Tuesday, September 11, 2001
My dear friends and family:
I’ll get straight to the point. I’m taking this time, sitting on a plane hijacked by terrorists, not knowing what their intention is, to let you know a few things. They’re things I either never meant to say or was putting off, and I don’t know if you’ll read them, but these may be some of my last words.
Drake:
After the car crash, while you were in your coma, two year went by, and then your parents decided it had been long enough. They wanted to take you off life support. But it was my call, and I wouldn’t let them. I’m sure you can imagine how that sat with them; I always got along so well with Susan and Arnold. A few weeks later you woke up for the first time. You fell back into the coma a week later, but the next time you woke up, it was for good. This you know, and you know about the car crash. You also know that not long afterwards you filed for divorce. But somewhere sandwiched between those two things you know, is something you didn’t know. Now you do. And here’s another revelation: I love you.
Johnny:
You big-headed egomaniac—is that redundant? My apologies. Try, try, try, you’ll never change a thing. Not with music, not with charity, not with plain hard work, no. You shouldn’t be so presumptive, darling silly. By the way, you should move to New York.
Frank:
The truth is, I would have given anything to keep playing. I didn’t have the nerve, by myself. I needed encouragement. I needed you to need me. Need someone else.
Hannah:
This is for you in particular because you’ll think I’m completely crazy. At this moment right now, I still think that peace has a chance. Call me a liar, but for all I know, I could be about to die, though none of you know it yet. People who are about to die, do they usually lie? And here’s to driving you further up the wall: if I got a million chances to save one person on this plane, I would always choose my dog. Yes I brought Honey with me; you know I never leave her behind.
Twinkie:
It’s raining beneath me, I think. I’m above the clouds, and the sun is shining, the ground is gray. The only silver lining is that if I don’t die, I don’t have to tell you. And then you’ll never know.
I knew you would appreciate that. Think of it as a parting gift. Now, no matter what you hear about DNA tests proving it was my body they found crushed in piles of rubble, you won’t be able to rest. The issue of whether ghosts exist will never come into question; I’ll still haunt you for the rest of your life. Happy Birthday. You never could believe it each time I actually remembered.
One more thing Drake. Before you start feeling guilty, or wanting kids with what’s-her-name, the doctor called with the results months ago. You’re sterile. Take care of my baby girl. And see to it that Nick Lache/Ryan Seacrest/Leonardo DeCaprio/Justin Timberlake/Simon Cowell keeps paying you (there will be no need for you to mention my unfortunate demise, though for all he knows I could’ve told you his name; don’t be too sure I didn’t). The money will be sent under a different name each week. Don’t be confused if it’s not one of the names you see above.
Well, what am I waiting for? It’s time to say goodbye. I knew there was a reason they didn’t think twice about letting on the lady with the balloon. This letter will get to you someday, though likely later rather than sooner. Forgive me if you’re disappointed that it’s not your traditional farewell letter: weepy and full of love and hugs and kisses. You can’t even pretend the water stains are from my tears; there won’t be any, hopefully. Who invented plastic? I’d like to thank him. I’m no feminist.
Very sincerely yours,
Rebecca Rowe
P.S. Whoops. How did I know there would be rubble involved?