Chapter 1: Prelude

My name is Laura Alban Hunt, a thirty-six year old widow with a teenage daughter. I suppose a great many people would think I'm depraved, sick, and twisted. Above all, they would call me a child molester. I know, I would have too, not that long ago.

Subsequently I acquired various hangers-on besides my daughter. They might not be of my flesh, but they became as much a part of my family as my daughter Susan.

I grew up in a strict, rigid family; every little part of my life was controlled until I got to high school where slowly, gradually the screws came off -- and not just on the dental appliances in my mouth. I wasn't much of a rebel growing up. I accepted life and fate as they were, when something hit me it was like brushing someone on a crowded New York City street: you don't even say 'excuse me.' You just get on with whatever it is you were doing and forget it ever happened.

I finally did rebel, albeit rather later in life than most; this isn't an apology, this is an explanation. I do not apologize in the least to anyone for what I've done. I have not the least regret for the things I've done.

As I said, this is an explanation, not an apology.

I suppose it marks me as a pretty dim bulb, but it's true nonetheless: I didn't really understand what a cheerleader was until my first day of high school when they held a pep assembly to introduce the incoming freshmen to our sports teams -- and the cheerleaders.

I'm sure I must have seen cheerleaders before. I knew the word, I knew what it meant, but not viscerally, not where it counted.

I watched the bevy of girls, mostly older than me, cavort on the hardwood floor of the gym. I was entranced. Utterly and completely entranced. And, as sock-knocking-off as the reality of live cheerleaders doing their routines was, it was nothing but a belch in a whirlwind as I looked around me, seeing people shouting and stamping their feet, joining in the cheers. These people have a particular power, I thought. The power to get people up and doing things.

And I wanted it. I wanted to share in it.

Before the end of the day, I had an appointment with my counselor and I was asking her questions. Miss Dunham may have been many things, but observant, intelligent, and compassionate didn't make the list. She didn't ask me any questions, she didn't do anything but write a name on a slip of paper and assure me that "no one is turned away."

Well, actually, no one qualified was turned away, so long as the other girls on the team liked them. Two minor caveats. Insurmountable, but hey, who cares?

The coach of the cheerleading squad was Miss McGowan, an early middle-aged woman stamped from the PE coach cookie cutter. She smiled when I told her I wanted very much to be a cheerleader and then she asked me a few questions.

After those questions, neither of us was smiling. Dance? Well, we'd had ballroom classes a couple of times in seventh grade. Athletics? Well, no, I liked to read. But I really, really wanted to be a cheerleader. Miss McGowan got up, led me to a room where half a dozen girls were talking about a new routine.

"Patsy, please, a moment." A girl came over, blonde, pig-tailed, and earnest. "Leg lift, please." Miss McGowan lifted her hand up, and the girl put her foot in Miss McGowan's hand, well above shoulder height.

"One thing the girls do, routinely, is high kicks. This high." She let the other girl's foot go, and the girl simply stood on one foot, the other pointing into the air over her head. "Now you."

I failed, right there. Not because I couldn't begin to get my leg that high, but because I shook my head and said, "I can't do that."

Miss McGowan thanked the girl, who simply went back to the others and continued what she'd been doing as if I'd never been there. "Most of these girls have been practicing for six, eight, ten years." She nodded at me. "What did you say your name was?"

"Laura Alban."

"Laura, you have to be flexible. You have to be willing to try new things. Are you sure you don't want to show me how high you can kick?"

I shook my head, embarrassed. I would go home, and I would do whatever it took. I would practice and practice and then I would come back and show her what I could do.

She told me, politely, that she had other things to do. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know what she meant was for me to get lost, and for me to stop wasting her time.

Eventually, I realized that someone new to cheerleading or dance can't have the extension some who had practiced for years had; it goes without saying. But I hadn't tried. I hadn't been able to stand the thought of trying and failing, and being embarrassed by that failure. And that was as much a part of the job description as anything else.

So, I was frustrated. Doubly so, because my parents had at first refused my request for dance classes. I did an end around, going to the YWCA for an 'exercise' class -- which was really a dance class. Never before in my life had I resisted what my parents wanted, never before had I defied them in any significant way. And it was for nothing.

I never did make the team. Oh, I tried out three times. Three times the girls on the squad voted not to accept me. Life went on. Actually, not being in cheerleading left me with lots of time to study. By the beginning of my sophomore year I was number two in my class, academically. I applied myself with fervor, and graduated number one. Valedictorian. A tallish girl; long brown hair with reddish highlights, green eyes. Not ugly, but neither beautiful nor cute.

I studied hard in college. It was a long, time consuming, slog that consumed my life for those years. I discovered boys in high school and decided I didn't need the distraction; I gave them up.

I met Roger Hunt when we were both at Wharton working on our MBA's. Call it chemistry or whatever, we clicked. Suddenly school seemed irrelevant; sex with Roger was all I needed. Roger was an up-and-coming, very bright young man, double majoring in business and law. On his twenty-third birthday we graduated. Roger with an MBA, a JD and a twenty-two-year-old pregnant wife who 'just' had her MBA.

Roger's first job, right out of school, paid six figures. He was already getting twice that annually from trust funds set up for him by his grandparents. Eight months later Susan was born; a cute blonde baby whose smile entranced me the moment she first flashed it to me, seconds after she was born.

I, who'd not been very large, breast-wise, blossomed as a mom; better yet, the other bodily expansions all went away afterwards. I was happy, content; I loved being a mom. The world was a beautiful place, and I loved it, loved my husband, and above all, loved my daughter.

Then one morning my cell phone rang and I answered it, just like I'd answered the phone a million times. How could I tell that my world was going to change forever?

I'd just dropped Susan off at school moments before, I was en route back to our house on Long Island.

"Laura, it's Rog."

"Yes, dear?" He almost never called me during the day, particularly on Tuesdays because that was the morning for the big staff meeting.

"There's a little problem. Are you home?"

"Not yet, just a few more minutes."

"Turn on the TV when you get there." He paused and I realized that there were a lot of odd sounds coming from the phone. A lot of people talking, very loudly. "A plane hit the building a few minutes ago."