Death, Terrorism and Johnnie Walker
9/11 and a sip of whiskey reminded a cop’s sister of what’s most important.

September 5, 2018 · 5 minute read

The bottle cost two hundred dollars. I’d just paid my bills for the month and wasn’t in the mood to splurge, but my boyfriend talked me into it. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll pay half. Andy’ll love it.” And so my boyfriend Ed and I sprang for the big bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue whisky — a gift to my brother Andy, for his thirty-fifth birthday in August 2001. We knew it was his favorite — what he kept on hand to toast only the most special occasions, each sip savored as if part of a sacred ritual. One of those 750-milliliter bottles would last a couple of years.

We gave it to him over a birthday dinner at a Mexican restaurant not far from where we all lived in Queens, New York, as a group of women and bare-chested men in glittery costumes stomped their way through a Mayan-themed dance routine on a stage next to our table. Andy’s wife, Sue, his best friend Adam, and Ed and I watched him yell with delight when he opened the fancy blue and gold gift box and lifted out the bottle. He promised we’d open it and share a drink the next time we were all together.

Forty-two days later, a group of al-Qaeda terrorists flew two planes into the Twin Towers. Andy, part of NYPD’s elite Emergency Services Unit, was specially trained in SWAT-style tactics, scuba rescues, and bridge and building collapses. Stationed in a Manhattan precinct, he was one of the guys the other cops called when they needed special help.

Andy was scheduled for work that morning. I spent several hours in fear, trying to call him through the overloaded phone lines. Finally, I learned from my out-of-state parents that he was safely out of the country; he and Sue had taken off on a last-minute getaway to Aruba to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Half of Andy’s six-man team died that day, including the man who’d taken his place. Andy spent his vacation mourning the loss of his three police teammates and thirteen other work acquaintances.

Andy and Sue returned home almost a week later than planned, after the FAA lifted its aircraft ban and they were able to reschedule a flight. I figured their return to New York would be stressful enough for them without having to deal with an unkempt house so, on the day of their return, I let myself in with their spare key and fixed the place up. I replaced the spoiled food in the refrigerator with fresh groceries, watered drooping houseplants, loaded the dishwasher, and retrieved their dog from the kennel. I did it just as much for myself as for them, as keeping busy soothed my own nerves — the thought of them flying frazzled me. Before leaving the house, I hung a handmade “Welcome Home” sign from the kitchen cabinets and left a note on the table asking them to call me when they arrived home. I couldn’t relax until I knew they were safely off the plane.

Within only two hours, Ed and I got the call. It was evening, but still early, so Andy invited us over. Ed and I rang their doorbell just as Adam pulled up in his car. I expected Andy and Sue to be somber and tired, but I stepped into the kitchen to see them both jovial, laughing and all smiles. They’d actually had a pleasant flight, and were thrilled to return home and see us after all that had happened.

Funny how, at life’s biggest moments, the smallest details are what imprint themselves most firmly into memory.

I thought when I saw Andy, I’d have to tone down my excitement, that I’d probably be comforting him. But the sight of him for the first time since the attack, ruggedly handsome and sporting a light tan, smiling and laughing with Ed and Adam, was overwhelming; he just looked so…alive. I felt my eyes welling up. Not wanting to upset anyone, I headed for the bathroom, but Andy, trained in awareness of his surroundings, noticed. He guided me back to the kitchen and into a hug as my tears started to fall.

Funny how, at life’s biggest moments, the smallest details are what imprint themselves most firmly into memory. Years later, I still remember the clean scent of Andy’s T-shirt and the feel of his chest against my cheek and ear as it swelled with his breath and buzzed with his voice. “I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. I’m okay,” he kept repeating. Over the sound of my own bawling, I think I could even hear his heart beating; yes, he was alive.

“Oh no, now you’re going to make me cry!” Adam groaned. To break the tension, he grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker from where it had sat on the kitchen counter, unopened, since the night of the birthday outing. “Look, we’re all together again,” he said, waving it around, “and this is definitely an occasion worth celebrating!”

Glasses were filled and toasts were made as I wiped my eyes. “To Andy being alive!” Adam whooped. We cheered, raised our glasses and drank. “To being home!” added Sue. “To New York! To America!” Andy yelled. We toasted over and over, each time getting sillier and giddier. It felt good to laugh.

As we sipped, the talk turned serious, to news reports of impending war, of America falling into economic instability, of Osama Bin Laden’s whereabouts, of repeated news footage of planes crashing and bodies falling like human rain, of hostility toward Muslims, of heated debates over rebuilding the Twin Towers.

Around-the-clock shifts had been hastily assembled at the site the media had dubbed Ground Zero and workers assigned the grisly task of recovering the remains of the dead. Andy had already been called to report, though he’d barely begun to process the deaths of his friends and his own near miss. I knew another formidable recovery effort loomed ahead — Andy’s own emotional recovery — but it would have to wait. I was worried about him.

The future held so much uncertainty. Standing with the others in the kitchen, glass in my hand, my thoughts began to drown out their voices. I felt as if I were perched on a slippery precipice, a country full of fear and turmoil brewing and whirling like a gray storm in a valley at my feet.

But as I pondered the chaos, one simple, undeniable, beautiful truth grew slowly and firmly out of the clutter of my thoughts, rooted me safely, and kept me from falling into the abyss of despair: my brother was alive.

I’d never liked whiskey and I still don’t — not even the 200-dollar-a-bottle variety. But that night it was the most delicious, priceless thing I’d ever drank, because it tasted of my brother’s company.