5 / 34
6
7
A
s a four year old, I knew all my colors, what to do when friends were
crying, and how to spell the word “fun.” I also knew that whenmommy
promised she’d pick me up from school on Thursday and didn’t show up,
something was wrong.
Ms. Bernal tapped her foot like a metronome, tap tap tap. She held a
phone with a long, swirly, black cord attached to the wall. She said nothing
and her face was pale. I caught a glimpse of teachers scrambling through
the hallways outside, all wearing the same sober expression. We kids sat
patiently in a circle in our Sr. Kindergarten classroom. Daniel constructed
elaborate paths with Sean on the train sets, and Lauren and Caterina
were playing princesses. Most of us stared at Ms. Bernal and the tear that
escaped and rolled down her cheek. Because she cried, we kids cried. I am
still an empathetic crier, and I often think of how prominent this trait is in
toddlers. I think back to this circle of kids crying for reasons they could not
understand. Ms. Bernal cried. We cried.
At four, with a rudimentary understanding of my mother’s profession,
I believed that she was a movie star, the next Angelina Jolie. My mother
flew to New York once a week for 3 days to tape her nationally syndicated
TV show, The People’s Court. Okay, so she was closer to Judge Judy than
Angelina, but at the time, I either didn’t knowor didn’t care—it was her first
year on the job, it was glamorous, and it was magical. Mommy was a movie
star. At four, I stood beside a very somber Ms. Bernal and for a fleeting
moment thought that I may have lost my movie star.
My movie-star momma did not pick me up on September 11, 2001. That
morningheld for us plenty of phone calls, serious faces, and crying children,
but in the end I recall Fia’s mom drove me home. She asked me questions
throughout the ride, making polite conversation. At home, I sat in the
Florida room playing with my sister Cristi while Daddy sequestered the TV.
Now I realizewhat those serious facesmeant andwhyMommywas running
late that day. I realizewhy Daddy kissedMommy so hard and held her for so
longwhen shefinally camehome thenextweek. When she cameback from
taping when we were kids, my sisters and I would run to the door squealing
with glee at the sound of her car pulling in through the gate. Nowadays, my
mom jokes that we don’t even emerge from our rooms. When she says this
my chest swells.
Little One
Anna Bhatt (Digital Illustration)
Alex Schlesinger