Unit 86
　　What Happened on Flight 93?
　　Sunday, September 9, 2001, was a good day for the three of us. Emmy was just 11 weeks. She was starting to sleep through the night and I was feeling better physically. My husband Jeremy, who was thinking of changing jobs, had gone for two interviews and felt they went well. Since it was rainy, we just lay around our house in northern New Jersey.
　　The next day, September 10, was busy. Jeremy would be catching a flight to San Francisco. I would take Emmy up to my parents' house in the Catskills Mountains in New York State, and he could meet us there when he returned. For some reason he particularly wanted to take care of Emmy that morning. He fed the baby milk and bathed and dressed her. He put Emmy in her car seat and kissed her. Then he stood in the street in front of our house, waving, as we drove off.
　　The drive to the Catskills was uncomfortable. It was hot. Emmy cried a lot. When I got to the Catskills, Jeremy called to say his flight to San Francisco had been cancelled due to a fire at New York Airport. "I'm going home and get a good night's sleep, and get up early tomorrow." He said. He would grab the first flight out of New York airport. United Flight 93.
　　I woke up on Tuesday morning hearing my father say something about the World Trade Center. I looked at the TV and saw the fire and black holes in the tower. The phone rang, I grabbed the phone. It was Jeremy. "Listen," he said, "three Iranian guys took over the plane. They had a bomb. I love you," he said. "I love you," I said.
　　After we'd said "I love you" for four or five times, I was in a different place. Jeremy continued, "I don't think I'm going to make it out of here. I don't want to die." He cursed. "You've got to promise me you're going to be happy," he said, "For Emmy to know how much I love her. And that whatever decisions you make in your life, I'll support you."
　　Just then I saw something on TV about a plane crashing into the Pentagon, and I thought, Thank God it isn't Jeremy's plane. When I told him about this new attack, Jeremy saw his fate and that of other passengers was in their own hands. "There're three other passengers as big as me and we're thinking of attacking the guy with the bomb. What do you think?"
　　I handed the phone to my dad, ran into the toilet and throw up into the sink. When my father put the phone to his ear, he heard nothing for tow or three minutes. Then he heard screams in the background. He thought, they're doing it. Ten minutes later, an operator broke in to say that the FBI wanted my father to stay on line because it was the only remaining connection to the plane. Dad took the phone to the yard, where he stood for two hours. Then he brought the phone back and hung up. he was crying.
　　It was raining on September 19, the day we arrived at the crash site, a countryside 130 kilometers from Pittsburg. The plane had come down at a steep angle, hitting the ground at the speed of sound. Most of the plane turned into small, hot pieces. There was no wreckage. There was nothing to say. I hungered to know what had happened on Flight 93 and why Jeremy died.
　　Now I don't want know what happened. It's just that I'm sure I will never really make sense of September 11. Did they declare war on us for a principle? Because they were jealous? To show how tough they were? The world Jeremy and I knew was never beyond the rooms we lived in, a few places we walked, a few friends we loved. Now it's gone. Nobody could ever really make sense of why.