Miles To Go Before I Sleep (41 page)

The next day, the FBI agents picked us up at the hotel and drove us to the federal building. For several hours, we went over a lot of things that I had already stated in Malta nine years earlier. They wanted to update me and refresh my memory.

Thursday was the lineup. In the morning we went to the federal building and met with Tony Lyons. We were just like little kids, we were so excited about our reunion. We barely knew each other, but there was a special bond between us because we had gone through such a terrible ordeal together. We shared an experience that is difficult or impossible to communicate to anyone who has not gone through something similar.

At the federal building, we went through a three-hour preparation period. We were told what to expect, and we went into the room where the lineup was scheduled. We would see the lineup through a one-way mirror.

Once the lineup started, we were placed in a hallway near the room. Patrick was called first. It didn't take Patrick long. He just went in, picked Rezaq out, and left. A minute later I was called to view the lineup.

FBI agents and police officers were standing in the back of the room, along with the hijacker's attorney and the prosecutors. Through the glass, I looked out on ten men standing in a long row, staring straight ahead. Each of the men had a number pinned to his chest. It was just like in the movies.

The men were similar looking. They were about the same height and had the same tone of olive skin and Arabic features. They were trying to fool us. I quickly scanned them, one by one, looking at their faces, their hair. Then I went back for another pass—and stopped.

I knew who he was right off the bat. I knew by those eyes. When we were hijacked, he went into the cockpit immediately. When he came out, he had a mask over his face—but I could still see his
eyes
through the holes.

In the lineup he was wearing a baggy, khaki outfit with a yellowish tint. His hair was shaven much shorter than when we were hijacked. There was just a little on top.

At one point when I was looking at him in the lineup, he looked right at me. He didn't know he was looking at me—right at me, in my eyes. I was taken aback.

It was strange staring at the man who had caused so much pain, knowing that I could see him, but he couldn't see me. I realized that this was a wonderful opportunity—in such a safe environment. My Inner Voice said,
Just stay here. Stay here.
And I looked at him and as I kept staring at him and staring at his eyes, all the memories from the hijacking came. When he stood up and went into the cockpit, and when he came out. When he kept looking at Scarlett and me. All the events quickly flashed in front of me.

I stood there, listening to my body and paying attention. And I realized, I had forgiven this man. It felt so good. There were no angry feelings as I looked at him. There was sadness because of what had happened—so many people had lost their lives. But I didn't have any anger toward him anymore. He was just a man. That was the value in doing the lineup: I needed to realize the hijacker was only a human.

After about five minutes of looking at the hijacker, one of the police officers said, “Do you know who he is?”

“Yes,” I said. “And I knew who he was right when I walked in. But I may never see this man who shot me in the head ever again. And I wanted to take this time. He's number 10.”

When I left the room, I started to cry again. I ended up crying and crying on one of the FBI agent's shoulders. A police officer said, “Come on into this room.” I don't think he wanted me to sit out in the hallway and cry.

I said, “No. I just need to let this out real quick.”

The FBI agent just kept holding on to me. I know that about myself. If something comes up, I just have to let it out real quick and then it'll be over with. So then we went to this room and it was okay.

Some of the FBI agents took Patrick, Tony, and me to lunch. When it was time to go home, Patrick and I shared a cab to the airport. We were talking about the lineup and I told him that I had picked out the man wearing the number 10.

“Number 10!” Patrick said. “No, it was number 2!”

I said, “No, he was number 10.”

Again Patrick insisted, “No, he was number 2!”

Had I picked the wrong person?

Then I remembered what the FBI agents told us: After each of us made our pick, the agents randomly shuffled the numbers the men were wearing. This was done to make sure that our selections were not biased by a particular number or position in which the man was standing. Patrick and I laughed on realizing that we were both right!

When I got home, the emotions hit me. For a few days afterwards, I found myself suddenly crying for no apparent reason. I thought,
If I've forgiven, why am I still sad?
I wondered,
Am I lying to myself and others that I have forgiven?

Then I realized you can forgive and still feel sad. Especially when you're pulled back into the pain.

After returning home I made a point not to schedule anything for days. I stayed home. I was moving at the time, so I packed boxes and processed the events in Washington, D.C.

A few days after returning home, I got a Christmas card from Patrick Baker. In the card, he said that after the lineup, he felt greatly affected also.

A few years ago, I was in Houston for my twentieth high school reunion. While I was at Hobby Airport waiting for my flight, I went to the rest room to wash my hands. I just happened to look up and saw something behind me in the mirror that didn't belong in a women's rest room, namely, a urinal!

What is that thing doing in a women's rest room?
I wondered.

When I got outside, I realized what had just happened. I'd gone into the wrong rest room by mistake. With my vision loss, the signs “Men's” and “Women's” look like “n's” and “en's.” If I don't stop and really look at the signs, I can easily mix them up.

It's a lot easier for me when I see “ies” (Ladies) or if there are silhouettes of a man in pants and a woman in a dress. If there's a skirt on the right, I can safely assume there's a skirt on the left.

I still play a lot of memory games—even today—to keep my memory sharp. During my busy months, I'm in about three or four states a week. I'm going through one airport and I'm always going back through that same airport. So when I get off the plane, I pay attention to who picks me up at the airport—what color hair they have, what dress they're wearing, what color tie they have on. I pay attention when I'm walking through the airport—everything on the left has to be on the right when I come back. I'm always paying attention wherever I go. This has strengthened my memory—so my memory is strong today.

As far as reading, if the letters are small or short, I do pretty good. I do pretty good with the newspaper, for example. I go left to right with my eyes without even using my fingers. But if the letters are a little bit bigger, I see more gaps—and I need to use my fingers to trace the shape of the letters.

If I'm ordering food at a restaurant, and the menu has pretty big letters, I have to use my fingers to read. Using my fingers helps me stay grounded on the page.

It's still hard for me to decipher the meaning of big or difficult words. When I'm on an airplane and they have signs that say “vacant” and “occupied” on the rest room doors, it takes me time to figure out what these words mean. For people like me, I wish they would just say “empty” and “full.”

When I see
vacant
, I have to think,
What does vacant mean? What is vacant?
It's a big, abstract word and the thought process is hard for me. I have to go into a different part of my memory to retrieve the meaning of the word, whereas I understand
empty
right away.

After four or five seconds, the meaning of
vacant
comes to me. But it's not automatic. Though I can read at about the eighth-grade level, my comprehension is still only about fifth grade.

There are other problems. When I speak, I still have to ask people not to take my picture. I allow them to take photos during the question and answer period, because then I don't have to rely on my memory or focus on what I'm saying. If someone suddenly comes up and takes a picture during my speech, I can get off track very easily. I used to be afraid to tell people this. Usually, I'm always looking around for cameras before I speak. If I see one, I'll go up and very politely, say, “Are you planning to take a picture of the speaker?” If they say yes, I'll say, “Well, I'm the speaker and I would like it if you could take it during my questions and answers.” Usually, people are very understanding about this when they know it's a problem.

I've gotten better at seeing people's faces. But I don't see people's hair, their right sides—which is my left side—or their lips. Yet I have learned to hold images in place longer so that I get a pretty good picture of people's appearance.

I could always move my eyes from your hair to your right side and down to your lips. But as soon as I took my eyes off your hair, it was as if your hair never existed. I couldn't remember what color it was, what texture, what shape. Now, because my memory is so strong, I move my eyes up to your hair, down to your right side, and down to your lips. And in my mind's eye I get a whole picture of what I think you look like.

I've learned to compensate for my visual perception problems in other ways too. In my house, for example, I have a small television. Because the screen is small, I don't see large gaps in the picture that I would on a larger screen.

My learning disabilities and head injury still cause some problems in my relationships. For the most part, I'm not as hard on myself as I used to be. But I still can get frustrated or mad at myself when I get lost or have trouble doing a simple task.

The people I choose to have relationships with are generally very supportive and understanding of my disabilities. But even close friends sometimes lose patience with me. During a recent lunch, my dear friend Cheryl expressed the difficulty she sometimes has in communicating with me. “I get real frustrated and aggravated sometimes, Jackie. Sometimes, I feel like you're not listening to what I'm saying. When you repeat what I just said, it comes out all mixed up. It makes me feel like I haven't been heard. Then I feel bad about how
I'm
feeling. I have to stop and remind myself that you were shot in the head.”

As we were talking, tears were coming to my eyes. It was the first time in a long time that someone was telling me that they were sorry. I'm always apologizing for misunderstanding people or for not understanding them right away.

When people get frustrated with me, I often have to remind them of my learning disabilities. It's not that I had a head injury—I still
have
one. What this means is that people can't take certain things for granted in communicating with me. They often have to spell out very clearly and concretely what they need from me. It takes work. Otherwise, I may not get what they are trying to tell me.

Back when I first started teaching learning disabled children in Texas, I didn't know how to help their frustrated parents cope with kids that could often be so frustrating. I had lots of techniques, of course. I knew all the “book answers” I'd been taught in graduate school. But I was still missing something.

Now that I am like one of the kids I used to teach, I've had to learn how to cope with the frustration felt by the learning disabled and those who care about them. And I've tried to pass the message on.

When I speak to parents, I tell them to try not to get upset when their kids don't remember something—just love them and accept them and say it's going to be okay. Their kids will get through it all.

The simple things make all the difference.