Paul (6:06)
Hey, Nate, it's. It's me, Paul. I'm calling your voicemail because I didn't know what else to do. God, this is stupid. Okay, so it's August 12, 1998, and something's happened. Well, a lot's happened. I mean, you must know that. But I can't explain any of it. And I needed a way to record what happened, and here I am, still on the phone. So. It's been almost 48 hours since I'm pretty sure you died. You were on the train and the train derailed and no survivors. The first three cars got it the worst. And I know you were in the second car because you called me to complain about your seat. And that was the last time I talked to you. We ended up arguing about the Cubs games. Just stupid thing to argue about. And I knew we'd make up after you finished work. But you never made it to work, did you? I've been at mom and Dad's since, just watching the news. Same coverage over and over. And the state's been in touch, and they're super cagey with details other than to say that no one in your car survived, which is why what just happened is so insane. I came home, showered, and then saw the light blinking on my answering machine. Three messages. And I figured they were just from friends who'd heard about the crash. But then I looked at the caller ID. Brennan, Nathan. Your cell number called at 6:47pm today, which is impossible because the crash was two days ago. You died two days ago. So, yeah, I clicked play on the answering machine, and the first two messages were what I expected. You know, a co worker, my friend Jake. But the third message there was breathing. Just slow, steady breathing for maybe 15 seconds, just, you know, just breathing. That's all I heard. Slow and steady, just calm. And I know this sounds crazy, but I know it was you, Nate. I mean, we shared a room for 18 years. I know it sounds like a bad romance novel. I know how you Breathe. But I do. So I called your cell and it rang four times before going to voicemail. You know that same douchey message you recorded last month where he said you were probably wriggly field and too busy to talk? Oh, God. Hearing your voice like that. Oh, it got me. You know, so I. I don't know. I left a rushed message asking you to call me back. And I still want you to. I need you to. Because I don't understand what's happening. And if you're alive or hurt or whatever, just. Just call me and I will. I will find someone to come get you. I. I must have said it 10 times before I finally hung up. Just call me. So, yeah, that was six hours ago. And I've just been sitting by the phone ever since. But there's been nothing. Haven't heard from you. TV's on right now. Sounds down. I'm just. Still been watching it. They're showing. I mean, they're showing footage of the crash site, and, you know, they're picking through the wreckage and it's. It just had me wondering if maybe somehow you're still alive in there and you're somehow trapped in the wreckage, trying to reach out. But I. I don't know. I mean, this crash was so violent. Besides, I mean, like, where would you even get power for this phone? I mean, your battery would be dead by now. And I'm rambling. I'm sorry. None of this makes sense. Anyway, I haven't told mom and dad about the call yet. Cause I don't want to give them false hope. Not when I don't even know what's happening myself. But I heard you breathing. I know it was you, Nate. And you called me almost 48 hours after you were supposed to be dead. So. Call me, Nate. Call me. Hey, it's me again. And it's been. I don't know, 17, 18 hours since my last message, but. Doesn't matter because I don't understand how. But you called me and I. I talked to you, Nate. I. Hang on. Someone's calling. No, it's not you. Okay, backing up. I. I just. I want to get this on the record or something. So after my first voicemail, I. I couldn't sleep. And I just kept obsessing over that call, the breathing, whether I should tell anyone or not. And this morning, I just couldn't take it anymore. So I had to do something. So I. I drove back out to the crash site and. And I'd been there already. Tried to get through to see if I could help. And all the workers turned me away. And since then, all the families were, you know, told, don't come back. Avoid the site and interface with the people in charge at a command post in a nearby school gymnasium. But I went again anyway, and the site looked basically like it did the first time I saw it. It's just carnage. I mean, twisted metal, a bit less smoke and chaos, but still not great. And I saw one of the coordinators I'd met earlier, this guy named Morrison, and he was about to flag down people to cart me away, but I just begged him. I needed to know if there was any chance you could be alive in there. And, oh, he looked at me with this expression, like sympathy and exhaustion. And I realized he'd probably had this exact same conversation with dozens of family members. And he told me. He told me they'd used thermal cameras, listening devices, even dogs. And there were just no signs of life, no survivors. And the bodies were so damaged that they were using anything they could. Teeth, bits of driver's licenses, cell phones. I mean, grim. Grim stuff. Anything for identification. And when I heard him mention cell phones, I wanted to tell him about the call. Your first call. But, I mean, how could I? I think he'd. He'd think I was in denial. So I asked about phone signals, whether a survivor's phone could possibly be working, possibly be making calls somehow. And apparently, when he said cell phones, that they'd been finding cell phones, he meant pieces of cell phones, SIM cards. And that was if they were lucky. Anyway, I. And I drove home feeling like an idiot, wondering if I'd just imagined the whole thing or misread the caller ID or something. I guess grief does that to people, right? But when I got back to my apartment, my answering machine light was off, but I still checked my caller ID, and there it was. Brennan, Nathan, 2:17pm you had called while I was at the crash site. Where are you? How did you call me, Nate? Anyway, I called you back as fast as I could, and against all odds, you answered. It was your voice, Nate. It was you, clear as ever. Just, oh, what's up, bro? Just totally casual, like you hadn't been dead for three days, but finally I was able to say your name. And there was this pause on the other end, like you were thinking about something. And then you started talking about the lake. Summer of 91, the trip we took to Minnesota with Mom and dad. And I must have been 15. You 17, right? And we went to that one seafood place, right on the dock, and I got Walleye and you got fried clams. But we ended up sharing because yours were way better. And you were saying all this, and I wanted to stop you, but you just kept talking about that day. The best day. You said us and mom and dad. And I tried to get through to you. I tried, but you suddenly said you had to go, and the line went dead. I've just been sitting here for an hour trying to make sense of it all. It was your voice, 1,000%. But I don't know, something felt off. Like, not just the random memory, but. Why were you talking like that, Nate? And why that memory? Why that day? I mean, you know, we've had hundreds of good times together, but you picked that one. So. Yeah, I'm. I'm gonna stay up again tonight and keep the phone close, because if you call again, I want to be ready. Just. Come on, Nate. Tell me what's happening, please.