Kansas Summer

Changes

When I get back to my dorm room on Sunday morning, I am exhausted.  Spencer is all dressed up, much to my surprise.

“What are you doing?” I ask him slowly, many hours of fatigue showing in my voice.

“I'm going to church,” he answers, “I haven't been in so long that I think it's time to go back.  You look tired.  Where were you?”

“Funeral,” I answer.

“I'm sorry,” Spencer tries to condole.

“That's alright.  I didn't know him very well.”  My words have a double meaning: I didn't know Sean for a long time, not long enough to be acquainted, and I judged him only by the way he treated Morgan, so I didn't know the true Sean inside of him.

“If you want to sleep, that's fine; there's another service tonight.  I know you always go to church on Sunday.  Will you be fine here by yourself?”

I wave him off.  “Sure, sure.  You have a good time.”

“Bye.”  Spencer waves at me before he leaves the room and closes the door.

I slump down on the sofa, not even bothering to turn off the television.  My eyelids drop, but the feature in the news wakes me.  I stare at the screen intently as the special broadcast commences.

“And now for a story that was hidden among all of the calamity and chaos of Nine-Eleven; the story of heroics that saved one-hundred people in the air, and countless thousands on the ground.  We go live to our correspondent Holly Janesco in Los Angeles for more.”

The image switches to sunny California and to a woman who stands in an airport terminal in front of a hurriedly built stage.

“Thanks Michelle.  It has been a few days of panic in this country following the worst terror attack in our nation’s history, but the terrorists would have had claimed a few extra lives if it hadn’t been for the heroic efforts of an American Airlines pilot who fought off armed terrorists and saved the lives of everyone onboard his Seven-Thirty-Seven aircraft as well as thousands of citizens on the ground.  It isn’t clear what the target was, but analysts say that the terrorists were going to crash the plane into downtown Washington D.C. 

“However, their plans were thwarted by a very quick-thinking pilot.  David Downing of Los Angeles is that pilot, and we are going to hear from him momentarily.”

I gawk in disbelief.  Had they said David Downing?  That’s Brandon’s dad!  I keep listening to the report for more.  The camera pans to a man in an American Airlines uniform, about fifty, gray hairs poking through his pilot’s hat.  He readies some notes before he begins to speak.

“I would just like to say,” he begins, “that what I did was what any other American would have done.  Only the circumstances made it heroic.”  I click off the television, trying to piece comprehend everything.  I never could have guessed that one day could have changed my life so much.  My stepparents could still be at odds with me and Morgan, and my best friend’s dad could be dead.  Perhaps I am dreaming.  It has been a long time on the road; almost twenty-four hours straight.  I lay down in my bed and close my eyes immediately.

I’m walking in a strange city.  People bustle about, some just move with the crowd, not going anywhere important.  Some walk fast, some walk slowly.  I stumble through the throngs, pushing towards the sidewalk as tiny drops of water begin to fall from the sky.  I duck under a vinyl overhang like the ten people in front of me.  Others crowd under the shelter, making it difficult for me to press on to wherever I am going. 

I take a quick exit from the stampede as I split off and enter a coffee house.  There’s nothing special about it; the walls are painted a light mint green, and hungover businessmen sit at tables, heads still nodding.  I want to keep looking around, but my feet drag me to an occupied table.  The occupant is a young woman in her twenties, turned around to the table behind the one I am sitting at.  I am mesmerized by her waving deep brown hair.  My drowsy mind makes a hasty conclusion.