Memoir

When I walked into my office in NYC that Monday morning, after a perfect weekend in East Hampton, lazing on the beach, swimming in the ocean, lobster rolls, frozen daiquiris, all of that—the perfect weekend with the love of my life.

I opened the door and said ”Hi Gracie “to our secretary. Just like every work day.

Grace looked terse. “Go home and pack a bag.” Shoving an airline ticket at me. “255 crashed over the weekend and nobody could reach you. Move fast and get the next flight out to Detroit. When you get there go straight to the Red Carpet Club. Everyone else is already there.”

Stunned, I turned around and exited the Northwest Airlines Sales Office. I caught a taxi back to the apartment, threw clothes in my suitcase, my toiletries bag, then rushed out and grabbed a taxi on the corner of First Avenue.

In the gate area I spotted another manager, MaryAnne, from Northwest Sales in Boston. She’d taken the shuttle to LaGuardia. We huddled, hugging, our knees knocking. On the plane we sat together. Neither of us had a clue about what was in store. Family Duty. A term that was batted around. Nobody thought it could possibly ever involve them.

After landing, we didn’t go directly to the Red Carpet Club. We rationalized. It was going to be tough so first we should get some lunch. In the airport coffee shop we lingered. I remember having a hamburger. Then we couldn’t stall any longer.

A gate agent we flagged down pointed to the unmarked door of the Red Carpet Club. We looked at each other, then one of us stepped forward and pushed it open. A Northwest airport employee greeted us solemnly. He held a clipboard. He asked our names and cities. Then gave us our name tags, saying, “Good luck. Now go find your family.”

Thick cigarette smoke filled the expansive room. It was like entering a dark pond. I’m sure the room was lighted but it still seemed dark to me. Teeming with people in the worst stages of grief. The sobbing sounds almost unbearable. This must be like a madhouse I thought. Then I moved further into the space.

It felt like high water pushing against my body. There was so much cigarette smoke it made a line in the air of the jammed room. After each step forward, I had to stop and catch my breath. In the midst of these hundreds of people drushed together, a man approached, looked at my name tag, and tore into me. He had been there since Sunday. Yesterday. He and his family. Waiting for me. He’d been given my name, told I would be their liaison, their helper. Something along those lines. He said his son and brand new daughter-in-law had been killed in your plane crash. My plane crash. Family Duty struck me like a bottle over the head.

Gathering up every last ounce of strength, I told him how deeply sorry I was to be late, that I’d just been told this morning. I didn’t mention how I was away for the weekend; it seemed superfluous and almost vicious under the circumstances. I believe I was actually ringing my hands. The man, the father, was tall with graying hair. I couldn’t help notice he was good looking. I thought to myself that his son may have looked like him. He wasn’t crying, at least not outwardly. “Stay here while I go find my family,” he said. A direct command.

The wife was destroyed. She grabbed onto me, crying and hugging me, crying so hard the shoulder of my dress got wet. When she finally let go, I saw their other son standing close to the father . Short, like his mom, with her same sweet round face. He looked to be about sixteen. He called me Miss. I told them to please call me Susan. The boy was trying very hard to be strong like his dad. But his eyes were brimming.

I don’t know how long I was in that room.

Finally someone announced through a megaphone that the families should go out to the curb for the mini-buses that would take them to Day’s Inn. The father, exhausted from his tirades, shook my hand wordlessly, almost formally. I told them I would pick them up at nine the next morning in the Day’s Inn lobby. The mother sobbed, hugging me again. The son followed out behind his father, his head dropped low.

It was just us, then. The team. NWA managers I knew for 8 years, from all across the country. We were told to report to the Command Center in the Marriott, where we had been put up.

The Command Center had a long folding table up front of the room. It was piled with papers. Chairs set up in rows. Heading up the Command Center was my old boss, Don, from the Philadelphia office. I felt a moment of gladness. Don got things done and was always kind and reasonable.

When we all were settled in the chairs, he said, “When I call your name, come up and get your index cards. You will each have two families assigned to you.”

A quiet stir went up. Two families! I guess we’d been expecting one family each. But of course that was impossible. The plane had held over 200 passengers. Two families, two cards. The names of the deceased at the top, and their surviving family names underneath.

“Don’t screw up,” Don said.

I wanted to be called last. Every aspect of the situation terrified me. He called my name third or maybe fourth. He didn’t look up at me when he spoke. I thanked him and sat back down. After all the cards were distributed, we were told that more family members were coming in on a flight that night. In just a few hours time. Don instructed that we were to stand out on the tarmac in a tidy line. “Tidy!” he emphasized, knowing we could be a wild bunch. He said as a family member stepped off the metal stairs, their name would be announced. The person who had that name card was to step forward and greet that person or persons.

Since I’d already made contact with my one family, I only had to meet the second. One name. A man who had lost his wife in the crash. We were told to take them into the Day’s Inn Restaurant and buy them dinner, drinks, whatever they wanted. Talk with them, do whatever was required.

That night was hot and steamy. Late August, no stars. Heat rising out of the black tarmac. I could feel it through the soles of my shoes. We were all afraid, waiting in that line. I heard some nervous giggling. A lot of nervous chat. We watched the plane circle, then land and taxi in to a full stop. An agent waited at the bottom of the metal stairs. Slowly the first person emerged and then others followed down the stairs to the ground.

The wait was over.

When the name of the man on my card was announced, I moved quickly out of the line to greet him. It was very strange because he didn’t seem upset. While most who came off that plane were in various stages of grief, he was kind of matter of fact. In an odd way, I felt sort of relieved.

We got into a mini-van with about ten other family members. The drive to Day’s Inn was under five minutes. I suggested to him that we get some dinner, but he said he only wanted alcohol. Everything in the lobby area was shut down for the night. I looked at my watch. Nearly midnight.

I didn’t know what to do then. He was affable, told me not to worry. That he was tired and really should get some sleep. He asked me to walk him to his room. We took the elevator, got out and walked down a long hallway. He unlocked his door and I put out my hand to say goodnight. He then told me he had a bottle in his briefcase and why not join him for a drink? When I turned him down politely, he grabbed my arm, tried forcing me inside. Tired as I was, I broke loose and ran down the hallway. Fortunately, he didn’t come after me. I would have screamed, and that, too, would have been horrible.