Page 47 of Rushed

Keenan

September 11, 2001

Floral stripes and organic patterns. The choices of clothing strewn across the folding tables were not in what I’d consider my color wheel, but they were dry, clean, and dust free.

Armed with a pair of dark wash baggy jeans, a tank top, and a Fordham University letter sweater in peach, I wander through the shoe selection. It seems the local secondhand stores were overstocked with a supply of women’s size 9, 10, and 12. Therefore, finding a pair to fit my petite feet became a pain in the ass. If I wanted a pink pair of flip flops in September, all was just ducky, but the options in sneakers, dress shoes, or casuals was extremely limited.

Fifteen long minutes later, dressed, shoed, and with combed out hair, I go in search of food, or what would pass as edible. The tables are stuffed with all sorts of things: fresh fruit, sliced meats, cheeses, crackers, bread, side salads like macaroni, coleslaw, and lettuce salads, and there is a variety of drinks. I decide on a bottle of water, a styrofoam cup of plain black coffee, an apple, and a few slices of meat and cheese. Not knowing the last time I ate, or what it was, I think to go with my gut instinct on what I feel I would eat.

The downside of not knowing who you are is that you have no idea if you’re allergic, intolerant, or if you even like certain foods. I take a chance. If I survived a building collapse, I guess I can take a stab at a few choice pieces of antipasto.

Traversing the pathways between filled chairs, I make my way down to the end closest to the tent opening. I come upon two empty chairs, but my gut tells me they’re not right. Something about the people on either side scream ‘do not disturb’ in their demeanor. Though, a little further down, a folding camp chair calls my name. Its rusted edges and smooth seat beckon me to sit.

Taking a seat, I notice the little things around me. The light filters in softly from the waning sun, cracking and cutting in the diffused rays, showing off the outlines of the damage outside. Sitting inside here, you almost forget the distractions and disruptions. In the center of the tables are trays holding cups filled with plastic spoons, knives, forks, and stacks of napkins.

“Kind of a crazy day, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I respond to the voice, turning to see where it came from. A heavier set lady sits a couple chairs down at the very end of the table. Her long black hair lays unkempt around her shoulders, and her clothing is still tattered, torn, and dirty. She’s drinking a cup of coffee and sitting on her chair backwards, with her exposed back against the open doorway.

“You know, there’s an area to get cleaned up with fresh clothes if you’d like,” I inform her, taking a mouthful of cheese.

“Oh, I know, but I don’t expect to be here too long. I’m just waiting until it’s clear so I can get off the island. Most of the traffic is snarled…well, more than usual. I figure if I wait until it’s a bit darker, I can get back to my place and sleep in my own bed. A person who needs the clothes more than me can have them.”

That’s nice of her. She thinks of others first, even though her clothes are literally in shreds.

“Well, as you wait, it probably wouldn’t feel too bad to at least wash up and comb out that beautiful hair. I know it made me feel more human.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel human again.” She turns back to her coffee, swishing it around in the cup. “Just a total waste.”

“Did you see what happened?” I ask.

“Yep. The whole thing, and it still seems…”

“Unreal.”

“Yeah, that’s a good word for it. Where were you?” she asks, taking a sip from her steaming cup.

“I was told I was at tower two, but I can’t say for sure. I don’t remember any of it.” Cutting a piece of meat and cheese up, I don’t wait for her response. I already have an idea she’s going to ask how I couldn’t know where I was, but I was decidedly famished. If I keep talking, my stomach will shut down.

She pauses for a few minutes while I munch away. She continues to contemplate her answer before speaking. Still swirling the dredges in her cup, she finally speaks. “I bet you think that I’ll think you’re unfortunate.” I’m not sure how she’d think this, but I allow her to finish. “I think it’s a blessing in disguise. You don’t have to relive the pain, the fear, the anguish and the sadness that you went through as you escaped.” Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, she lets a smile creep out the edges of her lips. “That will stay with meforever.” Again she pauses and sips her warm mug of coffee, spilling a bit on her hand. “I think you’re lucky.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I thought about how I have nowhere to go, and no idea what to do next. I never considered I have a clean slate from the horror.” I hand her a napkin off the tray and realize she’s right. I don’t have to think about all the things I saw that were horrific.

“That’s me, always thinking of the cup half full,” she grins. “My mom, when she was alive, always said, ‘There’s no good that comes from looking on the downside. You’ll slide off the earth unhappy. But if you look on the bright side, you’ll always soar to the sun.’”

I think about what she says and agree. What’s the use in looking at things in the negative? I’m alive. I’ll have loads of time to remember who I was, and if not, I can reinvent the person who’s here now. Keenan.

We sit there in silence for a while, her with her coffee and me with my remaining dinner and water. Volunteers constantly pass by, looking for others.

“My name’s Maddie, Maddie Thompson. Do you remember your name at least, hun?”

“Nope. I feel like I’m playing charades. Guess what animal this is? What’s its name? A nice rescuer pulled me out of the rubble with another lady and graciously gave me a name. Kenangan.”

“Kenangan? That’s a name I’ve never heard before. What gave him the idea to call you that?”

“He said it was Indonesian, meaning ‘memory.’”

“It’s definitely a name that screams different. And it has meaning,” she says with a smile.

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