The Phone Call

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK TO MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
September 2001

“Lisa, you have to stop that email message.”

It is Jennifer on the phone, Jennifer who I’d never been close to, Jennifer who no longer works for the company I still am at, Jennifer who sent an email the day after the attacks saying she was OK, Jennifer who I knew understood when I said that I was there too.

“Lisa you have to do something. I am not a hero. That message is wrong. I AM NOT A HERO!”

Jennifer is volunteering, helping out at the hotel where the families of Cantor Fitzgerald employees are gathered, in these horrible days of hope after the towers’ collapse. A coworker sent an email to our department at work praising Jennifer and her role in of taking care of these people. I know differently. Jennifer is not a hero. She is only doing what she must.

“It’s the families that are important. They have lost so much. I’m not doing anything, nothing at all. Just listening to them. That’s all. I’m not a hero.”

Jennifer is frantic. Jennifer sounds like she is running solely on emotion. Even over the phone she seems transparent, nothing beyond pain and grief, nothing at all. I recognize it. I know it. My own voice sounds the same.

“Lisa, you are the only one who understands this. You were there. You know. I’ve been taking food to a firehouse. They are the heroes, not me. I love my friends there at work dearly, but they don’t understand. Don’t let them send the message saying I’m a hero. I just volunteer. I’m not a hero.”

“Jennifer,” I say, “have you eaten anything?”

“No I can’t. I have to go to the firehouse. They are the heroes.”

“Jennifer, you have to eat. For the Cantor families. For the firemen. You have to eat. Jennifer. I know. I KNOW. But you have to eat. You can’t be like this. We can’t be like this. We have to be strong.”

“No I can’t. I don’t want to eat. They are in so much pain.”

“You have to. You have to live. You have to be strong. Oh Jennifer.”

Silence.

“Jennifer? Jennifer?”

“Lisa? I have a bagel in my hand. Can I eat it?”

“Yes, Jennifer. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, you can eat it.”

I don’t believe this. I am lying to Jennifer. I can’t eat. I’ve forgotten how. Oh please don’t let her ask me how to eat. Oh please anything but that. How do you bite? How do you chew? How do you swallow? I don’t know. I haven’t known for days. If she asks, I can’t tell her. I can’t eat either. I don’t want to live.

“Jennifer? Jennifer! Take a bite. Do it now Jennifer!”

“I can’t. I can’t eat. So many people are dead. So many people are in so much pain. I’ve got to go. Tell them I’m not a hero.”

“Jennifer! Jennifer? Jennifer?!? Take a bite. Just one bite. You have to eat. You have to live. You have to commit yourself to being alive.”

I am lying still. I can’t commit to life. I don’t want to be alive. There are too many dead for me to want to live. I can’t put food in my mouth. It’s wrong to want to live. It’s wrong to eat. I can’t commit myself to living. My mouth tastes like death.

“Jennifer? Did you take a bite?”

“Yes.”

“Chew Jennifer chew. You have to live. For the families. For the firefighters. We have to find a way to live. Oh Jennifer honey, it’s so hard. But we have to live. There is no other way. You have to eat and live! Commit yourself to living! Oh Jennifer!”

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. Just don’t let anyone think I’m a hero. Promise me?

“Yes I promise. Promise me you will live?”

I don’t want her to ask me to make the same promise. I don’t think I can promise to live. I only know that she must. For the families. For the firefighters. We have to live. It’s so hard right now but it’s the only way. We must live. For them. Especially for them. For those who no longer are alive.

“Yes. Okay I have to go now.”

“Okay. Promise you will live? Goodbye Jennifer. Stay alive.”

They took our will to live. They took from us our instinct to stay alive. They took our very knowledge of how to eat, a reflex since the hour of our birth. We don’t want to live. We are not heroes. We commit ourselves to life because we must.

This is what they did to us.