come over?” he finally asks.
“Nate,” I say, tired of beating around the bush. “Do you know what day it is?”
I hear him rummaging around in a bag or something. “March 10th, I think. Why?”
“It's March 11th,” I correct him automatically.
“Okay... so?” Nate says impatiently, sounding confused.
I wait for him to figure it out, tapping my foot lightly against the wooden bedframe.
“What’s important about March 11th, Lil? Is it—” He sighs and stops talking. I lean back against a pillow, waiting.
When he continues I can tell he’s figured it out. “Oh…right…”
“Yeah.”
“It’s been six months already? Jesus….”
“How do you not know that? It’s been all over the news,” I say, shaking my head.
Nate snorts.
“Who watches the news?”
“I do,” I reply in a clipped tone, sliding off of my bed.
“Oh. Well, I don't.”
I sigh, twirling a lock of my curly dark hair around my finger. “You know, you’re not being very sympathetic.”
He laughs. “Sorry. If you want, I’ll make you a casserole.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I snap.
“Aren’t you supposed to make casseroles for people that are grieving and sick and stuff?”
“I don’t know!” I reply, rolling my eyes, “Make me cookies if you have to make something.”
“Will do,” he says, “But you have to give me some.”
“Whatever.” I grab a pillow and lay on my stomach, the carpet scratching my bare arms.
There is a brief silence, but it’s not awkward. I lean over and take one of my running shoes in my hand, picking at a loose thread.
“Do you wanna go running tomorrow?” I ask finally.
“What? It’s snowing!”
“Please? We can dress warmly.”
“Hell no.”
“Why?” I reply, trying not to whine.
He laughs and changes the subject with ease.
“I made you a CD yesterday,”
My head jerks up.
“Really?”
“Yeah. In return for the last one you made me. I think it was my favorite so far.”
Nate and I exchange music frequently, though I’m sure it’s against dozens of copyright laws. We both have a love for music, although usually we don’t agree on the type. We also run together almost every day during the summer, which is how we formed a friendship in the first place. We were both on the cross-country team the first year I moved to DC.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like that U2 song—”
“Oh yeah! And the—”
Suddenly all I can hear is Nate coughing hard and someone yelling in the background.
“Nate?” I ask as he hacks away.
“I’m… okay…” he chokes out, gasping for air, “just… swallowed some coffee the wrong way. Hold on—” He coughs again. “My mom’s calling me— I’M COMING!”
I smile. “Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “You were such a help.”
“Well, I am pretty helpful,” he laughs. “See you later.”
“Later.”
I hang up the phone with a short laugh. Nate was quiet and distant when I first met him, and he still portrays a sense of angry aloofness to people he doesn’t know. It took a while for us to become as close as we are now.
I sit on my bed, the laughter slowly sinking back into the same depression as always. I’m exhausted, but past being able to sleep. Out the window, the sun shines weakly through the clouds, the pavement cold and gray.
I spend the rest of the day watching crime shows and writing poetry. I don't know why, but ever since 9/11 I've been writing a lot of poetry. It's calming. I keep my focus on television shows we have previously recorded. I don't turn on live TV because I know that there will only be memorials and videos and photos centered around 9/11. I don't want to watch people cry and talk about what a tragedy it was.
Jack's plane is arriving at four. My parents are both at work, so I end up driving to the airport to pick him up.
On the way there, I can barely drive because I'm so nervous. It's been over five months since I'd last seen my brother. We'd always been close, but when he joined the army, something changed. His letters suddenly became the only constant event in my life, the only thing I could depend on. We began writing every day, talking about everything from world issues to our own dreams of the future. Somehow in those five months, Jack and I became closer, even though we were farther apart than we had ever been.
I imagine Jack's face in my mind. He sent me a photograph last month, taken with his two friends from the army. His head was shaved, like in the movies, and muscles bulged under his green and gray splattered uniform. He was smiling, but beneath that, in his eyes, was anger. Determination. He didn't really look happy.
I wait for Jack's flight on a hard plastic chair that smells like alcohol and cheap perfume. I'm an hour early, so I visit a couple newsstands and coffee shops. I end up buying coffee from Starbucks, the kind that Nate always gets. Some caramel-chocolate swirl drink that’s too sweet; I can practically taste the sugar on my tongue as I take a sip. I sit down and look around absent-mindedly, humming softly.
After a few sips of the disgusting coffee, I throw it away, angry with myself for wasting my money. Then, leaning back in my chair, I settle in and debate about what do. I could go walk around to the souvenir shops, but I want to be here the second Jack arrives, and plus, what would be the point? I consider calling Nate and talking to him, but what I really want to do is write. Besides, I realize, I left my phone at home. Glancing around habitually to make sure no one is watching me, I pull out my notebook, bent and scratched from the dozens of times I had stuffed it in my purse. The first page is blank, a habit I had developed long before I was writing poetry, back when I used notebooks for school notes or projects. Writing on the first page of a blank notebook seems too permanent, too big of a task.
On the second page is my first poem ever. It was assigned for school, which is how I began writing poetry. I had scribbled it in the ten-minute break before it was due. I still remember the assignment. It was to write about a family member:
Behind a golden throne
Glossy emeralds glow
A looking glass of love and hope
The sweet red wine will flow
Beneath the pale silk
Of alabaster hearts
You blossom, a rose
As the looking glass departs
I had gotten a good grade on it, mostly because it sounded mysterious and thought-provoking, although it was actually quite simple. The golden throne was Graham's sunny blonde hair, the emeralds were his eyes, and the alabaster hearts were his pale skin, identical to mine. The poem itself was about watching Graham lose his innocence, as he had right before he died. A lot of things had been going on in our lives, things that no child should have to go through. I had written a lot of poetry about Graham, of course, mostly about him and who he would have been had he lived.
My dad says there's no point in wondering what Graham would have been like, because we'll never know. He says the only way to feel normal again is to forget about Graham and not talk about him. He hasn't said Graham's name since Jack went off to the army. He hasn't mentioned Jack either, but at least he doesn’t leave the room if I say Jack’s name.
Another plane comes in, and crowds of people hustle out. Planes have scared me ever since 9/11. And it doesn't help that it's the six-month anniversary. Of course Jack is coming home today. People walk out and I hold my breath, searching for my brother.
And then I see him, and his familiar face makes me freeze. Oh my god, oh my god, I think as I stand and take a step in his direction.
He turns towards me and our eyes meet, and in that moment, something in me falls—some wall is taken down. His face loses its edge and softens. For a moment we just stand there, frozen. Then I'm in his arms and he's holding me and it seems like years since I've seen him.
"Jack!" I gasp, pressing my face into his chest. It's then I realize how much I've missed him. He holds me for what seems like hours, and I feel safe, normal, for the first time in months. When he releases me, there is an expression of pure joy on his face that I have not seen on him in years, even before Graham died.
"Lily," he says, his voice breaking. "How are you doing?"
I almost laugh out loud in relief. He seems so normal, and suddenly we're kids again—normal, innocent kids, and everything's okay.
"I'm fine, perfect," I reply. "How are you?"
His face falls and I come back to reality. Neither of us is fine. We're past being able to make small talk. The warm joy in his eyes fades away, the dark irises laced with flat emotion. The silence that falls seems to fill up the room.
"Let's go," he says suddenly, avoiding my eyes.
I look down and nod. I don't know why, but a lump begins to form in my throat and I can't speak. Eyes burning, I take one of Jack’s bags, and we begin to walk towards the doors of the airport.
*Chapter 2*
My parents don't come home until late that evening. As soon as he sees Jack, my dad leaves the room, his face twisted with anger. Jack glares at his back and appears unruffled by his lack of a decent homecoming. My mom gives Jack a half-hug and finally puts away her phone for a second, telling Jack that he can’t leave again, that it was too hard on us. Jack stands like a statue through the entire thing and then goes upstairs to unpack. I watch from the back corner of the room, the lump in my throat returning. What did I expect? For everything to be okay now that Jack was home?
I hurry upstairs after Jack, before my parents can find some reason to yell at me. In my room, my phone's message light flashes at me from the dresser. I pick it up, flip it open, and call my voicemail. Nate’s voice comes through my phone, cautious and light:
“Hey, it’s me… Do you wanna meet at the ice cream shop tomorrow? Hope you’re feeling better! Let me know how Jack is.”
I pause before texting him back and telling him that I can come. I don’t feel like telling him about Jack, so I turn my phone off afterwards.
My stomach hurts and I'm exhausted, so I lock the door of my room and fall on my bed, slipping into the warm comfort of sleep.
During the night, I have terrifying dreams about being chased through darkness and having nowhere to hide. At about three in the morning I wake up, drenched in sweat and shaking, to a hysterical scream. I stay frozen in bed for a few moments. Upon hearing the scream again, in addition to a lot of muffled yelling and someone running, I leap out of bed, unlock the door and run across the hall to the direction of the scream—Jack’s room. He stands against the door, pale and shaking. His eyes are open wide and he's panting. I dart behind the dark shadow of his closet door and press myself against the wall so he doesn't see me.
For a few more moments he stands there, silhouetted in the moonlight, as though waiting for something. At last, he sits down at his desk and puts in his earphones. He turns his head and reaches up to touch a scratch on his cheek that is leaking blood. Swearing under his breath, he grabs a paper towel and dabs at the blood. It isn't very bad, and I assume he accidentally scratched himself on something. I remember the yelling and running and wonder if it was just something he had been watching on his laptop, which he goes back to now. I watch him as he pulls up Google, still dabbing at his cheek, and searches something. Squinting, I try to read it, but I'm too far away. I lean in a little closer.
There's a sudden bang behind me and I jump back into place, barely concealing a squeal of surprise. My blood freezes, leaving me breathless, and then I relax as I realize that it was my dad's door slamming shut. What was he doing up at this hour? I press myself against the wall as hard as I can, sucking in my stomach and trying not to make a sound. I remember hearing yelling and footsteps running from Jack's room, and realize it was my father. A familiar wave of cold anger and fear washes over me.
I stand in the shadows, paralyzed with fright and confusion, for a few more minutes. Jack doesn't get off the computer. I watch him go through several websites before I sneak back into my own room and fall into a fitful sleep, the dreams of having nowhere to hide returning throughout the night.
The next morning dawns bright and clear. When I wake up, it takes me a minute to remember that Jack is home. I recall my experience the night before and feel a jolt of panic. Had my father seen me?
I had done my best to sleep in, although I was still up by eight. I have to run some errands, so I take a hot shower and put on jeans and a dark blue blouse. Grabbing my blue-green purse from its hanger, I wander downstairs to find a protein bar. Jack sits on a kitchen chair, and I can tell he's been there for a while. A cold cup of tea sits in front of him, and circles darker than mine ring his eyes. He stares into the swirling contents of the tea.
He turns around when he hears me coming. We face each other for a moment, and my blue eyes meet his dark, chocolate brown ones.
His hair, identical in color to his eyes, barely shows through his recently-shaved scalp. It accents the smooth skin of his face, creased between the eyebrows and slightly uneven from a stubble growth of hair on his chin. His pale pink lips are drawn slightly together, and the faded circles under his eyes are more pronounced in contrast to his pale skin. The faint lines around his mouth have deepened over the years, along with the callused skin of his hands. He wears loose, faded denim jeans, a gray shirt, and a rumpled, black jacket that had a familiar pattern on it.
I remember when he didn’t have a constant look of anger on his face, when I could look at it and not feel a cold slice of unease and foreboding course through my body. When his flat dark eyes had had a spark of excitement in them, when they were warm and friendly.
I trace the lines around the edges of his mouth with my eyes, remembering when he would laugh, and lines would appear out of nowhere around his mouth and eyes, crinkling them and making them seem more alive. Now those areas remained smooth and undisturbed, as if carved by wax. He turns to me and sets his dark, lonely eyes on mine.
"Oh. Hey," he says.
"Hi. I'm gonna go run some errands... You need anything?"
"Um…" His voice trails off and his eyes get a glazed over look.
"Jack?"
He glances up. "Uh, yeah. A toothbrush. And some socks."
"Socks?"
"Mhm. Just some white ones. Men's, size eleven, I guess."
"Okay. Sounds good."
"Mhm."
I hesitate for a minute. "See you later."
He gets up and dumps the tea in the sink.
"Yeah. Later."
I hesitantly grab a protein bar and a banana and walk out the door, still watching Jack. He pulls an apple out of the fridge and begins to eat it, taking slow, methodical bites. I close the door slowly, slightly shaken up. This Jack wasn't the one I remembered from six months ago. He seems more silent—angrier. I guess that was what the army did to you.
I start my car, a gift from Jack for my sixteenth birthday almost a year ago. It's a great car and it drives well, but my parents hate it. Jack had given the car a lot of good dents and bruises, so the paint was coming off in some places and it had an unkempt look to it. There's a picture of Graham on the inside, taped to the corner of the right window.
I drive around with my iPod blaring, making a mental list of what I need. I stop by CVS and pick up Jack's toothbrush and socks, go to Target, and then the grocery store, where I ponder over what to fix for dinner. My mom has said she'll fix us supper tonight, but knowing her, we'll be lucky if we can get her to sit down and eat it once I've made it.
I get home to find my dad watching TV with a cold beer and my mom on the phone, talking a mile a minute and oblivious to my arrival. I put away the groceries and find Jack's socks and toothbrush. Now to find Jack himself. I head towards his room, the CVS bag dangling from my hand. His door is slightly ajar, and I push it open silently. Jack sits at his computer. I catch a glimpse of what looks like an e-mail.
"Jack?" I say softly.
He leaps out of his chair in surprise, making it topple to the ground. "Jeez!" he snaps, slamming his computer shut. For a second he glares at me with an expression that he usually reserves for our father on his face. His eyes are full of hatred, cold and angry. I freeze for a moment, terrified, and then he realizes it's just me. The sharp contempt on his face fades until he just looks tired. Tired, and relieved.
"Don't do that," he snaps, obviously embarrassed. "Don't startle me like that."
I drop the plastic bag with the toothbrush and socks on the ground, feeling trapped and like I had just gotten the breath knocked out of me.
"Thanks," he mumbles when he sees it. I nod and turn to walk out of the room.
"Lily?"
I hesitate, count to ten, and turn around.
He looks at me, in a pleading sort of way. "I'm sorry. Really. You just startled me,” he says.
I study him for a moment, taking in the harsh features that had grown so pronounced over the years. His eyes, cold and dark, the way he's always on guard... I watch him, and realize that he's not young anymore. He's grown, both physically and mentally. The Jack that I remember is gone.
"Sorry," I whisper, and leave.
I run my hand along the smooth wood of the balcony, watching another plane take off. I watch it gracefully soar into the sky, its pure white silhouette beautiful and free against the cool blue.
Turning away from the window, I start to feel an icy foreboding slowly consuming me. Taking a breath of warm air I close my eyes against it, beginning to realize the true meaning of what I’m about to do. There are so many reasons to turn back now; to soar back just like the plane…free and beautiful.
But when you love someone, you stop at nothing to protect them—even when it means putting yourself in danger.
And yet I am afraid. So many things can happen, and there are too many things that can go wrong. I don’t know what to expect or what to do. The chances are great that I will not be able to untangle myself from this mess. I start to realize that there is a real possibility I will not come out of this alive—that everyone I love could be at risk.
But as I open my eyes and watch another plane take off, I feel a determination spread through my body. I remember my promise to myself—I will protect those I love. No matter what that means… no matter how much pain I am forced to go through or land I have to cross. No matter what I have to do, I will keep that promise. I will die before letting someone I love be put in danger, and that may be what I have to do. But I am able to brace myself for it… and I am finally able to accept it.
Because some things are worth dying for.
*Chapter 1*
In Washington DC, winters are cold and harsh. Snow and ice are constant, unforgiving elements everywhere in the city, and the cheery mood associated with spring and summer plummets faster than the temperature. My family and I live in a relatively safe area near the capital; there’s not as much violence in that area as in the suburbs. At least, not the kind of violence you hear about.
DC may have a high crime rate, but it is also exceptionally beautiful, a kind of beauty that most people cannot understand unless they live in the city itself. Even in the winter, there is a calm strength that echoes through the streets. In the wake of a blizzard, when the ground is blanketed by freshly fallen snow, there is a certain feeling of hope that laminates the sky and seals up the city’s shattered pieces.
The icy wind that strokes the morning sun blows a new perspective into our eyes as we go about our life. Somehow the snow covers our problems, at least for the day, and the comfortable crunch of our feet against it soothes and nourishes our youthful purity. For that first moment when we walk out onto the smooth white surface of new-fallen snow, we are able to stop for a moment. We are able to stop, and look out at a new city—one where icy air is enough to give us a new perspective, and one where fresh snow can mark a fresh beginning.
I turn away from the window, where the sun is barely rising over the skyline, and collapse on my bed. I don’t have to go to school for a few days this week, but the freedom doesn’t come with as much excitement as I had expected. I should be hanging out with my friends and having fun, but today's different.
I look around my room, its crème walls and wooden surfaces bland and unexciting. Three pictures sit on my otherwise clean desktop, the faces watching me as I stand up and walk across the room to them.
The first two that are facing me are pictures of my friend Nate and I hugging and laughing as though nothing’s wrong. His open and smiling face makes my chest ache, and I rest my hand against one of the wooden frames, wondering why we were so happy.
There’s another picture, still turned down on its face. I close my hand over it, remembering my baby brother’s laugh and the way his eyes were turned toward me, open and trusting when the picture was taken. Remembering the way I had my arms around him, warm and safe for the last time. I slowly move my hand to the picture, pressing it into the table. I don’t lift it yet; I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to see this picture again.
I look away at the wall behind me. The calendar across the room says it's the eleventh, and I feel myself tense up with a mixture of anger and fear. I don't want to watch TV today; there will probably be something on about it. Some footage of the plane crashing, the building going up in flames. Vibrant red will streak across the screen and instead of feeling sorry for everyone else, for all the thousands of others that died, I'm only going to remember my little brother.
A few months before the attacks, my other brother Jack signed up for the army. Angry and determined, Jack was deployed a few days after my baby brother—Graham—died. I still remember the last time I talked to Jack. We didn’t say goodbye, because goodbye is for people who need words to express their feelings. I just looked at him, and he looked at me, and a thousand words wove through the invisible web between our eyes. There are so many things that could have been said—and this way, we said them all. That, if nothing else, is something to hold on to—I don’t have to regret those last few moments we had together before he left.
I call Nate when I feel myself starting to think about Graham. He was the first person to know about Graham’s death, and I stayed with him for a couple of weeks while my parents were in New York. We’ve known each other for years, ever since I moved to DC.
I stretch out on my bed and dial his number, which I know by heart. The phone rings, and I silently beg him to pick up.
“Hello?”
Thank God. “It’s me.”
Nate’s familiar voice is rough and distorted over the phone as he says, “Lily! Hey… I was actually about to call you.”
“Oh,” I reply, not sure how to respond.
I press the phone against my cheek, waiting for Nate to say something.
“Do you wanna come over?” he finally asks.
“Nate,” I say, tired of beating around the bush. “Do you know what day it is?”
I hear him rummaging around in a bag or something. “March 10th, I think. Why?”
“It's March 11th,” I correct him automatically.
“Okay... so?” Nate says impatiently, sounding confused.
I wait for him to figure it out, tapping my foot lightly against the wooden bedframe.
“What’s important about March 11th, Lil? Is it—” He sighs and stops talking. I lean back against a pillow, waiting.
When he continues I can tell he’s figured it out. “Oh…right…”
“Yeah.”
“It’s been six months already? Jesus….”
“How do you not know that? It’s been all over the news,” I say, shaking my head.
Nate snorts.
“Who watches the news?”
“I do,” I reply in a clipped tone, sliding off of my bed.
“Oh. Well, I don't.”
I sigh, twirling a lock of my curly dark hair around my finger. “You know, you’re not being very sympathetic.”
He laughs. “Sorry. If you want, I’ll make you a casserole.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I snap.
“Aren’t you supposed to make casseroles for people that are grieving and sick and stuff?”
“I don’t know!” I reply, rolling my eyes, “Make me cookies if you have to make something.”
“Will do,” he says, “But you have to give me some.”
“Whatever.” I grab a pillow and lay on my stomach, the carpet scratching my bare arms.
There is a brief silence, but it’s not awkward. I lean over and take one of my running shoes in my hand, picking at a loose thread.
“Do you wanna go running tomorrow?” I ask finally.
“What? It’s snowing!”
“Please? We can dress warmly.”
“Hell no.”
“Why?” I reply, trying not to whine.
He laughs and changes the subject with ease.
“I made you a CD yesterday,”
My head jerks up.
“Really?”
“Yeah. In return for the last one you made me. I think it was my favorite so far.”
Nate and I exchange music frequently, though I’m sure it’s against dozens of copyright laws. We both have a love for music, although usually we don’t agree on the type. We also run together almost every day during the summer, which is how we formed a friendship in the first place. We were both on the cross-country team the first year I moved to DC.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like that U2 song—”
“Oh yeah! And the—”
Suddenly all I can hear is Nate coughing hard and someone yelling in the background.
“Nate?” I ask as he hacks away.
“I’m… okay…” he chokes out, gasping for air, “just… swallowed some coffee the wrong way. Hold on—” He coughs again. “My mom’s calling me— I’M COMING!”
I smile. “Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “You were such a help.”
“Well, I am pretty helpful,” he laughs. “See you later.”
“Later.”
I hang up the phone with a short laugh. Nate was quiet and distant when I first met him, and he still portrays a sense of angry aloofness to people he doesn’t know. It took a while for us to become as close as we are now.
I sit on my bed, the laughter slowly sinking back into the same depression as always. I’m exhausted, but past being able to sleep. Out the window, the sun shines weakly through the clouds, the pavement cold and gray.
I spend the rest of the day watching crime shows and writing poetry. I don't know why, but ever since 9/11 I've been writing a lot of poetry. It's calming. I keep my focus on television shows we have previously recorded. I don't turn on live TV because I know that there will only be memorials and videos and photos centered around 9/11. I don't want to watch people cry and talk about what a tragedy it was.
Jack's plane is arriving at four. My parents are both at work, so I end up driving to the airport to pick him up.
On the way there, I can barely drive because I'm so nervous. It's been over five months since I'd last seen my brother. We'd always been close, but when he joined the army, something changed. His letters suddenly became the only constant event in my life, the only thing I could depend on. We began writing every day, talking about everything from world issues to our own dreams of the future. Somehow in those five months, Jack and I became closer, even though we were farther apart than we had ever been.
I imagine Jack's face in my mind. He sent me a photograph last month, taken with his two friends from the army. His head was shaved, like in the movies, and muscles bulged under his green and gray splattered uniform. He was smiling, but beneath that, in his eyes, was anger. Determination. He didn't really look happy.
I wait for Jack's flight on a hard plastic chair that smells like alcohol and cheap perfume. I'm an hour early, so I visit a couple newsstands and coffee shops. I end up buying coffee from Starbucks, the kind that Nate always gets. Some caramel-chocolate swirl drink that’s too sweet; I can practically taste the sugar on my tongue as I take a sip. I sit down and look around absent-mindedly, humming softly.
After a few sips of the disgusting coffee, I throw it away, angry with myself for wasting my money. Then, leaning back in my chair, I settle in and debate about what do. I could go walk around to the souvenir shops, but I want to be here the second Jack arrives, and plus, what would be the point? I consider calling Nate and talking to him, but what I really want to do is write. Besides, I realize, I left my phone at home. Glancing around habitually to make sure no one is watching me, I pull out my notebook, bent and scratched from the dozens of times I had stuffed it in my purse. The first page is blank, a habit I had developed long before I was writing poetry, back when I used notebooks for school notes or projects. Writing on the first page of a blank notebook seems too permanent, too big of a task.
On the second page is my first poem ever. It was assigned for school, which is how I began writing poetry. I had scribbled it in the ten-minute break before it was due. I still remember the assignment. It was to write about a family member:
Behind a golden throne
Glossy emeralds glow
A looking glass of love and hope
The sweet red wine will flow
Beneath the pale silk
Of alabaster hearts
You blossom, a rose
As the looking glass departs
I had gotten a good grade on it, mostly because it sounded mysterious and thought-provoking, although it was actually quite simple. The golden throne was Graham's sunny blonde hair, the emeralds were his eyes, and the alabaster hearts were his pale skin, identical to mine. The poem itself was about watching Graham lose his innocence, as he had right before he died. A lot of things had been going on in our lives, things that no child should have to go through. I had written a lot of poetry about Graham, of course, mostly about him and who he would have been had he lived.
My dad says there's no point in wondering what Graham would have been like, because we'll never know. He says the only way to feel normal again is to forget about Graham and not talk about him. He hasn't said Graham's name since Jack went off to the army. He hasn't mentioned Jack either, but at least he doesn’t leave the room if I say Jack’s name.
Another plane comes in, and crowds of people hustle out. Planes have scared me ever since 9/11. And it doesn't help that it's the six-month anniversary. Of course Jack is coming home today. People walk out and I hold my breath, searching for my brother.
And then I see him, and his familiar face makes me freeze. Oh my god, oh my god, I think as I stand and take a step in his direction.
He turns towards me and our eyes meet, and in that moment, something in me falls—some wall is taken down. His face loses its edge and softens. For a moment we just stand there, frozen. Then I'm in his arms and he's holding me and it seems like years since I've seen him.
"Jack!" I gasp, pressing my face into his chest. It's then I realize how much I've missed him. He holds me for what seems like hours, and I feel safe, normal, for the first time in months. When he releases me, there is an expression of pure joy on his face that I have not seen on him in years, even before Graham died.
"Lily," he says, his voice breaking. "How are you doing?"
I almost laugh out loud in relief. He seems so normal, and suddenly we're kids again—normal, innocent kids, and everything's okay.
"I'm fine, perfect," I reply. "How are you?"
His face falls and I come back to reality. Neither of us is fine. We're past being able to make small talk. The warm joy in his eyes fades away, the dark irises laced with flat emotion. The silence that falls seems to fill up the room.
"Let's go," he says suddenly, avoiding my eyes.
I look down and nod. I don't know why, but a lump begins to form in my throat and I can't speak. Eyes burning, I take one of Jack’s bags, and we begin to walk towards the doors of the airport.
*Chapter 2*
My parents don't come home until late that evening. As soon as he sees Jack, my dad leaves the room, his face twisted with anger. Jack glares at his back and appears unruffled by his lack of a decent homecoming. My mom gives Jack a half-hug and finally puts away her phone for a second, telling Jack that he can’t leave again, that it was too hard on us. Jack stands like a statue through the entire thing and then goes upstairs to unpack. I watch from the back corner of the room, the lump in my throat returning. What did I expect? For everything to be okay now that Jack was home?
I hurry upstairs after Jack, before my parents can find some reason to yell at me. In my room, my phone's message light flashes at me from the dresser. I pick it up, flip it open, and call my voicemail. Nate’s voice comes through my phone, cautious and light:
“Hey, it’s me… Do you wanna meet at the ice cream shop tomorrow? Hope you’re feeling better! Let me know how Jack is.”
I pause before texting him back and telling him that I can come. I don’t feel like telling him about Jack, so I turn my phone off afterwards.
My stomach hurts and I'm exhausted, so I lock the door of my room and fall on my bed, slipping into the warm comfort of sleep.
During the night, I have terrifying dreams about being chased through darkness and having nowhere to hide. At about three in the morning I wake up, drenched in sweat and shaking, to a hysterical scream. I stay frozen in bed for a few moments. Upon hearing the scream again, in addition to a lot of muffled yelling and someone running, I leap out of bed, unlock the door and run across the hall to the direction of the scream—Jack’s room. He stands against the door, pale and shaking. His eyes are open wide and he's panting. I dart behind the dark shadow of his closet door and press myself against the wall so he doesn't see me.
For a few more moments he stands there, silhouetted in the moonlight, as though waiting for something. At last, he sits down at his desk and puts in his earphones. He turns his head and reaches up to touch a scratch on his cheek that is leaking blood. Swearing under his breath, he grabs a paper towel and dabs at the blood. It isn't very bad, and I assume he accidentally scratched himself on something. I remember the yelling and running and wonder if it was just something he had been watching on his laptop, which he goes back to now. I watch him as he pulls up Google, still dabbing at his cheek, and searches something. Squinting, I try to read it, but I'm too far away. I lean in a little closer.
There's a sudden bang behind me and I jump back into place, barely concealing a squeal of surprise. My blood freezes, leaving me breathless, and then I relax as I realize that it was my dad's door slamming shut. What was he doing up at this hour? I press myself against the wall as hard as I can, sucking in my stomach and trying not to make a sound. I remember hearing yelling and footsteps running from Jack's room, and realize it was my father. A familiar wave of cold anger and fear washes over me.
I stand in the shadows, paralyzed with fright and confusion, for a few more minutes. Jack doesn't get off the computer. I watch him go through several websites before I sneak back into my own room and fall into a fitful sleep, the dreams of having nowhere to hide returning throughout the night.
The next morning dawns bright and clear. When I wake up, it takes me a minute to remember that Jack is home. I recall my experience the night before and feel a jolt of panic. Had my father seen me?
I had done my best to sleep in, although I was still up by eight. I have to run some errands, so I take a hot shower and put on jeans and a dark blue blouse. Grabbing my blue-green purse from its hanger, I wander downstairs to find a protein bar. Jack sits on a kitchen chair, and I can tell he's been there for a while. A cold cup of tea sits in front of him, and circles darker than mine ring his eyes. He stares into the swirling contents of the tea.
He turns around when he hears me coming. We face each other for a moment, and my blue eyes meet his dark, chocolate brown ones.
His hair, identical in color to his eyes, barely shows through his recently-shaved scalp. It accents the smooth skin of his face, creased between the eyebrows and slightly uneven from a stubble growth of hair on his chin. His pale pink lips are drawn slightly together, and the faded circles under his eyes are more pronounced in contrast to his pale skin. The faint lines around his mouth have deepened over the years, along with the callused skin of his hands. He wears loose, faded denim jeans, a gray shirt, and a rumpled, black jacket that had a familiar pattern on it.
I remember when he didn’t have a constant look of anger on his face, when I could look at it and not feel a cold slice of unease and foreboding course through my body. When his flat dark eyes had had a spark of excitement in them, when they were warm and friendly.
I trace the lines around the edges of his mouth with my eyes, remembering when he would laugh, and lines would appear out of nowhere around his mouth and eyes, crinkling them and making them seem more alive. Now those areas remained smooth and undisturbed, as if carved by wax. He turns to me and sets his dark, lonely eyes on mine.
"Oh. Hey," he says.
"Hi. I'm gonna go run some errands... You need anything?"
"Um…" His voice trails off and his eyes get a glazed over look.
"Jack?"
He glances up. "Uh, yeah. A toothbrush. And some socks."
"Socks?"
"Mhm. Just some white ones. Men's, size eleven, I guess."
"Okay. Sounds good."
"Mhm."
I hesitate for a minute. "See you later."
He gets up and dumps the tea in the sink.
"Yeah. Later."
I hesitantly grab a protein bar and a banana and walk out the door, still watching Jack. He pulls an apple out of the fridge and begins to eat it, taking slow, methodical bites. I close the door slowly, slightly shaken up. This Jack wasn't the one I remembered from six months ago. He seems more silent—angrier. I guess that was what the army did to you.
I start my car, a gift from Jack for my sixteenth birthday almost a year ago. It's a great car and it drives well, but my parents hate it. Jack had given the car a lot of good dents and bruises, so the paint was coming off in some places and it had an unkempt look to it. There's a picture of Graham on the inside, taped to the corner of the right window.
I drive around with my iPod blaring, making a mental list of what I need. I stop by CVS and pick up Jack's toothbrush and socks, go to Target, and then the grocery store, where I ponder over what to fix for dinner. My mom has said she'll fix us supper tonight, but knowing her, we'll be lucky if we can get her to sit down and eat it once I've made it.
I get home to find my dad watching TV with a cold beer and my mom on the phone, talking a mile a minute and oblivious to my arrival. I put away the groceries and find Jack's socks and toothbrush. Now to find Jack himself. I head towards his room, the CVS bag dangling from my hand. His door is slightly ajar, and I push it open silently. Jack sits at his computer. I catch a glimpse of what looks like an e-mail.
"Jack?" I say softly.
He leaps out of his chair in surprise, making it topple to the ground. "Jeez!" he snaps, slamming his computer shut. For a second he glares at me with an expression that he usually reserves for our father on his face. His eyes are full of hatred, cold and angry. I freeze for a moment, terrified, and then he realizes it's just me. The sharp contempt on his face fades until he just looks tired. Tired, and relieved.
"Don't do that," he snaps, obviously embarrassed. "Don't startle me like that."
I drop the plastic bag with the toothbrush and socks on the ground, feeling trapped and like I had just gotten the breath knocked out of me.
"Thanks," he mumbles when he sees it. I nod and turn to walk out of the room.
"Lily?"
I hesitate, count to ten, and turn around.
He looks at me, in a pleading sort of way. "I'm sorry. Really. You just startled me,” he says.
I study him for a moment, taking in the harsh features that had grown so pronounced over the years. His eyes, cold and dark, the way he's always on guard... I watch him, and realize that he's not young anymore. He's grown, both physically and mentally. The Jack that I remember is gone.
"Sorry," I whisper, and leave.
