stone eyes.
The tears come
and come
and come,
until my body is doubled over
with sobs
so hard my
ribs hurt.
Mom takes me
in her arms
like I’m six years old again.
It’s going to be okay, she murmurs.
Dad hovers behind her.
Maxie, Maxie, Maxie, he’s saying, his voice hoarse with his love.
They’re trying to hide it
but both of them look
terrified.
I want to stop
the wrenching sobs,
but I can’t.
Then the door opens
and a man in a sport coat
enters the room.
He gestures to my dad,
who steps toward him.
They talk,
voices low.
Then they both turn to face me.
My stomach clenches.
Has someone died?
Is the shooter still out there?
Dad crosses to me,
puts his hand
on my back.
Maxie, he says. They want to know about Felix’s parents. No one answered when they went to his house. Do you know if they’re out of town?
I hesitate for a moment,
but they need to know
the truth.
Through hiccupping tears
I explain about
Felix’s dad in Afghanistan,
and how his mother is depressed
and takes sleeping pills.
Dad looks sad.
Poor Felix, he murmurs.
I nod,
fresh tears
filling
my eyes.
Is he . . . ? I say, looking at the cop.
In surgery, he says, his face drawn. Thanks for your help. He starts to leave, then turns to face me again. Also, when you’re feeling up to it, we’re going to need you to come down to the police station. Tonight. Just a few questions.
I nod again,
not even aware
anymore
of the tears
streaming down
my face.
ANIL
1. After the police station
I wanted to stop at the hospital,
but my mom said no.
You need sleep, she says.
But sleep doesn’t come.
And as I lie in my bed,
wide awake, I wonder
if it ever will again.
2. I look up at
the glow-in-the-dark stars
my mom put on my
bedroom ceiling when
I was in elementary school.
Back in 4th grade I learned
about the big bang theory
and the beginnings
of the universe,
and I came up with this game
I’d play in my head,
a game of finding
the beginnings of things.
Some beginnings are simple.
Some are more complex.
But when I was in 4th grade
I was pretty good at
tracing things back
to a single moment.
And, right now, I need to find
the beginning of this thing that happened
to me, to all of us, tonight.
Was it when Chloe knocked over the flowerpots?
Or when I popped open the glove compartment?
Or when Felix spilled the MoonBuzz on Maxie’s lavender shirt?
Or when Chloe said, let’s go ghosting?
Or when Brendan bought MoonBuzz on Craigslist?
Or was it when the first kid looked at that run-down house across from a cemetery and decided it was scary, called it ‘the ghost house,’ and dared some other kid to go near it? A run-down house where a boy and his grandmother live, a boy who wears glasses and who owns a gun.
It suddenly is imperative
that I find the beginning.
Because that would
be the moment
I could have stopped all this
from happening.
MAXIE
When I entered
the police station
Anil was leaving with
his parents.
They had brought
him a fresh shirt,
to replace the bloody one.
I could see
ironed creases
crisscrossing
the front of the
white shirt.
I could also see
brown-red streaks
on his forearms.
Our eyes met.
His were deep black pools of
fatigue and shock.
Mine felt sandpapery red,
swollen, and I had to
look away.
I was at the police station
until four in the morning.
It seemed impossible
at first
to put what had taken place
that night into a
this-happened,
that-happened
narrative.
But Police Chief Delafield
led me through it,
with a no-nonsense
gentleness
that at least kept
the tears from
starting
up
again.
It was weird how
I’d remember a tiny detail,
like the smell of
sage
in the cemetery,
but forget big things,
like:
what happened to
Brendan’s gun
(under the seat),
how far from the house
we were when the
windshield cracked and split
(not far),
did Emma hold up the
rubber crow
before or after
Walter Smith pointed his rifle
at her
(before).
They took
(confiscated)
my camera.
I watched them put it
in a plastic bag,
put a label on it,
seal it,
drop it in a bin,
and for a moment
I had trouble
breathing.
That camera is almost
always
with me,
or has been for the
past four years.
A best friend,
a part of my body.
And now it is
flecked with blood
and sealed in plastic
with a label
that reads
EVIDENCE.
After we got home,
a shower,
burning hot,
went to bed and
let sleep,
faceless and blank,
pull me under.
Sunday, August 29, 6:45 am
POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD
I put in a call to Jeremy Sisto,
Principal of George Washington High School.
I’ve known Jeremy twenty years.
And he knew right away
it wasn’t a social call,
not this early on a Sunday morning.
He’s a good man, Jeremy Sisto,
and a good principal.
He’ll handle what needs to be done
with efficiency and intelligence.
Crisis-management teams
will be poised and ready
to swing into action on
Monday morning,
when kids arrive at
George Washington High School
for their first day of school.
Their first day in a world
that will surely feel a whole lot
less safe,
less predictable
than it did
the day before.
ANIL
1. Finally I get out of bed.
And even though I’ve
already washed
and scrubbed my arms
and hands until they’re raw,
I go into the bathroom
and do it all over again.
Then,
grabbing car keys,
I slip out the back door
of our house.
2. The sun is about to rise,
an eyelash of bright light
on the horizon.
The hospital entry is quiet.
I can smell breakfast
being cooked somewhere.
A tired-looking receptionist
with pinched lips informs me
that she can’t give out any
information.
I stare at her, frustrated.
Maybe if I told her I was there,
in that SUV, holding Felix’s head in my arms.
Maybe then she’d tell me if he was still alive.
But she ignores me standing there,
unsmiling, cold.
As if fatigue and fear
have erased her ability
to be kind, at least in this moment.
3. I stand paralyzed.
Then a nurse, sturdy,
with blonde hair cut short,
comes up to me.
She takes my arm, leading me
away from the pinched receptionist.
Her name tag says GEORGIA,
and in a quiet voice she tells me
that Felix is still in surgery.
Same for Faith and Emma.
She doesn’t know anything
about Brendan,
thinks maybe he was airlifted
to another hospital.
She points me to
a waiting room,
then surprises me
with a hug.
For a moment
I am afraid I will collapse,
fall to my knees and sob,
out of control
right here in front of
this nurse named Georgia.
But I manage to keep myself still,
face blank,
and thank her.
4. I find the room and enter.
The only people there are
looking exhausted,
frightened, holding hands.
I know right away they are
Emma and Faith’s parents.
The dad looks up,
about to say something,
when the door behind me opens.
A doctor in surgical scrubs,
his face gray with fatigue,
moves past me, toward the couple.
They stand, stricken, wobbly,
like they can barely stay upright.
Just finished surgery. Emma’s in ICU, I can hear the doctor say.
Even though I want to hear more,
I feel like I’m intruding,
so I move toward the door.
She’s critical but stable . . . concussion . . . leg fractured in several places . . . will need more surgery are the words I can make out.
Then the woman asks,
her voice cracking,
And Faith?
Still in surgery. Sorry.
POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD
The inside of that SUV
was a secondary crime scene
so we towed it to the station.
The pools of blood
and car windows with bullet holes
told the broad outline,
but the gun under the seat,
with four spent rounds,
the cooler of illegal booze
disguised as a harmless sports drink,
the burnt end of
a couple of reefers
filled in the rest of the story.
The statements we took
from Anil Sayanantham
and Maxine Kalman, and later,
Chloe Carney
all dovetailed.
Even the words that came out of
the boy’s mouth, the boy named
Walter Smith,
told the same story.
But from a very different
point of view.
Trespassers. True.
Potential home invaders. Not true.
A gun fired toward the house. True.
Had to protect myself and my mother. Not true.
No. That was not true at all.
Sunday, August 29, 10:15 a.m.
EMMA
The sun is a blazing ball
of pulsing white
in a vivid blue sky.
The soccer field
is emerald green,
brighter than I’ve ever seen it.
I’m dribbling a ball down the field.
Defenders are little buzzing dots
Far, far behind me.
The goal is wide open, waiting.
I feel that exhilarating,
familiar rush of certainty.
I swing my leg back
and, thunk, the gleaming
black-and-white ball soars.
It traces a perfect arc over
the goalie, landing smack
in the center of the goal.
A roar from the bleachers.
I look up, see Mom and Dad
on their feet, cheering.
Then I look for Faith.
She’s not there.
Fear stabs me in the gut.
And that’s when I wake up.
Faith!
I feel a hand take mine.
Honey, Emma, a voice says. It’s Mom.
I open my eyes.
Sunday, August 29, 2:35 p.m.
MAXIE
When I wake up
the house is
quiet.
I lie in bed,
groggy from such a long sleep.