Her Story, My Memory: Just Another 9/11 Loss

Alissa Torres lived down the block from me on 9/11. We both had dogs. We both had creative ambitions. She was very pregnant with her son, I had just given birth to mine. We were working on being acquaintances. We were meant to turn into friends. Her husband worked in the wrong tall building; he died, mine didn't. There might be budding friendships that could survive that—but ours wasn't one of them.

I went to her husband's memorial. I wanted to reach for her, but I wanted to give her the privacy I knew she wasn't getting from others. In those days after the towers fell, every New Yorker felt like a victim, and every New Yorker wanted to somehow help a real victim. I know we spoke. I can't imagine what we said.

After her son was born, we sat, once, in the tiny back garden attached to my basement apartment. We didn't talk about Eddie—much. We didn't not talk about him, either. I know it came up. I know I tried to say—not something kind, or something helpful, but something real, and I'll bet didn't really succeed. And that was it. My husband and I moved, Alissa stayed. We lost touch. When I saw American Widow reviewed in the Times, I knew instantly that it was her. When I saw a link to her article this morning, I knew. I think about her more than I have a right to; her story is hers and not mine. We were all only a butterfly's wing away from our knees that morning. We all believe that because we had a meeting in the towers the day before or took a plane from Boston once, that we could have been—and somehow were—the victims. Alissa remains my touchstone for the huge gulf between what could have been, and what was.