Fire and Life

I don’t ever do this—well, at least not since college. I usually adhere to the three-date rule. Which, more often than not, means that it never happens. But something that night just clicked. It was a usual Friday night at Illusions.  I was hanging out with several friends from work, and he was leaning against the bar, flirting with some bimbo.

Ten minutes later, I had dealt with the bimbo, and he was now flirting with me. My friends tried to pull me off him, but I knew he was something special. It was hard to hear in the bar, but I learned his name was Noah. He was a grad student at BU (Boston University) and was in the city with some friends.

Noah was handsome and intelligent, and I know this is a cliché, but he was such a gentleman. I swear, I don’t usually do this, but I was totally captivated. To coin an old phrase, he literally swept me off my feet. I always promised my mom that I’d be in bed before midnight; I just never promised to be alone.

We spent the entire day together Saturday, and that evening, after a stop at Wagman’s, Noah, utilizing nothing but my eighty square foot East Village kitchen, prepared me the finest meal I had ever eaten. Needless to say, we enjoyed dessert in bed that evening, and we didn’t leave my apartment until after ten on Sunday morning. I took him to my favorite coffee vendor at the Union Square Greenmarket. We slowly strolled through the outdoor market, sipping our coffees, sampling fresh fruit, and finally purchasing still-warm pastries, delaying his departure for as long as possible.

But depart he must, as he had to be back in Boston that evening. Noah had to catch the 1:15 train back to Boston that night.  Not wanting him to leave, I slow-walked him to the Metro station two blocks from Union Square at 14th Street and Avenue of the Americas.  Holding hands, we made our way to the platform to wait for the next train when it occurred to me that we needed a selfie.

It was midday on a Sunday, and the subway station wasn’t that crowded. I pulled my cell phone from my hip pocket, flipped the camera to the front view, and hugged Noah.  Stretching my arm out as far as possible, I snapped the first photo—then two more for good measure.

Of course, Noah wanted to see them, so handing him the phone we both laughed as we scrolled through the pictures. Thinking he could do better, Noah held the camera at arms-length and snapped three more.

Moments later, the northbound train rumbled into the station. As the brakes screeched the train to a stop, Noah and I passionately kissed, wrapped in each other’s arms, as if he was heading off to war.

Finally breaking our embrace, I allowed Noah to head for the open train door as my fingers traced the outline of his arm, finally slipping off the tip of his finger. Just as Noah turned to enter the waiting car, he was bumped from behind by a young man wearing a large backpack. Noah paused for a second to allow the ill-mannered traveler to enter ahead of him. My eyes followed my heartthrob through the window as he made his way to the center of the car, and I blew him a kiss as he sat facing me—waiting for the train to move.

Just as the doors began to slide shut, the man who had bumped Noah to enter the train ahead of him slipped back onto the platform and headed for the stairs. I didn’t think anything of it. As I waved goodbye to Noah with one hand, I was wiping a tear from my cheek with the other. Seconds later, the doors slid shut, and the train sped into the darkness of the awaiting tunnel.

As the train’s taillight disappeared into the darkness, I slowly turned and headed for the stairs. As my fingers reached for the handrail, a deafening blast rocked the station. People still on the platform were knocked to the ground, and I fell to my knees as I grasped for the railing.

Turning my head, I looked over my shoulder to see flames shoot from the tunnel, followed seconds later by waves of billowing black smoke.  As I tried to stand, I dropped my phone. My first instinct was to dash to see if Noah was all right, but those still standing, as well as those scrambling to their feet, swarmed toward me as they raced for the stairs and the only viable exit from the station.

Realizing that I dropped my phone, I franticly felt for it before the surging crowd pushed me up the stairs and to safety at street level. Still stunned and confused, I must have recovered my phone in the smoke and chaos. Now standing in the middle of 14^th street, acrid black smoke poured from the entrance to the subway station as the sound of sirens began to fill the air.

In shock, I just stood there in stunned silence and disbelief as victims struggled to exit the subway station and first responders poured onto the scene. As I appeared to be unhurt, police and firefighters rushed past me to help the less fortunate, and slowly, I turned to make my way back to my apartment.

Once inside and behind closed doors, my eyes fell upon the jumbled mess of sheets, blankets and pillows where Noah and I had spent the last two nights. I burst into tears for the first time and flung myself to the center of the bed. My nostrils filled with the scent of Noah and our nights of passion as I cried myself to sleep.

Monday morning, I called my office to tell them that I wouldn’t be able to make it in. They knew I lived in the East Village and were relieved to hear that I wasn’t hurt. And they fully understood my angst and informed me to take whatever time I needed. Still, in shock and grief, I sat silently on the couch, staring at the wall before finally reaching for the remote and clicking on the television.

Twenty-four hours later, the local news was still reporting nothing but the explosion. The police felt strongly that it had been a terrorist attack and that forty-eight people had been confirmed dead, with many more still reported as missing. In stone silence, I watched as the New York police commissioner came on and begged people who had any information or leads as to who committed this heinous act of terrorism to call the phone number on the screen.

I was still too numb to feel that I had any information, but for some reason, I picked up my phone and began scrolling through the photos I had taken the day before. There were our selfies, the three I had taken and then the three that Noah had snapped. There—in one of the pictures I had taken and two of Noah’s—was the guy who had bumped him before getting on the train. And in the photos, he was wearing a backpack. A large, heavy black nylon backpack.

This was the same guy that I saw jump from the train seconds before the doors closed and the train sped from the station. Same red rugby jersey, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Only when I saw him run from the train he was not carrying the backpack. He must have left it on the train.

Was this the terrorist? I tried to focus on his face. He had short dark hair and a full beard—neatly trimmed.  But getting a good look at his other facial features was tricky. However, I was sure it was the same guy.

I called the number on the TV screen and was soon connected with a police operator. “Hello,” I said in a haunting voice. “My name is Emily Harman.” I paused as my voice choked with emotion. “I think I have a picture—a photo of the bomber. Three photos, actually—on my cell phone.”

The police operator took my name and address and asked if I could bring the phone to the nearest police precinct. I agreed and hung up.  An hour later, after showering and changing clothes, I was sitting in front of a police detective telling my story. I showed him the pictures, and he immediately picked up his phone and made several calls. A police forensics technician took my phone and placed it in a plastic bag. Then, after a police officer brought me a bottled water, I was led to a conference room, where a map of the subway station was laid out on the table.

We were soon joined by a Federal ATF agent, as well as two FBI agents. Pointing to the schematic drawing on the table and with a video camera running, they asked me to carefully retrace every step Noah, and I had taken the day of the explosion.

A police officer finally dropped me back off at my home that night. And after a cup of ramen noodles and a glass of wine, I cried myself to sleep for the second night in a row.

I called my office Tuesday morning and explained the whole experience. Again, my boss was very understanding and told me to take the week off. They would cover for me and not to worry, just get the rest I needed.

The following week, I finally returned to the office. Everyone was very supportive, and I was extremely grateful for their concern and support. However, I felt that I kept seeing Noah. The subway between 14^th and 34^th streets was still closed and probably would be for months. So, I took the bus when time permitted or a taxi if I was running late, which was normal.

And there was Noah, walking down the sidewalk when I was on the bus. Getting into a cab across the street from me. Exiting the elevator just as I was about to step in. It seemed like every day, somewhere, and at the moment I least expected it, there he was. Or at least someone that looked just like him. Or someone who made the jester with their hands or swept their hair from their face the same way he did. Something to remind me of him and torment me in my grief.

To make matters worse, I wasn’t feeling all that well. I was nauseous and felt bloated. I had missed my period two weeks after the attack, but I didn’t think much of it. Probably due to the trauma, I told myself. But after missing it again four weeks later, I went to the pharmacy for a test kit.

I was pregnant! Pregnant with Noah’s baby.