The Tuesday Morning Collection

  “Okay.” Her mother took in a long breath. “Sierra, Katy is right about Daddy. He did die in the Twin Towers, just like her daddy.”

  Sierra frowned. She stared at her mommy. Why would she say that? The pieces of her heart felt all mixed up.

  Mommy looked a long time at her. “After the towers fell down, Captain Hisel was walking around and he saw a man who looked like your daddy.” She stopped and looked up. Then she whispered, “God … help me. This is harder than I thought.”

  That was a problem. Whenever Mommy prayed in the middle of talking it was a problem. She swallowed. “It's okay, Mommy. I want to know.”

  Anyway, they took that man to the hospital, and told me it was your daddy. He was hurt and he had bandages on his face, but he looked … he looked exactly like your daddy, Sierra. Exactly. But he wasn't Daddy. He was a man named Eric Michaels. A man who—”

  “That's not true!” Sierra pulled her hand away from her mommy and crossed her arms tight. “He was so my daddy! He gave me horseback rides and curled my hair and made me blueberry pancakes.” Her tummy hurt very bad now. “He was my daddy, Mommy. Maybe you got your story wrong.”

  “Sierra …” She had a strange sound this time, like she was scared. “I promise I'm telling you the truth. You thought he was Daddy, and I thought he was Daddy. I was shocked when I found out he wasn't Daddy. But, Sierra, Daddy died in the Twin Towers. That man—Eric Michaels—was from California. He only looked like Daddy.” Tears broke into her voice and made it scratchy. She did a few sobs and covered her face for a long time. When she looked up she was more sad than Sierra had ever seen her. “Can you believe me, honey? Please?”

  She had to think about this, actually. Before she could answer her mommy's question, she needed a little time for her brain to work. “I want to walk for a minute, okay?”

  “Okay.” Her mommy sat back in her chair. New tears were in her eyes, but she didn't sound as sad.

  Sierra pushed the blanket off, set her Bible down, and walked down the little hill to the water. It was colder there, but she didn't care. How could it be true? How could Daddy have been someone else for all that time? She scrunched down the way they did in gym class sometimes, sort of sitting but not touching the sand with her bottom. Her head felt all swishy inside, but Sierra knew one thing.

  Mommy never lied to her. She might wait a long time to tell the truth, but she never lied.

  Never.

  So if Mommy wasn't lying then it had to be true. The daddy who came home from the hospital wasn't her daddy. Sierra felt sick, the way she felt when they served tuna casserole for hot lunch. Even if it was true, her head was still all mixed up.

  She stood and walked up the hill, careful not to get sand in her tennis shoes. When she got there she put her hands on her hips, because this was very serious business. “The man who lived with us in the downstairs bedroom? He wasn't Daddy?”

  Mommy's eyes were still wet and a few tears spilt onto her coat. “No, honey. Your daddy died in the towers right next to Katy's daddy.”

  “That's why they found the helmets together?”

  “Yes, that's why.”

  “So he gave me horsie rides and curled my hair, but he wasn't my daddy?”

  “No, sweetheart. He really wasn't.”

  Sierra sat back down in her chair, picked up her Bible, and pulled the blanket up around her. All of a sudden she thought of something, something that took away some of the sick feeling in her stomach. She looked at her mommy. “Then that daddy who lived with us is still alive, right?”

  “Yes, but he—”

  “I know! Let's find him and he can be my second daddy! James in my class—remember James?”

  “Sierra, you don't understa—”

  “His daddy was a firefighter and he died in the Twin Towers, but now his mommy got married again and he has a second daddy. Isn't that nice for James, Mommy?”

  “No, Sierra, it's not like that. The man who—”

  “So maybe that man who looked like my daddy could be my second daddy.” She made a sad face. “He would never be my special first daddy, because no one could ever be him.” Her smile came back, just a little. “But that man was very nice, Mommy. I liked him a lot, even if he wasn't my real daddy. He looked like Daddy and he seemed like Daddy. So now you can go find him and marry him and we can be a family like when he was here.” Sierra was out of air so she breathed in real fast. “Could you do that, Mommy? I really like him and plus, he's alive.”

  Mommy pulled her arms out from under the blanket and put them on her knees. Then she put her head down on them, like maybe she was tired. She stayed that way a long time, and also her shoulders did a little shaking.

  “Mommy?”

  Her fingers covered her face, and she sat up straight. Then she wiped her tears and let her hands fall back to the blanket. Her cheeks were almost as red as her eyes. “No, Sierra.” She looked at her really close. “It can't be like that. It can never be like that. The man who lived with us—Mr. Michaels—didn't have his memory because his head got hurt in the towers. Everyone told him he was our daddy, and even he thought so. But then he got better and he found out he wasn't our daddy. That's when he left to find his real family.”

  Sierra didn't want to hear those words. “His real family?”

  “Yes. His real family.”

  Sierra stared at her lap. Maybe that was why he left, and that was when—

  She looked at her mommy. “When he went away … that's when you told me about Daddy dying in the fire, right?”

  “Right.” Her mommy's eyes still had wet in them. “I'm sorry, Sierra. I should've told you a long time ago, but I didn't know how or when.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. “I'm so sorry, baby. I just didn't know how to say it.”

  Sierra looked at the sand and made her brain think very fast. When she looked up she had an idea. “Are you sure that other daddy has a different family?”

  “Yes, honey. They live in California.”

  “Oh.” Sierra stretched her feet out and thought some more. “Can I see him sometime?”

  Her mother's breath came out long and she looked very tired. She shook her head. “No, Sierra. We can't see him.”

  Sierra didn't like that very much—but she did like that at least she had a second daddy for a little bit of time. That was more than Katy had. She stared out at the water. The daddy she really wanted was her own daddy. She looked to heaven, and little tears came into her eyes. At least Daddy was with Jesus. Plus, one day they'd be together again.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Her mommy reached for her hand, and Sierra let her take it.

  “I think so.” Two seagulls danced around a piece of bread a little bit away from them. She yawned and held tight to her mommy's fingers. “Can I keep his picture in my room?”

  “Honey, why?” Mommy's mouth dropped open. A wave came up and smashed onto the sand at the bottom of the hill. Mommy made a huffy sound. “I told you, he wasn't your daddy. Not even for a little while.”

  “Yes, Mommy. He was my second daddy. For that little bit of days he was my second daddy.” Sierra rubbed her thumb over her mommy's hand. “So, can I keep the picture?”

  Her mommy waited. “I don't know, Sierra … ”

  “Please, Mommy.”

  “Oh—” her shoulders dropped a little bit—“Okay. I guess so.”

  “Thank you, Mommy. I can remember him better with the picture.” One hand was still in hers. With the other one, she tapped on her Bible. She wasn't sick anymore, but she was still a little bit sad. “Guess what, Mommy?”

  “What?”

  “I like it better that Daddy died in the Twin Towers. Know why?”

  “Why?” Her mommy snuggled close to her and their two heads came together like best friends.

  “Because Teacher said the firefighters who died on September 11 were heroes. And Daddy was a hero, that's why.”

  “Sierra …” Her mother made a funny sound. Not really a laugh or a cry. “A
ll people who die in the line of duty—firefighters, police officers, soldiers, missionaries—all of them are heroes.”

  “But you know what, Mommy?”

  “What?”

  “Our daddy was a superhero.” She stretched her hands out as wide as she could. “The biggest superhero of all. Right?”

  She could hear a smile in her mommy's voice. “Yes, honey, he was.” She gave Sierra another little hug. “He was the best superhero of all.”

  TEN

  The plane couldn't go fast enough for Clay.

  It was Halloween—not that a wasted holiday like that meant much—but it was the last Sunday in October, and Joe Reynolds was beside him. The adventure was underway. On the following afternoon they'd be in orientation for the course. Now that he'd said his good-byes to Eric and Laura and Josh, now that he'd made his mind up that somehow God was doing something in his life, Clay couldn't wait to get to New York.

  Reynolds felt the same way. The first hour of the flight they guessed at what the training might include, talked about a kidnapping case from a year ago that Reynolds had worked, and speculated about the outcome of a robbery case that was still open.

  Small talk, really.

  Clay looked out the window. Funny how a person could go years thinking someone was his friend and never really know him. Reynolds was in the middle, sandwiched between Clay and a big man on the aisle. When they ran out of things to talk about, Reynolds nodded off. He'd been sleeping ever since.

  The main thing Clay wanted to ask was, why New York? There were twenty cities where they could've gone for training. San Diego, for instance, where the weather was at least warm, or Phoenix, which would be heaven this time of year. The man didn't make impulsive decisions, as far as Clay could tell, so why New York? And what about the picture on his desk, the one of the pretty woman and the little boy? The one he never talked about?

  The flight attendants came through with lunch, and Clay elbowed Reynolds. “Time to eat.”

  His friend opened one eye and then the other. He stretched as much as he could and pulled his tray down. “Gourmet, no doubt.” He grinned at the young woman serving them. “Are you single?”

  The woman was a redhead with striking caramel eyes. Clay looked at her left ring finger; it was bare. He could've gladly strangled Reynolds for what he figured he was about to say.

  The flight attendant returned the smile, but her cheeks turned red as she gave Reynolds his meal. “Who wants to know?”

  Reynolds punched Clay in the shoulder. “My single friend here, that's who.” Reynolds looked from the flight attendant to Clay, then back again. “He's handsome, wouldn't you say? The flight won't last forever—it's late and getting later.”

  Clay held up his hands and gave a shake of his head, as if to tell her he was definitely not the instigator.

  “Yes.” The woman was still blushing. She made eye contact with Clay, but only for a few seconds. Clay couldn't blame her; he was thirty-five and she looked ten years younger.

  Clay gave Reynolds a kick. He caught the flight attendant's attention and gave her a weak smile. “Don't mind my friend. He's delusional when he first wakes up.”

  The flight attendant laughed and pushed the food cart down a few aisles. Twice she looked back and caught Clay's eyes. When she was busy helping another passenger, Clay turned and stared at his friend. “Reynolds, remind me not to go out in public with you when we're in Manhattan.”

  Reynolds held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to help. My friend can't seem to connect with the ladies … I figured I could make something happen.”

  “Yeah, well, figure not.” Clay looked at his meal. It had the look of lasagna, but it smelled suspiciously of fish. He caught his friend's eyes again. “I'll meet someone soon enough.”

  Reynolds chuckled. “I'm not sure.”

  They poked at their meals and took a few bites. “You taste any fish in that stuff?”

  “No.” Reynolds sniffed close to his plate. “But I smell it.” He pointed to a small dish of something white. “Could be the warm cottage cheese.”

  “Mmmm.” Clay put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “I think we were lucky to get a meal at all.”

  Reynolds pointed to a few passengers across the aisle with Subway sandwich bags. “Those are the lucky people, man, let me tell you.”

  They ate what they could, and after the flight attendant filed back to clear their trays, they shared a comfortable silence. Clay looked out the window again. It was another hour before they arrived in New York, and night was trying to fall on the East Coast. Several thousand feet below was a layer of puffy white clouds, but otherwise the sky was starting to turn colors—deep blues with streaks of lavender and pink.

  God's artwork.

  “Beautiful.” Reynolds was leaning forward, watching the sunset.

  “Yep. Only God can paint a sky.”

  Reynolds settled back in his seat. “You a believer?”

  “Longtime believer.” Clay sat back too. Funny, but the two had never talked about God before. “What about you?”

  “Pretty much.” Reynolds stroked his chin and his eyes grew soft. “Not like I used to be.”

  Clay let that sit. After a few seconds he leaned against the window and looked at Reynolds. “I got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why New York?”

  The shadows that fell over his friend's eyes told him he'd hit a nerve. Reynolds looked past Clay to the sunset. Lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You wouldn't believe it if I told you.”

  So there was a reason. Clay kept his voice low. “Try me.” He thought about his brother, Eric. “I've seen some pretty strange things.”

  At first it didn't look like Reynolds would talk, but maybe because they were suspended between two cities, thirty thousand feet above the ground, he gave in. Reynolds made his lips into a tight straight line and began to tell his story.

  “Her name's Wanda. She's the girl in the picture on my desk.” He sucked in a breath and held it before letting it ease through his nose. “I was crazy in love with her from the moment I met her—our senior year of high school.”

  Clay knew Reynolds tended to spit out details in starts and fits, so he waited.

  “After high school, I joined the service so I'd have a way through college.” He stroked his chin again. “Wanda went with me, lived with me on the base. A year later she had Jimmy and everything, well—” He let out a little laugh, one that lacked humor. “Everything was great until the Gulf War.”

  “You fought?” Another surprise.

  “Yeah, I fought. I was in the first wave, the ground attack.” The muscles in his jaw flexed. “It was crazy.” His tone was soft, but intense. “That sissy guy you shot the other day? That was nothing to the Gulf War, man. Nothing.”

  “How long?”

  “I was there the better part of three years.” He made a sharp sniff. “Came home and found Wanda and Jimmy having dinner at the cafeteria with one of the commanders.” He looked out the window again. “I came unglued. Stormed out of there, straight to our apartment.”

  “Did she see you?” Clay had no trouble picturing Reynolds angry; that's how he worked. Angry and focused.

  “Yeah, she saw me. Flew after me with Jimmy running behind her. I heard her, heard both of 'em. Wanda calling my name, Jimmy shouting for his daddy.” Reynolds shook his head. “I was so mad, I wouldn't stop, wouldn't turn around for nothing. Not even my little boy.”

  Clay felt the tension in his friend's voice. Whatever was coming, it wasn't good.

  “A road ran through the base, and I crossed it no trouble. Wanda … she was twenty yards behind me, running like crazy. She got to the road just as some crazy drunk came flying up the hill.” He looked up at the airplane's vents and shook his head.

  “Hey, it's okay, man.” Clay's stomach tightened. He never would've asked about New York if he'd thought it would lead to this.

  “No.” Reynolds lo
oked at him again. “I'll finish.” He searched Clay's eyes. “Wanda saw the car and stopped in time, but Jimmy—” His voice broke, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. His words were barely audible over the sound of the jet engines. “He called my name one more time, and that's when I heard the thud.” Reynolds dropped his hand back to his lap. Gone was the invincible look that made him a hero at the police department. His eyes were red and full of pain. “He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  Clay's stomach sank. No wonder there were no updated pictures of the boy on Reynolds's desk.

  “Watching that boy hit the ground … seeing Wanda kneel next to him, screaming for him to be okay … seeing that drunk stumble out of the car …” He bit his lip. “I still have nightmares about it.”

  Clay wanted the rest of the story. What happened to Wanda? And how come they weren't together any more? But he wasn't going to push. He looked at his hands for a minute and then back at Reynolds. “I'm sorry.”

  “It was an accident, I know that.” He crossed his arms. “But it was my fault. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Turns out the commander wasn't seeing Wanda at all. He was asking her if we wanted an upgrade in our living quarters.”

  Clay dug his elbow into his thigh and let his forehead rest on his knuckles. Reynolds was right; he never would've believed a story like that one, never would've thought a man as bulletproof as Joe Reynolds would've suffered such a loss.

  “Guess we all have a story.”

  The captain's voice came over the speakers then, advising them of weather conditions in LaGuardia. Cold with a storm moving in.

  Clay lowered his hands and looked at his friend again. He had to ask. “What happened to Wanda?”

  “She couldn't look at me, couldn't talk to me.” He hesitated. “I mean, Michaels, she was crazy with grief. Absolutely crazy. Her baby was dead and it was my fault.” A sad smile hung on the corners of his mouth. “We had a strong faith back then; everyone at church tried to help us. After the service we got counseling, and the army gave me a paid leave.” He knit his mouth together and shook his head. “Wanda wanted none of it. A week later we found out the guy who hit Jimmy, he was a child molester out early for good behavior. Got himself drunk and crashed through the gate at the base.” Reynolds fired the words like bullets. “Never shoulda been out of prison in the first place.”