Angel in the Rubble: The Miraculous Rescue of 911's Last Survivor by Genelle Guzman-McMillan

Author:Genelle Guzman-McMillan [Guzman-McMillan, Genelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Religion, Christian Living, Inspirational, survival, General
ISBN: 9781451635218
Google: YcWzAUdA4PoC
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2011-08-02T23:55:51.557262+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Pillars of Strength

As I was being checked in to Bellevue Hospital, Roger was back at our apartment, trying to recover from his hangover. He woke up sometime around 9:30 a.m. on Wednesday—right about the time I was found—hoping that the previous day had been a nightmare. But the empty bottle of rum lying on the bed, along with his heavy, throbbing head, indubitably reminded him that every bit of it was real. He continued to pray out loud right where he left off the previous night, asking God to tell him what he needed to do to bring me back, before he despondently gave up, at least for the moment.

He sluggishly wandered into the living room where Camille was watching television. Carla, my niece, was also there, as was Esther, an old friend of Roger’s and mine from Trinidad. Corey had also spent the night but had already left for work.

“Morning,” Roger mumbled.

“How you feeling?” Camille somberly replied.

“All right,” he muttered as his pounding skull told him otherwise. Just a minute or two of seeing the images and hearing the reporters on television talk about what happened Tuesday was enough to make him turn right back around and retreat to the bedroom.

“Thanks for being here,” he said to all of them, “but I’m just not going to be very good company right now.” He lay back down in bed and closed his eyes, continuing to pray again, but depressing thoughts were overshadowing his desperate prayers.

The thoughts were only making his head hurt more, but they were beyond his control. He had a sliver of hope, maybe 10 percent, he says, that I was still alive, but that was only because he hadn’t received official confirmation yet that I was dead. He knew the reality of the situation. He stood alone outside the North Tower, waiting for me long after I should have been out. He watched one tower fall, and then heard the other one fall. He witnessed the injured, the bloodied, the dead. He saw people running out of the buildings for their lives, and I was not one of them. He checked his cell’s voice mail. Nothing.

Roger rolled in and out of consciousness for several hours, trying to stay awake and pray, but often succumbed to the grief and physical pain. It was roughly 3 p.m., maybe 3:30, when the phone in his apartment rang. It had been ringing a lot throughout the morning and early afternoon as people called to check on him and see if there had been any more news about me. He let Camille answer them all, as she did this most recent call. After hanging up, Camille rushed down the hall to Roger’s bedroom and knocked on the door.

“Roger?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Camille walked in to find him stretched out on top of the covers with his eyes closed.

“Roger, that was Bellevue Hospital on the phone.”

He didn’t move for about three stunned seconds as he processed what she said, then opened his eyes and popped his head up.

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