Angel

By Liz Kollar

The fear was so great that it seemed palpable. Incredibly, the Twin Towers of the Trade Center in New York had become a hundred and ten floor pile of smoking, flaming twisted steel destroyed in seconds by two hellish hijacked planes filled with unwary travelers now cremated in the inferno. All around him were nightmarish pieces of looming steel girders, shards of glass, human parts, debris, so gross, so horrifying that Glenn stood staring at the changed skyline of the big city with an overwhelming, tortured spot where his heart was beating.

His face was bathed in sweat, even though the day had darkened and grown cold. His eyes were gritty orbs, red rimmed from the dust and tears, and from the long days labor, searching, ever searching for a piece of someone or something once human, once living and breathing, once strong or beautiful, once man or woman.

This morning he’d found several strands of long black hair, torn like threads from its human spool. Thank God he hadn’t seen more. After he’d found a spot to rest his weary body, he’d scraped the dust and ashes from his clothes and his boots into a box along with the hair. Somewhere a family existed who would cherish these human remains. He hoped the coroner could put a name to them, find a bit of DNA, could bring closure to a family, to a life.

He headed now for St. Paul’s church, close to ground zero. He knew he’d find some rest on one of the pews in the back of the sanctuary. Other firemen, police and rescue people, exhausted from the long hours sat talking softly, some were already stretched out sleeping, fully clothed, jackets bunched up into soot covered pillows under their heads.

A young woman carrying ointments, salves and bandages, touched his arm gently as he attempted to lie down and rest. "Let me see your hand," she said, eyes dark with compassion and darkly enormous at the sight of so much human suffering around her.

He sat down on the edge of the pew and let her touch the wound festering on the palm of his hand. He’d cut it yesterday on a jagged metal girder but hadn’t taken the time to clean it. Now it looked angry and red, a suppurating wound, throbbing insistently, a constant reminder of the evil around him. Her hands were gentle yet determined to cleanse away the grit and the infection that had developed.

"Thanks," he whispered. Somehow he couldn’t speak louder in this church, but she understood his hesitancy and smiled as she bandaged the wound.

"You’ll need an antibiotic," she whispered back and placed a pill in his hand along with bottled water to wash it down.

Glenn watched the girl’s face, saw the beauty behind the white cheeks and tired eyes. Her hair, covered with dust could have been any color here in the darkness of the church but since her eyes glowed with a blue intensity, he decided it had to be black, because blue eyes often matched tumbling black hair. She was too young to have such deep lines along her mouth but her smile was soft, tentative, almost the smile of an angel.

Did angels smile? He thought about it for a moment but not seeing a halo or wings decided she was a human, a compassionate human with the hurt eyes of a young child.

"Go lay down!" she said softly, displaying even white teeth. "There’s a bench over there that’s empty. I’ll check on your hand later. Don’t forget to take the pill and drink all the water," she ordered, looking stern.

He touched her cheek lightly and as he did so his heart seemed to leap in his chest. Since God worked in mysterious ways, maybe this lovely girl was an angel. He believed in spiritual beings as much as he believed in God. For now he would listen to her and lie down. He was so tired he could barely stand. Later, he’d wake up and ask her name, and he’d thank her properly for taking care of his hand.

Asleep, he wrestled with the girders and the jagged shards of glass protruding everywhere like evil monsters. He found bloodied stumps of arms and legs, more hair, stiffened fingers, but after a cool hand stroked his brow, he finally stopped dreaming and settled into the oblivion of complete rest.

The noise of the next shift of firefighters coming into the church awakened him and he sat up stiffly, painfully. He looked at his hand expecting to see still swollen tissue and a bloody bandage. It looked as if nothing had happened to it, no scar, no bleeding, nothing at all. He shook his head to clear it and then, staggering to his feet, went in search of the first aid station. He looked for the girl with the blue eyes but there was only an elderly woman bandaging an ankle and a young doctor dispensing medicine.

Where was the girl? Had she been part of his dream? Glenn went out into the night. He had to get back to work. As he passed one of the ambulances that had been

crushed by the crumbling tower he saw that people had pasted pictures of loved ones over the hood and the sides of the vehicle, hoping they would be found and identified. For a moment he stopped to stare and one particular picture caught his eye. It was of a blue-eyed girl with raven hair. Suddenly, he was sure it was the girl who had helped him in the church. Glenn’s heart beat erratically as he realized what had happened. God had indeed provided him with an angel and he knew that some day, perhaps in heaven, he’d meet her again.

Do we know all the answers? Only God truly knows. But Glenn went back to the rubble and the smoke, lighter of heart and sure of God’s love and mercy.

©Liz Kollar 2003