The Survivor: A Miracle’s Cost

Why isn’t Genelle Guzman-McMillan dead? Nearly everyone else who had not left the Twin Towers by 10:28 a.m. on Sept. 11 perished. Unlike those stranded on higher floors, Genelle, who worked for the Port Authority on the 64th floor of the north tower, could have left earlier, but she tarried, fearful and uncertain like so many others. She was still walking down stairway B when the building collapsed. Unlike so many others, she lived.

Anyone who watched the avalanche, even from behind the safety of a TV screen, knows how extraordinary it is that someone could survive it. New York City’s medical examiners are still trying to identify 19,858 pieces smashed from the bodies of the 2,819 people who were slain. Steel beams weakened to their breaking point; solid concrete was pulverized. But somehow Genelle’s tumbling body found an air pocket. She was buried in the rubble for more than 26 hours; on Sept. 12, around 12:30 p.m., she became the last of just four people caught in the debris to be found alive. (An additional 14, mostly fire fighters, survived relatively unscathed in a lower part of stairway B that stayed upright.)

Some victims’ families received only a shard of bone to put in a coffin; many got nothing. Genelle’s family got her back with a crushed right leg and a few other injuries–but basically whole. Relatives held a joyous 31st-birthday party for her in January, after she had fully recuperated. By May, she was walking without so much as a leg brace, an accomplishment that astonished a doctor who had told her she would walk with one for the rest of her life.

It’s difficult to envision how those who were extricated from the fiery heap survived. Like Genelle, two Port Authority cops were buried but not mortally wounded by hurtling chunks of stone and metal–even as people in close proximity were killed. Pasquale Buzzelli–who worked with Genelle on the 64th floor and was also in stairway B at 10:28 a.m.–fell when the stairwell broke under him but somehow landed atop a rickety pile of debris. These four were rescued before they were burned in creeping fires or crushed in mini-collapses in the later hours of Sept. 11 and after. It’s not known whether anyone else could have been found alive–just that Genelle was the last.

Was this luck? Was it the hand of God? We are a long way from answers: we scarcely have a vocabulary for these people. They are truly “survivors,” but that word has been largely appropriated for the relatives of dead victims. We could call Genelle and the others “escapees,” but they didn’t really escape–they just dodged fate. After ground-zero workers unearthed Pasquale’s soot-encrusted briefcase a few months ago, the New York police department mailed a letter to his wife Louise saying searchers had found an item that belonged either to her or to the deceased. When Pasquale presented himself at One Police Plaza to pick up the case, the clerk wouldn’t let him have it; Louise Buzzelli, the addressee on the letter, would have to come. It was a simple misunderstanding–an officer had found bills in Louise’s name inside the briefcase and assumed it was hers. But the incident gave Pasquale the uncomfortable sense that the city couldn’t quite comprehend that he was alive. “This is me! I’m right here,” he said, clutching a newspaper clipping about his survival.

If we can’t seem to fully register people like Pasquale and Genelle, their own senses of identity have drifted, wavered since that day. Having cheated death, they aren’t certain how to live. Genelle has put on a brave face for friends–and for the many reporters who have called. But in June, on a trip to Macy’s with her cousin Gail LaFortune, a caterer for New York City’s Oxford Cafe, Genelle confessed that she wasn’t sure what life was about anymore. She wasn’t sure if she had ever really known.

“For Judy,” says Gail, using her cousin’s middle name, as do those who grew up with Genelle in Trinidad, “there’s a sense of…of misplaced things, of misplaced parts of her life.” If that’s true, how does Genelle Guzman-McMillan find herself again? It turns out there is no shortage of people who want to help create a carefree, well-centered version of Genelle–and an inspirational Sept. 11 tale for the rest of us: Victim miraculously lives, turns to God, finds true love (in July, she and longtime boyfriend Roger McMillan had a free “dream wedding” arranged by Bride’s magazine and CBS’s The Early Show, an event both then covered as news). But her story isn’t so simple. People say Sept. 11 was a crucible for our nation, which may or may not be true, but it was doubtlessly a crucible for the person you see in the pictures on this page. The question is, Who emerged from that crucible? Why did the last survivor survive?

It’s such a pretty day. Genelle has gold braids woven into her hair. Her cousin Lauren Lavin did them the previous Saturday, one of their “special hair days” when some girlfriends get together to try different hairdos, makeup and outfits. The braids remind them of their native Trinidad.

Now Genelle is setting up her computer. A contracted clerical worker assigned to the Tunnels, Bridges, and Terminals Department, she has worked at the Twin Towers just nine months. The job, mostly data entry, doesn’t inspire her much, and she rarely talks about it at home. She also took the position illegally–her nonimmigrant visitor’s visa expired in 2000, making her eligible for deportation–so she keeps a lot to herself. Many of her relatives will discover only today that she works at the Trade Center.

After booting up, Genelle carries her egg-on-a-bagel and hot chocolate down a few cubicles to gab with Susan Miszkowicz, a co-worker. They are gossiping about one of the bosses. And–wham! The building gives a mighty shake that just about knocks one of Genelle’s colleagues out of his chair. They don’t realize it, of course, but it’s American Airlines Flight 11 puncturing their building upstairs, across floors 94 to 98. “What the hell?” says Genelle. She’s not scared yet, just curious, so she goes to the window. Seeing a snowstorm of papers in the air, she stands in awe and confusion, motionless. Now people are saying a plane has hit the building. “We have to leave,” she hears someone urge.

Genelle walks over to find Rosa Gonzalez, her closest colleague. She and Rosa have never socialized outside work–oh, they mean to, it just has never happened–but they have spent many a lunch hour together talking about their guys and the weekends they can’t wait for. Now Rosa is on the phone, and Genelle breaks in: “We have to leave.” Rosa nods. Genelle goes to get her bag and runs into one of her supervisors, Joe Roque. “Get your stuff now, and let’s get out of here,” he says, turning to gather his belongings. “One second,” says Rosa, who has appeared at Genelle’s side. “I want to call my sister.” Co-workers are saying that if they will be gone the rest of the day, they need to let relatives know. That makes sense to Genelle. “O.K., I’ll call Roger,” she says. When Joe comes back, Genelle is gone; he assumes she has left, and now he starts down the stairs without her.

Like many people who come to life within the anonymity and cacophony of a nightclub, Genelle is actually shy by nature, a virtual Trappist around strangers. Her first conversational gambit is most often a big, gap-toothed grin. It was that way when she was a girl too. Judy, as she was called, was the youngest girl of 13 children, three of whom died as babies. Her father drove trucks for the Trinidad Ministry of Works and Transport; her mother was usually pregnant.

Genelle’s father was strict–she had to be home at 4 p.m., an hour after school let out–and as a teen she chafed at his rules. By 18, she had a job at the big Holiday Inn in Port of Spain, the capital. She had also met Elvis Yip Ying, an older guy of Spanish and Chinese ancestry who had light skin and a steady demeanor. “I wanted independence,” Genelle says. “[It] was not love at first sight, like Roger. It was like, you’re young, and you just want to get out on your own, have a kid, get on with life.” She had Kimberly, her only child so far, when she was 18. “But I wasn’t in love with Elvis,” she says, and they eventually broke up.

Genelle moved to New York City in 1998; she left Kimberly in Trinidad with Elvis, who she says is a devoted father. Genelle already had family in New York, and there wasn’t much opportunity at home. (The year she moved, Trinidad and Tobago had an unemployment rate of more than 15%.) At first, she didn’t like the loud people on the subways or the run-down look of Brooklyn, where she was staying with a sister. She moved back to Trinidad for a while, but in 1999, her mother lost her fight with ovarian cancer. Genelle was devastated. Trinidad seemed far too quiet without her mom’s kind voice; Genelle moved back to New York soon after.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted from Gotham, but as with many pretty young people, its nightclubs beckoned. She and cousin Lauren and other girlfriends liked downtown Manhattan’s Webster Hall, a long-running if slightly cheesy dance club, and the more upscale, sexy NV Bar. These places don’t get going until quite late–after 11 p.m.–and Genelle would be out until dawn some nights. “Roger would say, ‘Just one [drink].’ I would say, ‘No, two.’ And I would have two or three, and do all sorts of crazy stuff.” Genelle loved to dance, and those nights wore her out. She usually slept most of Sunday so that she could look decent for work on Monday morning.

Everything is starting to get hot now. There has been another shake, and people are saying another plane hit the other building. Genelle is terrified. She has no idea whether to take the stairs now or wait for official orders to do so. Many of the people who remain–there are now just 15 others on 64–say they should stay put until they hear something definite from their Port Authority bosses. At least two of the senior people have been glued to the phones most of the time, trying to get an answer.

The fire alarm won’t quit. Genelle keeps calling Lauren, Roger, her niece Carla Guzman and others on the outside who are watching the horror on TV. As the clock ticks, they begin to insist: LEAVE NOW JUST GO PLEASE HONEY GET OUT. But she is too frightened to depart by herself. Susan Miszkowicz, with whom she was chatting when Flight 11 hit, hugs her and says, “Genelle, don’t worry. We will be all right.” She will say it several more times, but there is fear in Susan’s eyes. Finally, Genelle tells Roger, “O.K., I’ll take the stairs.” He will meet her outside Century 21, the discount-clothing emporium across the street.

But now someone says the stairwell has filled with smoke. People have taped the entrances shut, and they are wetting jackets and shoving them under doors. Everybody is worried about smoke inhalation; they are all corralled in the northwest corner of the floor because it has the least smoke. Genelle has an urge to look out the window again, but she doesn’t–she is too scared the building will tip over. At one point, one of her co-workers says something about the building being unstable, and Genelle nearly loses it.

Just then the ceiling makes a loud noise, sending a fresh wave of terror through Genelle. She thinks she could die, not realizing that it is hundreds of people in the south tower who have just perished in its collapse. It is 9:59 a.m., and the north tower still has 29 minutes.

Finally, with the smoke thickening even in the northwest corner, Pasquale and a colleague remove the tape on the lobby doors and go to stairway B. They are surprised to find a reasonably bright staircase without much smoke. Genelle calls Lauren and says they are leaving. Only about half the lights on the floor are working, and everyone knows that if the power goes out, they are in serious trouble. Pasquale is at the front of the pack, at the door to the stairs. He has words with a co-worker who still wants to wait for a go order; the co-worker relents. It is just after 10 a.m.–an hour and a quarter since the first plane struck–and they all start down.

Genelle met her future husband in Trinidad, at Carnival, in 2000. Roger McMillan was tall and had enormous hands that swallowed hers. Seven years her senior, he seemed well moored, but he was also young enough to be playful in a way that Elvis was not. Roger loved seeing Genelle in her costume, dancing up the street with the crowds, but the couple didn’t immediately pledge to stay together. Roger had always been “a player,” as one of his friends recently said with a mischievous grin. Genelle would sometimes put on music and cry, wondering if it would all work out with him.

Relatives say that most in her family believed that she and Roger would eventually wed, but many thought it would take a long time. For their part, the couple say they never had any real doubts. Even so, it’s fair to note that much about their relationship was unresolved before Sept. 11. Today Genelle sees any uncertainty between them as a function of not having Christ at the center of their lives. “I was busy partying,” she says. “I didn’t want too much pressure with my relationship.”

But her party-girl act showed signs of waning even before Sept. 11. Twice last year, Genelle and Roger–raised Catholic and Anglican, respectively–attended the Brooklyn Tabernacle. An 8,000-member evangelical congregation in a lavishly refurbished old cinema, the tabernacle touched Genelle with its message that if you only let him, Jesus can change your life and show you the right path. It was a narrower path, one that would require her and Roger to stop carousing, but she was intrigued. Roger was more hesitant.

By the end of last summer, neither had joined the church. “You just feel so spiritual when you leave [the church], but then you get back to normal life,” Genelle explains. By then she and Roger were living together at his place in Cypress Hills, a working-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. The church frowns upon cohabiting out of wedlock–“It’s fornication,” Genelle says–but they weren’t yet ready to marry. Instead they planned a party trip. “We had booked tickets to Miami Carnival for October,” she says. “We were really, really looking forward to that.”

Step down, step down, step down. It’s tedious–and so not as terrifying as being upstairs, where Genelle kept fretting that the building would topple. At least climbing down is a task to focus the mind. When the group entered the stairwell a few minutes earlier, everyone was relieved that it was less smoky than expected. Now they are basically calm, not really rushing.

Around the 40s, maybe a bit higher, they run into the first fire fighters. Exhausted from lugging heavy tools and hoses, the men are taking a break. Some resume the climb when Genelle’s group goes by; others sit and sip water. Obviously they have not heard the fire-department order to retreat, delivered after the south tower fell. Down in the 30s, Pasquale recalls, a rescue worker says, “It’s a clear run. Just keep going.” Everyone seems to feel pretty good, like they are going to make it.

Now they are on the 13th floor (Pasquale believes they were actually about nine floors higher, but Genelle remembers 13), and she stops to take her shoes off. She loves shoes. It seems as if she buys a pair a week, so many that she hides them from Roger. She is wearing black leather heels today, and they hurt. It will be easier in bare feet. As Genelle is unstrapping them, she’s holding Rosa’s hand.

And then she hears a huge noise–Pasquale describes it as a dozen safes being tossed down the stairs. Lieut. Mickey Kross, who survived with a group of his fellow fire fighters in the lower part of stairway B that didn’t collapse, recalls in Report from Ground Zero (Viking) that “there is now a sense of tremendous energy, like being on a locomotive track with a train coming at you.” Something big comes through one wall at Genelle and Rosa and pushes them back. They fall, but Rosa recovers her footing. Genelle stays on the floor and starts to crawl downward. All this happens quickly, but there is time for them to separate. Rosa moves as if she is headed back up the stairs.

Genelle is jostled like a pinball and struck by debris from everywhere. As the great noise begins to subside, she is lying on her right side, and her right leg is pinned hard. Her head is now caught between something–the floor maybe?–and some concrete. Finally, it’s all quiet, and it’s dark, but somehow she is here. She is alive. Soon she says the first of many prayers, asking God to continue to shepherd her to safety. Not far away, a man is calling, “Help! Help!” His voice falters and disappears. She won’t hear him again.

Genelle starts biting her nails as she recounts these things. She says she is fine, that last fall’s spate of nightmares has ended, that she rarely has a bad day. And when she is depressed, she says, it’s not about Sept. 11, but usually about some silly argument she has had with Roger. When she gets sad, she plays gospel CDs and cranks the volume. She weeps. She can sing along with one of her favorite songs, Yolanda Adams’ Fragile Heart:

Now I’m standing with the news of a tragedy Standing here with a fragile heart See, I never shed a tear I stayed strong for them When everybody disappears It’s only you that keeps me strong …

These words give Genelle strength; they are also eerie because even though she cries easily, Genelle didn’t weep the entire time she was trapped on Sept. 11 and 12. Everybody else had disappeared, and she was alone with God. Within hours of first seeing Roger after she was rescued, Genelle told him that her survival was her calling to God, and that if they were to be together, they were going to change their lives. They couldn’t live in sin. They would be going to the Brooklyn Tabernacle every week.

The couple had quarreled just before Sept. 11, and some in her family were angry with Roger for hurting Genelle; they say he wouldn’t commit to her. But next to her hospital bed, Roger didn’t hesitate. He said they could take the first step on the right path by getting married.

She is asking God for strength now. A couple of hours have passed, and her head is still pinned. It hurts badly. She’s not sure if she can move it. “Help me, Lord,” she asks. And she pulls free, painfully scraping her head but winning some ability to move it forward and back; she still can’t move it laterally.

Everything against her is hard. Her whole body is starting to ache. On her right side, something sharp is poking her groin. She keeps reaching for the object, trying to move it, but it’s heavy concrete. Still, she persists, feeling all around the area. Her hand now brushes against something soft. She knows reflexively that it is a body, but she tries to push the thought from her mind.

It’s a fireman. He’s dead. That’s his leg.

No! It doesn’t matter. It’s soft. She just wants to move the rubble and lie on the…

the corpse

…the softness, just to get some relief, just to get close to something that gives a little. A crack in the concrete above her is stingy with the light, allowing just a glare. Slowly the hours pass, and she sleeps on and off. Now the glare dims. Nightfall.

In her dreams, God is a white man. He is holding his hands out. Not to her, but to his angels. But maybe she’s not dreaming; maybe she’s just remembering a picture she has seen. She can’t tell the difference now. She is so hungry. She fancies macaroni pie from Bake & Things, a Trinidadian restaurant in Brooklyn. Now she dreams of her mother. Her mom is talking to one of Genelle’s sisters, but Genelle can’t hear them. She sleeps.

When she wakes, she prays again. She feels a bit better. She will probably be found, she thinks. She prays more, and then she opens her eyes and hears voices. “I’m here!” she screams as loud as she can. “Hey! I’m right here!” A rescue worker responds, “Do you see the light?” She doesn’t, so she bangs a chunk of stone against the concrete over her. The rescuers find the noise. When she reaches her left hand out through an opening, one of the workers can grab it. OH GOD, THANK YOU.

The workers have been drawn to her spot in the vast acres of destruction by a fire fighter’s uniform. Civilian clothes blend with the rubble, but reflective bands in the uniforms stand out. There is a uniform just below Genelle: the soft man. It takes 20 long minutes, and then she is saved.

Saved, but not restored. Genelle’s life hasn’t returned to anything approaching normality. She hasn’t resumed her duties at the Port Authority–and she won’t, she says. She wants to become a social worker or pursue some other helping vocation. Returning to the Port Authority would remind her too much of everything that happened, everyone who was lost. Rosa Gonzalez and Susan Miszkowicz are dead. So are all the others in the group who took the stairs with her–except Pasquale Buzzelli. He was knocked unconscious in the collapse and awoke hours later stranded atop a 15-ft.-high mass of twisted metal and concrete. He was rescued around 3 p.m.; he had suffered a fractured bone in his foot and other injuries. As for Genelle, she has two foot-long scars, one on each side of her right calf, which doctors virtually rebuilt in four surgeries.

Though she has recovered from her leg and other injuries, Genelle spends most of her days at the Cypress Hills apartment, where she reads the Bible and watches the big-screen TV. She, Roger and Roger’s son Kadeem live mostly on the salary Roger makes as a pressman for a direct-mail firm. Genelle has received some financial aid–rent from the Red Cross, lost wages from Safe Horizon, the victim-assistance group–but she doesn’t plan to go for big bucks with a lawsuit. She met with a lawyer, but in the end she decided to apply for the victims’ compensation fund. “I’m a Christian now,” she explains. “I don’t think it’s really anybody’s fault.”

She also has had enough legal worries this year. Having violated the terms of her visa by staying beyond 2000 and getting a job, she could technically be deported. But ironically, because she was working illegally at the World Trade Center on the morning of Sept. 11, she is protected from deportation. The U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service has said it will not target illegals who were victims of the attacks. Genelle still must legalize her residency so she can travel freely–she and Roger had to postpone a trip to Trinidad and an expenses-paid honeymoon to the U.S. Virgin Islands–but Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton’s office is on the case.

Other matters loom larger. To an outsider who comes over to her place on a sunny day and watches her flip channels, Genelle seems listless, even depressed. She cancels plans often, saying she is tired or busy. Genelle explains that her new faith has freed her of earthly concerns that used to preoccupy her. “There’s a million changes in me,” she says. “I used to be this fun person, laughing, going out. Now I spend most of my time talking about the Bible, giving the glory to God. Before, I worried so much–about money, about looking good. Now I’m walking around with a limp, and I have these scars. And I don’t worry about that; it’s not important.”

Yet Genelle may be ignoring not just her scars but the wounds beneath. She spent a month in Bellevue Hospital Center after Sept. 11, and during her stay, doctors discovered signs of cervical cancer and a heart condition. What would have overwhelmed an ordinary patient barely fazed her. “I let the Lord lead me,” she says. “He’s my doctor. I saw the cardio doctor recently, and he was like, ‘Oh, you have to take your medication [atenolol, to lower blood pressure]. You really must promise me you’ll take it.’ I was smiling. He said, ‘You think of this as a joke?’ I said, ‘No, but I’ve been off it for, like, four months.’ I told him the Lord knows what he’s doing.”

It would be presumptuous to tell someone touched by a miracle that she shouldn’t count on God again. (And indeed, a recent biopsy showed no cervical cancer.) But Genelle may be using her faith as a curtain, one she can draw across a roomful of unfinished business. “I think she hasn’t dealt with the tragedy, the trauma she went through,” says her cousin Gail. “She wants to block it out.”

Gail and her sister Lauren have been worried about Genelle for several months. They believe that after Sept. 11, Genelle rushed to change her relationships with Jesus and with Roger before she had fully healed inside. They don’t know if she really wants to belong to a conservative evangelical church. And even though Gail was maid of honor and Lauren was a bridesmaid at Genelle’s wedding, the cousins think that Roger can be too controlling of Genelle–and that she isn’t assertive enough.

On top of everything else, reporters keep calling and reminding Genelle that her very existence is newsworthy. Time-consuming TV appearances–she has done Oprah, British TV and CNN–have distracted her, the cousins say. “People need to see the real Judy, not ‘Genelle,’ and the media need to stop portraying her as this amazing, perfect survivor,” says Gail. “What she needs is time for peace and reflection.”

Instead, Genelle’s life has taken on a staged quality. For months this year, she worked with Bride’s to plan her July 13 wedding ceremony–even though she and Roger had married on Nov. 7. (They went to City Hall to wed just before Genelle was baptized at the Brooklyn Tabernacle; she didn’t want to be baptized while she was still a fornicator.) Gail and Lauren say Genelle allowed herself to be pushed around by the media planners of the wedding, which was largely denuded of Trinidadian culture. There was a jazz trumpeter instead of calypso, grilled snapper instead of curries and a whole army of p.r. people to flack all the donated wares. “That was just an example of how people are using her, using her story,” says Gail. “And sometimes she lets it happen.”

For her part, Genelle says her wedding was “beautiful” and “awesome.” Roger calls it “scripted” but says he and his wife just laughed about all the orders they got from CBS and Bride’s. (“There was no intention to say it’s got to be this or that kind of wedding,” says Peter Hunsinger, president of the Conde Nast Bridal Group, which publishes Bride’s. “We worked with Genelle and Roger every step.”) The couple say they love each other deeply and that any problems they had before 9/11 weren’t serious. As for any internal injuries, Genelle, who isn’t regularly seeing a therapist, says, “God is my psychiatrist”–that her faith can heal anything.

Her pastor emphasized that point in a sermon that partly focused on Genelle. Pastor Jim Cymbala told the congregation that in contrast to “the tremendous failure rate of psychiatry and psychologists, all things are possible for those who believe in Christ.” A short time later, the minister called Genelle and Roger to the stage and said, “We say that God has a special plan for all of us. But if there’s anyone he has a plan for, it is this beautiful child of Christ.” A few days before, he had told Genelle in private that she is “the poster child for [the idea that] God has a purpose for your life.”

But does Genelle know her own purpose? Is she ready to be a poster child? It may be paralyzing to be told that God has something huge in store for you. “She feels like she just can’t make any wrong moves,” says Gail through tears. Even a friend of Genelle’s who shares her faith has some concerns about her. Angella Whyte, who has been helping Genelle study the Bible, says Genelle should be taking her heart medication, not leaving her condition up to God. “Sometimes the way the Lord wants you to heal is by taking your medication,” says Angella, a nurse. Psychologically, however, she says, “Genelle has some avoidance things, but she is not depressed.”

Pasquale Buzzelli sometimes wonders why he was saved. He imagines the reason has something to do with his daughter Hope, who was born Nov. 18. (His wife Louise has launched the Song for Hope Foundation to benefit women who were pregnant when they lost their husbands on Sept. 11.) “You almost feel like you have to do something, but you’re not sure,” he says. The indeterminacy is frustrating and painful for him, but not–at least outwardly–for Genelle. “I think sometimes: ‘Why did I wait on Rosa?'” she says. “I guess the whole thing happened for a reason. It was just their time to go. God calls, and you have to answer. Some of them weren’t prepared for him, and that gets to me. I know Rosa, I know she wasn’t ready to go. It was just the life she was living–it wasn’t a life of God.”

This sounds judgmental, but Genelle doesn’t mean it that way; she says that only God knows his plan for Rosa’s soul. And Genelle knows that if she had died that day, she would not have been ready to meet her maker. But she is frustrated when people say she merely got lucky and those who died were unlucky. “This is not about luck,” she says. “This is about God having a plan. And he will reveal it to me one day. I think God will give me a sign.”

At moments like this, Genelle seems steeled by God’s presence. At other times, she seems more wobbly, not as if she doubts her faith but as if she doubts everything else–her place in this world most of all. A few weeks ago, she watched on the news as a plane fighting forest fires crashed in a spectacular fireball. One expected some reaction, but her eyes were distant. She said something vague about the world coming to an end, a thought that didn’t seem to trouble her much. God calls, and you have to answer.

It will take far longer than one year of reflection about Sept. 11 for all of her discordances to clarify. But many people who meet Genelle sense only peace. “My main impression of her is really just how calm she is,” says Amsale Aberra, the wedding-gown designer, who got to know Genelle while working with her on a dress for the televised ceremony. “You would never guess what she had been through.” And for now, that seems to be just what Genelle Guzman-McMillan wants. The rest of it–the big answers to why she is here–may always lie hidden between her and God.