9/11 20 years on: ‘The final voicemail from my fiancé still makes me weep’
Bella speaks to Kristine Mcferren Daly, 53, about mourning her partner Brad Vadas, who was killed in the terrorist attack
Tucked away in my garage is a box filled with my memories of my fiancé. He died in the South Tower of the World Trade Center on 11 September 2001. In it is a tape recording of his last message to me, in which he said, “Kris, there’s been an explosion. We’re trapped in a room. There’s smoke coming in. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I want you to know my life has been so much better and richer because you were in it.” Then he said, “I love you,” and, “Goodbye.” Over the years, I’ve listened to that final voicemail from my fiancé countless times and it still makes me weep. I’d been with Brad for nine years, and he proposed just ten days before 9/11.
On the day, I was at St Luke’sroosevelt Hospital, where I worked as a supervisor, when a friend paged me. She wanted to know if Brad had gone to work as a plane had just hit the North Tower. Brad worked as vice president of an investment bank on the 88th floor of the South Tower. I rang him at the trading desk, and he said, “You won’t believe what I’m watching. I just saw a guy rip his shirt off because it was on fire and jump.” I was horrified, but so glad he was safe. He told me he was staying put and that he’d be in touch. I called his family to tell them he was OK.
Minutes later, the administrative director walked in and said a second plane had hit the South Tower. Frantically, I tried reaching Brad, but
I got a busy signal, as if the phone was out of order. Then I rang my home machine, and at 9.19am Brad had left that last message. Tears streamed down my face as I rushed home. I turned on the TV just as both towers collapsed. It was so surreal, as if I was watching a movie. But I knew he was gone.
Nothing can prepare you for your fiancé dying. I was devastated, not only for the life we’d had, but the life we’d planned together. He was my best friend, and I adored him. I was looking forward to having children with him and spending
the rest of our lives together. I dreaded going to sleep as I knew that when I woke up that the sickening reality would hit me all over again. Being busy was my coping mechanism.
After three years, I left New York. I felt defined by the tragedy and no longer wanted the constant reminders of the life that we’d had. It took me a long time to accept what had happened.
It was in February 2005 that I met Brendan, 53, through friends, and we got married in 2007. We have a son together,
Sean, 11. But even though I couldn’t be happier, it doesn’t mean I don’t love Brad. I think of him every day, and I still get surprised by stabs of raw grief even now.
I try to not think of 9/11 or go to any memorials – it’s almost as if that’s separate from losing Brad. But in the days leading up to the anniversary, I always feel out of sorts. Life goes on, but you never forget.
On the morning of 11 September 2001, I looked out of my window and admired the city skyline. I had been transferred from London to New York City three weeks earlier by my company Euro Brokers, where I was an executive assistant. Our office was on the 84th floor of the South Tower of the WTC. That morning, I was at work by 7.30am. An hour later, I was startled by a loud noise. My computer screen flickered and the lights flashed on and off. Outside, there were scraps of paper swirling through the air. Something had happened in the North Tower next to us.
There were calls for us to evacuate, so I grabbed my bag and called our London office to update them. “Janice, a plane’s gone into the other building. Get out of there!” my colleague said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I rushed to tell the others, but some of my colleagues chose to stay behind and assess the situation first. I decided to leave through a fire escape. I was 12 storeys down when an announcement told everyone to return to work. The voice said that the building was secure and we should stay inside while staff in the other tower were being evacuated. I tried to go back, but the lifts weren’t working. Ten minutes passed, and I followed five others into a corridor between the stairwells.
Suddenly, the building was rocked by a thud. The lights flickered and the ceiling panels cracked above us. Dust and debris filled the stairwell, and the air was pierced by a blood-curdling scream. Behind a nearby door, we heard people shouting for help. Moving away the rubble, we pulled the door until it opened. A woman came through covered in blood
– her arm was cut and the bone was exposed. “There was a huge fireball. The windows upstairs have been blown out!” a man said.
We tried to get back to the fire escape stairs, but the exit was on fire. We desperately tried other doors nearby, until someone found another exit that led to a different staircase. We climbed down 70 storeys, not knowing if we’d live or die. My colleague Bob urged us to stay calm and keep going. But I was overcome by panic and started to cry. “We need to keep moving,” Bob said, comforting me. We headed down the winding stairs in silence. At the eighth floor, a group of firemen passed us, racing towards the inferno above. At 9.43am, we finally made it to the concourse, which was heaving with emergency responders. “Keep your head down and run,” a police officer said. Bob grabbed my hand and we sprinted away, but as I looked back at the towers, nausea hit me. I saw the billowing smoke and the fiery holes ripped through the side of each building. The inferno had torn through floors 77 to 85 of the South Tower – where my office had been. My mind flashed to the people I’d seen as I went to the exit, and I desperately hoped they’d made it out.
I got back to my apartment and turned on the TV. The news said that both towers had been targeted in a terror attack and hijackers had flown planes into the side of each building. Then, at 9.59am, I heard a low rumbling. I thought for a moment it was another plane crashing from the skies, but it was the sound of the first tower falling.
For the next half an hour, I frantically tried to call friends and colleagues in London, but the lines were engaged. When the second tower collapsed at 10.28am, I struggled to see out of my windows as they were blackened with smoke. Terrified and alone, I thought I was going to die. Then I decided to go to a colleague’s house in a different part of the city. The streets were silent, filled with paper and dust. Disorientated, it took me three hours to make the journey. Eileen, my colleague, hugged me tightly.
Over the next three weeks, I volunteered for the Euro Brokers help desk, taking calls from people trying to find their missing loved ones. As the clean up began at Ground Zero, we learnt that 2,753 innocent people had been killed – 61 of those were from my company. I decided to stay in the city, and my company gave us counselling, but small things, like reading a clock and seeing the numbers 9/11, would trigger my emotions.
In 2006, I came back to the UK and eventually settled in Norfolk. I still visit New York whenever I can, and I struggle with guilt wondering why I survived and others didn’t. It’s been 20 years, but all I have to do is close my eyes and I can see the smoke, the chaos, and the desperate people jumping from those buildings.
I’ve made it my life’s mission to help people learn from what happened. I go into schools and share my story with the charity Since 9/11, and to mark the 20th anniversary, I’m going to a memorial service at London’s Olympic Park. I want to remind people of the lives we lost, as these people deserve to be remembered.
‘I was overcome by panic’
‘I struggle with guilt, wondering why I survived’
says Janice Brooks, 61, from Norfolk