Reuben had been restless all morning and I’d settled him in front of CNN; sometimes it calms him down. In the old days, he loved to watch the news updates, especially anything political, really got a kick out of it, used to heckle the spin doctors and political analysts as if they could hear him. I don’t think he missed a debate or an interview during the midterms, which was when I first really knew there was a problem. He was having trouble recalling the name of that Texan governor, you know, that damn fool one who couldn’t say the word ‘homosexual’ without screwing his mouth up in disgust. I’ll never forget the look on Reuben’s face as he floundered to remember that putz’s name. He’d been hiding his symptoms from me, you see. He’d been hiding them for months.

On that dreadful day, the anchorwoman was interviewing an analyst of some type about his predictions for the primaries when she cut him off mid-sentence: ‘I’m sorry, I have to interrupt you there, we’ve just heard that a Maiden Airlines plane has gone down in the Florida Everglades…’

Of course, the first thought that jumped into my head when I heard the words ‘plane crash’ was 9/11. Terrorism. A bomb on board. I doubt there’s a single person in New York who didn’t think that when they heard about the crash. You just do.

And then the images came on screen; an overhead view, from a helicopter. It didn’t show much, a swamp with an oily mass in its centre, where the plane had plummeted with such force it had been swallowed up. My fingers were freezing–as if I’d been holding ice–though I always make sure the apartment was warm. I changed the channel to a talk show, trying to shake off that uneasy feeling. Reuben had dozed off, which I hoped would give me enough time to change the sheets, take them down to the laundry room.

I was just finishing up when the phone rang. I hurried to answer it, worrying that it would wake Reuben.

It was Mona, Lori’s best friend. And I thought, why is Mona phoning me? We’re not close, she knows I’ve never approved of her, always thought of her as fast, a bad influence. It turned out fine in the end, but unlike my Lori, even in her forties Mona hadn’t changed her flighty ways. Divorced twice before she was thirty. Without even saying ‘hello’ or asking after Reuben, Mona said, ‘What flight were Lori and Bobby coming home on?’

That bitter coldness I felt earlier was creeping back. ‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘They’re not on any damn plane.’

And she said, ‘But Lillian, didn’t Lori tell you? She was going down to Florida to see about a place for you and Reuben.’

My hand went limp and I dropped the phone–her whiny voice still echoing out of the receiver. My legs buckled and I recall praying that this was just one of those sick pranks Mona had been so fond of playing when she was younger. Then, without saying goodbye, I hung up on her and called Lori, almost screaming when I was put straight through to her voicemail. Lori had told me she was taking Bobby with her to see a client in Boston, and not to worry if she didn’t get hold of me for a couple of days.

Oh, how I wished I could have talked to Reuben right then! He’d have known what to do. I suppose what I was feeling right then was pure terror. Not the sort of terror you feel when you watch a horror movie or you get accosted by a homeless man with crazy eyes, but a feeling so intense you barely have control of your body–like you’re not really connected to it properly any more. I could hear Reuben stirring, but I left the apartment just the same and went straight next door, didn’t know what else to do. Thank God Betsy was in–she took one look at me and swept me inside. I was in such a state, I barely noticed the cloud of cigarette smoke that always hangs in the air in her place; she usually came over to me if we were in the mood for coffee and cookies.

She poured me a brandy, made me knock it back, then offered to return to the apartment with me and sit with Reuben while I tried to contact the airline. Even after all that happened afterwards, I’ll never forget how kind she was that day.

I couldn’t get through–the line was busy and I kept being put on hold. That’s when I really thought I knew what hell was like–waiting to hear the fate of those you hold most dear while listening to a muzak version of The Girl from Ipanema. Whenever I hear that tune nowadays, I’m taken right back to that awful time, the taste of cheap brandy on my tongue, Reuben moaning from the living-room, the smell of last night’s chicken soup lingering in the kitchen.

I don’t know how long I tried that same damn number. And then, just as I was despairing of ever getting through, a voice came on the line. A woman. I gave her Bobby and Lori’s names. She sounded strained, although she tried to remain professional. A pause that went on for days while she clacked away at her computer.

And then she told me. Lori and Bobby were listed on that flight.

And I told her there must be a mistake. That no way were Lori and Bobby dead, they couldn’t be. I would’ve known. I would’ve felt it. I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t accept it. When Charmaine–the trauma counsellor the Red Cross assigned to us–first arrived, I was still in such denial I told her… and I’m ashamed of this… I told her to go to hell.

Despite this, my first impulse was to go straight to the crash site. Just to be closer to them. Just in case. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I’ll admit. How could I have possibly have done that? No planes were flying and it would have meant leaving Reuben with a stranger for God knows how long, maybe putting him in a care home.

Everywhere I looked I saw Lori and Bobby’s faces. We had photos up all over of the two of them. Lori holding a newborn Bobby in her arms, smiling into the camera. Bobby at Coney Island, holding a giant cookie. Lori as a schoolgirl, Lori and Bobby at Reuben’s seventieth birthday party at Jujubee’s, a year before he started to go downhill–when he still remembered who I was, who Lori was. I couldn’t stop thinking about when she first told me she was pregnant. I hadn’t taken it well, didn’t like the idea of her going to that place, shopping for sperm as if it was as simple as buying a dress and then being… artificially inseminated. It seemed so cold to me. ‘I’m thirty-nine, Momma’ (well into her forties she still called me Momma), she said. ‘This could be my last chance, and let’s face it, Prince Charming isn’t going to rock up any time soon.’ All my doubts vanished when I saw her with Bobby for the first time of course. She was such a wonderful mother!

And I couldn’t help but blame myself. Lori knew that one day I hoped to relocate to Florida, move into one of those clean, sunny, assisted-living places where Reuben would get the help he needed. That’s why they’d taken the trip. She was planning on surprising me for my birthday. That was just like Lori, unselfish and generous to her very core.

Betsy was doing her best to calm Reuben down while I paced. I couldn’t sit still. I fidgeted, kept picking up the phone, checking it was working, just in case Lori was going to call me to say that at the last moment she hadn’t made the flight. That she and Bobby had decided to take a later one. Or an earlier one. That’s what I clung to.

News of the other crashes was starting to break, and I kept turning the damn television on and off, couldn’t decide if I wanted to see what was going on or not. Oh, the images! It’s strange to think of it now, but when I saw the footage of that Japanese boy being carried out of the forest and air-lifted up into a helicopter, I was jealous. Jealous! Because at that stage we didn’t know about Bobby. All we knew was that no survivors had been found in Florida.

I thought we’d had all the bad luck one family could ever need. I thought, why would God do this to me? What had I ever done to deserve this? And on top of the guilt, the agony, the crushing absolute terror, I felt lonely. Because whatever happened, whether they were on that plane or not, I’d never be able to tell Reuben. He wouldn’t be able to comfort me, make any of the arrangements, rub my back when I couldn’t sleep. Not any more. He was gone too.

Betsy only left when Charmaine showed up, said she was going to go back to her kitchen to make us something to eat, although I couldn’t have swallowed a thing.

The next few hours are hazy. I must have settled Reuben in bed, tried to get him to eat a little soup. I remember scrubbing the kitchen counter until my hands were raw and stinging, though both Charmaine and Betsy tried to get me to stop.

And then the call came in. Charmaine answered it while Betsy and I stood frozen in the kitchen. I’m trying to remember the exact words for you, but each time it shifts in my mind. She’s African-American, Charmaine is, with just the most gorgeous skin you’ve ever seen, they age well, don’t they? But when she walked into that kitchen, she looked ten years older.

‘Lillian,’ she said. ‘I think you should sit down.’

I didn’t allow myself to feel any hope. I’d seen the footage of the crash. How could anyone have survived that? I looked her straight in the eye and said, ‘Just tell me.’

‘It’s Bobby,’ she said. ‘They’ve found him. He’s alive.’

And then Reuben started screaming from the bedroom and I had to ask her to repeat herself.