Though the 25th anniversary month of 9/11 is now over, I’ve decided to continue sharing “Rising from the Rubble,” from my magnum opus Cinnimin, in installments, until I reach the end of what I completed for NaNoWriMo 2023 and the most raw, immediate experience of living in the post-9/11 world. It just feels right to keep a serious mood during the lead-up to the third anniversary of 7 October.
After Raizel finished her late breakfast of poached eggs, whole wheat toast with strawberry jam, fruit salad, and apple juice, Kim and Wendy helped her into the chair on the left side of her bed. Raizel held onto them for dear life during the perilous ten seconds of the transfer. Her legs were propped up on a footstool.
“How does it feel?” Kim asked. “We can shift your position if you feel any pain or discomfort.”
Raizel averted her eyes from the ugly external fixators. “It’s a bit awkward. I’m not used to sitting in a chair anymore.”
“You may only be able to handle it for short periods at first,” Wendy said. “That’s very normal. There’s no shame in having to return to bed after a few minutes instead of a few hours. Your body is still doing the very important work of recovery.”
“Is there anything you’d like us to hand you?” Kim asked.
Raizel reached out her right hand to touch the bed. “I’m chilly. I’d like a blanket or two.”
Her nurses lifted the blankets onto her.
“I’d also like the newspaper and the remote.”
Kim handed both to her.
“Will any of the chaplains come to my room tonight? I don’t want to be totally cheated out of a real holiday.”
“They’re coming around to everyone on the list,” Wendy said. “I imagine the services in actual synagogues will be really rough this year. It might be a dark blessing you don’t have to go through that.”
“At least I’d be with other people there instead of alone.”
“Yes, but you might feel more depressed if you’re surrounded by people behaving like they’re at a funeral,” Kim said. “The emotions would be magnified, and the sermons will doubtless be all about what happened on Tuesday. We want you to heal emotionally and mentally as well as physically.”
“Is Mendy Morgenstern an official chaplain here, or did he only visit once on his own? I’d like to see him again.”
“We’ve had a lot of clergy coming here unofficially,” Wendy said. “He may have been one of them. If he doesn’t come again, you can look in the phonebook or ask one of the other chaplains about him. I’m not particularly religious, but I understand how important that is in times of crisis. You may recover sooner if you’re buoyed spiritually.”
“What about holiday meals? I’ll feel less isolated if I have some traditional foods like honey cake, exotic fruit, and pomegranates. Or is the food shortage too bad now?”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Kim said. “Nothing is the same for anyone anymore, but we need some normalcy and familiarity to avoid going crazy. Leave it to us, and you’ll have the best holiday possible under these circumstances.”
Mancika held Ammiel’s arm as they alighted from the VW bus in downtown Stroudsburg. After an absence of six days that felt more like six centuries, she wasn’t sure if she remembered how to interact with other people who hadn’t been there, as well as normal streets, buildings, and vehicles. Part of her mind would always remain frozen on Tuesday, just as her grandma Etu and great-grandparents Kevorkian had never fully mentally left their own traumas. But regardless, it was nice to see regular life had continued despite everything. The country was wounded but not destroyed.
The wide, tree-lined streets were full of old buildings that very much reminded Mancika of the Colonial Quarter back home. Some were Art Deco and Gothic Revival. It was a relief to see no skyscrapers or other exceptionally tall buildings. There were also no planes flying overhead, and the sky was its normal pretty blue, interspersed with soft, fluffy clouds. This city promised to be a very safe place.
Copyright Quintin Soloviev, Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International
“Where would everyone like to go?” Wilhelm asked. “There are art galleries, antiques stores, boutiques, and a lot of other fun places. We don’t all need to go to the grocery.”
“I’d like to go to an antiques store,” Ammiel said. “We can get ideas about decorations and furniture there.”
“I want an art gallery,” Roger said.
“What kinds of boutiques are there?” Dvora asked.
“The usual,” Wilhelm said. “Clothing, toys, decor, novelties, jewelry, crafts, art supplies, that sort of thing.”
Copyright Nicholas A. Tonelli, Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic
Their party split up five ways. Wilhelm went to a mid-sized independent grocery store with Lara, Ravid, and Golda, while Roger and Sharona went to an art gallery, Dvora’s family headed off to an all-purpose boutique, Basya and Rifka went to a women’s clothing store, and Mancika and Ammiel went to a large antiques store in an old Queen Anne Revival house with a wraparound veranda.
The entryway was filled with tables, chairs, and bookshelves holding many old volumes, cabinets and secretaries filled with more books, and wardrobes. Mancika looked around in awe and admiration. None of the furniture she’d left behind in Tribeca was this appealing. Those were just cheap pieces she and Courtnie had bought at Ikea, Bed Bath & Beyond, Sears, and Macy’s, not personally meaningful items meant to last a lifetime and grace their home with character. Their kitchen appliances, tableware, and cookware were the same.
“Are you looking for anything in particular, or just browsing?” a fiftysomething man in a green shirt and beige trousers asked. “We carry almost everything you can think of, for every price range.”
“How about jewelry?” Ammiel asked. “We’re unofficially engaged, and need to start getting ideas for the ring. My girlfriend isn’t the cliché diamond solitaire type.”
“Of course.” The manager led them towards the staircase. “There’s a nice selection on the second floor. It’s always refreshing to find a couple who thinks outside the box.”
Mancika’s heart raced as she beheld the stairs. She hadn’t used any stairs since Tuesday morning. All of a sudden, the air was filled with the overpowering stench of smoke, chemicals, burning jet fuel, rubber, and cremated humans. Phantom fireballs and giant tidal waves of smoke marauded down the stairs as the entire mall screamed and ran as one person towards the elusive exit, while the building reverberated with aftershocks of the earthquake-level shaking. Mancika gasped for breath as she closed her eyes and grabbed Ammiel’s arm.
“Do you have asthma, Miss?” the manager asked.
Ammiel helped Mancika onto the bottom step. “Do you mind if I tell him?”
“Not every last detail, please,” she gasped. “I’m not a circus animal on display or a charity case.”
“My girlfriend was in the World Trade Center on Tuesday, and a lot of things remind her of that morning. She stayed in the immediate vicinity until the very end and had some very narrow escapes. I finally found her about to fall into the burning rubble while she was searching for a friend.”
The manager stared at Mancika with soft eyes. “What happened was a crime against humanity. I know several people who were in the city that day, and the mood of everyone here has been very heavy and depressed ever since. Would you prefer if I bring the jewelry down to you?”
Mancika shook her head. “I can’t be a pathetic basketcase forever. I think I can manage one flight of stairs there and back.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” Ammiel asked.
Mancika nodded. “It’s impossible to avoid stairs for the rest of my life, though I don’t want to live or work in any building with too many stories.” She slowly rose and took Ammiel’s arm.
Each step of the way, Mancika reminded herself she was safe in Stroudsburg and that the events imprinted upon her mind had happened six days ago, not today. When she reached the top of the landing, she emerged into a normal floor full of more antiques, not an apocalyptic hellscape with a foreboding grey sky, that toxic stench blanketing the air, and a torn, burning building from which people were jumping and transmogrifying into watermelon guts. This was the normal life she remembered from just one short week ago, the kind of life she desperately longed to return to.
“You see, you made it,” Ammiel told her encouragingly. “I’m really proud of you, Manci.”
The manager led them to a large glass display counter, behind which were several cabinets and secretaries full of more jewelry. “Do you have any favorite gemstones or colors, or are you open to a lot of different options? Many people find themselves buying something entirely different than what they came here looking for.”
“I’ve never been particularly girly or into jewelry,” Mancika said. “My birthstone is ruby, and sapphire is the birthstone of September, the month we got together. I also gravitate towards distinctive shades of pink, but not that Barbie type of pink.”
The manager lifted out rings with rubies, sapphires, garnets, spinels, rhodonites, and pink topazes. Many had smaller accent stones like diamonds, emeralds, and pearls, and the bands were mostly silver, white gold, and yellow gold. A few were rose gold, which Mancika had always found very distinctive.
“Don’t feel like you have to make a decision right now,” the manager said. “You can’t rush choosing the right engagement ring. How many years have you been together?”
Ammiel gazed down at a rose gold ring with a ruby above and to the right of a sapphire, with diamonds in the shape of leaves on all four sides. “We’ve been best friends for seven years, but only took it to the next level six days ago. It seems like such a natural, obvious next step, we shifted the nature of our feelings without being aware of it.” He reached out for Mancika’s hand. “Until I thought I might’ve lost my Manci, I didn’t realize the true depth of my feelings. When I told her that day, she said she suddenly felt the same way too.”
“You’re my favorite type of couple. Perhaps many divorces could be avoided if people were just friends first and had more than romance as the basis of their relationship.”
Mancika and Ammiel browsed the rings while the manager, who introduced himself as Brandon Salazar, narrated their respective histories and quoted prices. The nicest ones that most appealed to Mancika were all out of both of their budgets, but Mr. Salazar promised they could pay in installments or with an initial down payment followed by the remainder at a later date.
“Do you sell out quickly?” Ammiel asked.
“Not in this department. My most popular items tend to be furniture, artwork, silverware, books, and odds and ends. Jewelry isn’t my least-popular item, but I usually don’t sell a lot of it every day.”
“Do you get a lot of new stock?” Mancika asked.
“Not as often as furniture, clothing, and random small items people just want to unload somewhere. You probably won’t have to worry about a piece you like being snapped up by someone else later today.”
Mancika and Ammiel looked at jewelry for a little while longer, then browsed the rest of the store. Each time Mancika had to go up or down a staircase, she steeled herself, took deep breaths, and walked slowly but surely. Avoiding triggers wouldn’t do her mental recovery much good, though she still hoped there weren’t many other stairs in her near future. These ones today were about all she could handle for now.
Before they left the store, they purchased two bags of books ranging from 1830 to 1915. None of them were particularly valuable or even of personal interest, but they were appealing on account of their age. They made mental notes of the furniture they most liked. On future visits, they hoped to buy some of the chairs, secretaries, cabinets, and tables to better personalize their new home.
Back on the street, they found Wilhelm, Ravid, Lara, and Golda carrying several bulging paper bags each. Basya and Rifka carried long, flat boxes, and Dvora’s family carried their loot in the woven bags they’d brought.
“We’ll have a feast tonight,” Wilhelm proclaimed as they started towards the bus. “This is more than enough food for the entire community. We even got stuff for the non-vegetarians.”
“I can’t wait to come back to Stroudsburg,” Roger said. “Next time, I’ll spend at least an hour in every art gallery, and visit so many other shops. I can buy Lally a present from one of the boutiques before she comes here.”
“Is she still a Goth?” Rifka asked.
“She still dresses all in black, wears black lipstick, and loves all things dark and macabre, but she’s not what I’d call a deliberate Goth. That just happens to be the style closest to hers.”
“Goths are cool,” Basya said. “The ones I see at the mall and the park are so nice and friendly. They seem so much more genuine than fashion-obsessed preppies and those girls obsessed with boygroups and pop tarts. I like emos a lot too.”
“But they don’t dress professionally,” Golda said. “There’s a happy medium between that and preppy.”
“I’m not saying that’s a style I want to follow. You don’t have to worry I bought any emo or Goth clothes. But I do admire them for being so unafraid of standing out from the crowd.”
“That’s the only way to be,” Ammiel said. “Why be one of a million when you can be one in a million?”
“Can we come back here after Rosh Hashanah?” Yael asked. “This place is so fun, and I need to go to the mall so I can buy my own robot.”
“One thing at a time,” H.G. said. “First we need to recover a bit more from Tuesday. Rushing our return to normal life isn’t a good idea.”
Raizel seized her call button. After a bit over an hour of sitting in the chair, her legs had begun to ache more and more by the minute, and she could no longer ignore it. Her head was also starting to pound, accompanied by fuzzy vision and shooting stars flashing across a black background.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay in the chair longer,” she gasped when Kim and Wendy arrived. “I tried my best, but the pain got too bad to ignore. Can I have DHE?”
“You shouldn’t feel any shame or failure,” Wendy said. “Just sitting in a chair for any length of time is a huge milestone in your healing. You can try again tomorrow, or wait a few days until you feel a bit stronger. A little at a time is still progress.”
Raizel tightly held onto them as they transferred her back onto the bed and the confining, limiting position she’d been stuck in for the last six days. No matter what anyone tried to say to make her feel better, this felt like a total failure. Even if she eventually was able to sit for longer periods of time, she couldn’t walk, stand, kneel, bend, lean, run, or jump. She barely had more range of motion than when she’d been trapped under the desk. This would be the worst High Holidays ever.
The precious DHE was infused into her IV, and the worst intensity of the migraine gradually subsided. Then, without asking, her morphine was turned up, which bestowed the beautiful blessing of sleepiness. Her eyelids presently grew heavy from the sweet song of Hypnos, and within a few minutes, she was back in that safe cocoon of sleep, protected from the ugly real world full of pain and cruelty.
Zoe made odd yowling noises and loud, urgent meows on her nest of pillows as Mancika and Ammiel watched from a respectful distance. Slowly but surely, a tiny wet oval emerged, and Zoe dutifully licked and gently bit the wriggling sac to to reveal a kitten with her same buff coat. She ate the placenta, and about ten minutes later delivered a tortoiseshell. Mancika and Ammiel sat transfixed over the next three hours, unable to tear their eyes away from the miracle of life, as Zoe brought forth a grand total of eleven kittens. The other nine were a buff tuxedo, dark brown with white patches, another tortoiseshell, dark buff verging on orange, white with black spots on the tail and face, dark grey with white patches, two grey tabbies, and a red tabby. Zoe looked absolutely exhausted when all the kittens were out.
“No wonder she was so big,” Ammiel marvelled as he counted the nursing balls of fluff. “She had a whole soccer team in there.”
Mancika beheld the kittens with misty eyes. “This is the most perfect start to the new year. Only six days ago, I watched three mass deaths and felt the exact moment of another, and now I’ve seen the most beautiful opposite, mass life coming into this world. Zoe knew this is exactly what we most need. She even had eleven kittens, so we’ll always associate that number with life and renewal instead of pain and death. I think our healing just got a little bit easier.”
