Just Like in the Movies
By Jaclyn Fowler
A woman’s screams. A crowded boat. Sightseers from Liberty Island clad in the green foam crowns of Lady Liberty. Their chorus of screams joined with the woman’s; they feared for their lives, but did not know why. I was Patient Zero, the screaming woman. Moments earlier, the metal plank that connected the ferry to the dock, shot up into the air as the boat lurched forward. When it slammed back down—thump!—it landed on my foot, not the dock. The bridge of my right foot held the weight of the ferry and the almost one thousand passengers. The pain was too great to define as the bones in my foot made way for the gold metal embellishment of the sandal. A wholly unconscious peal of the primal spread outward from somewhere within me, permeating the collective consciousness of the crowd. In one great wave of panic, passengers began to elbow their way towards the exit.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Collin asked, more embarrassed than worried.
By the time the crowd on the ferry had pegged the Arab face next to me as the perpetuator of some crime, whatever crime, Fadi had seen my once-white foot, now full black, trapped under the plank. In his panic, his English deserted him, and Arabic spewed from his mouth. His language only verified the crowd’s assumptions, and their growing apprehension threatened my husband’s safety.
“What’s going on?” people in the crowd asked.
“A terrorist,” I heard from somewhere to the right.
“ISIS,” someone cried out behind me.
While I knew my husband was in danger, I could not focus my energy to respond.
“What’s wrong?” Collin kept asking. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Then he saw.
39