Not knowing if it’s morning or afternoon.
Not remembering.
And then I do.
I stumble out of bed
to the bathroom.
Leaning over the toilet,
I heave
and heave
until nothing more
comes out.
Mom hears me
and runs in,
wrapping her arms
around me.
Wiping my hot face
with a cool washcloth.
Later
we’re sitting at
the breakfast table,
Mom and Dad and I,
and they tell me what
they know
so far.
That Emma is in
critical condition,
but expected to
survive.
That the last they heard,
Faith was still in surgery.
And it didn’t
look good.
That nobody seems to know
about Brendan.
They think
he’s at another hospital,
in Chicago.
And Felix? I ask, my heart pounding.
And that’s when
they tell me.
That Felix survived.
He came through
surgery,
but he lost
his right eye
(like an eye was something
you could carelessly lose).
And now,
he
is in
a
coma.
Brain trauma
is a tricky thing,
they say.
He may never wake up,
they say.
And if he does wake up,
he may never be
the same.
Or he could be
fine.
At least as
fine
as you can be
with only
one
eye.
POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD
His name is Walter Smith.
Nineteen years of age.
Five foot seven inches,
barely 130 pounds,
brown hair.
He was born at 6 a.m.
on a Sunday morning,
January 16.
No father listed
on the birth certificate.
Mabel Smith
is listed as the mother.
No known address
for a Mabel Smith,
though she has a record:
several arrests
for drug possession,
public intoxication,
and disturbing the peace,
but that was all
twenty years ago.
Walter Smith was
raised by his grandmother,
Adeline Smith,
the woman he calls
Mother.
She’s homeschooled him since
the age of eleven,
in the house she inherited
from her sister.
The two,
Walter and Adeline Smith,
have always kept to themselves.
But according to neighbors
there have been escalating
signs of dementia
in the grandmother:
-sitting on the front stoop, arguing loudly with her dead sister
-wearing a winter down parka as she gardens in the hot summer sun
-dancing in her nightgown in the tangled undergrowth of the neglected property.
Numerous complaints
by neighbors
about the deteriorating house and yard.
Numerous complaints
by the grandmother
about being harassed
by neighborhood kids.
And even though I didn’t know
and that neighborhood kids
used it to scare themselves,
I can’t say I wasn’t aware
of the house, of these people.
I was.
But I confess I thought
they were harmless.
Eccentric.
And that the people around them
should just
live and let live.
God’s truth,
I was blind.
Well, that’s something
I’m going to have to
live with until the day
I die.
Sunday, August 29, 8:00 p.m.
MAXIE
Word spreads fast
about what happened
at the
ghost house.
And Sunday night,
the night after it happened,
there is a vigil
at the school.
For Brendan,
for Emma and Faith,
and for Felix.
Hundreds of kids
fill the
football field.
I hadn’t wanted
to go–
not at first.
But Mom and Dad
said they’d go with me.
Wanted to go with me.
And so I said
okay.
There are news trucks
and camera crews,
which Mom and
Dad hurry me past.
I sit in the bleachers
with Mom on one side
and Dad on the other
and hope no one will
recognize me.
And because I am
the new/old girl,
they don’t.
The whole thing is overwhelming,
but somehow beautiful, too,
all these people
gathered together,
shaken to the core,
mourning,
and frightened.
And then they start
lighting
candles.
First one,
then a few,
then more and more.
Till the field is
filled with
flickering candles.
I don’t have
my camera (still confiscated),
but Dad has loaned me his,
and Mom smiles
when I click a photo
of that
winking,
sparkling
sea of light.
Dad takes my hand
and that’s when
I burst into tears.
Again.
I spot Chloe’s
blonde hair
across the field.
She’s surrounded by friends.
But no sign of
Anil.
And for some reason,
out of the blue,
I suddenly remember
Anil’s story about the comet
and the
two telescopes,
and
his smile,
and then,
miraculously,
my tears stop.
ANIL
1. My parents don’t want me
to go to the vigil,
which is okay
because I don’t want to go.
The only reason would’ve
been to see if Maxie was there.
Except what would
I say to her?
2. I watch TV and go on the Internet,
scrolling from one story to
another about the tragic
shooting in Wilmette.
Sound bites have already formed:
multiple shooting victims near cemetery
tragedy at so-called “ghost house”
teenage prank gone wrong
thrill-seeking, ghost-hunting teens
But no word on
:
Felix
Faith
Emma
or Brendan.
Nothing specific anyway.
Just “multiple victims” in critical condition.
That’s all.
Mom turns off the TV
but I turn it back on.
She looks at me,
then sits beside me,
putting her arm
around my shoulders.
One news program shows
clusters of reporters
from different TV stations
around the country,
camped in front of the hospital.
3. And then,
while we’re watching TV,
a knock on our own door.
Reporters.
My father turns them away,
tight-lipped, furious.
EMMA
Dad is sitting by my bed.
The machines around me are whirring,
tubes, wires, dials sprouting from them.
The tubes are filled with bubbling liquids that are
being pumped into me, to help me heal,
to help control the pain.
Dad is telling me about the vigil at the
football field tonight. How everyone is
praying for me, for Faith, for all of us.
The hospital room is filled with cards and
flowers and balloons. Almost too bright,
too much, and I don’t deserve any of it.
Faith? I keep asking. And they keep
telling me they don’t know. That she’s
still fighting, still alive.
Then the door opens, abruptly,
making Dad jump.
A nurse stands there.
You’re to come, right now, she says.
Her voice is urgent,
her eyes unreadable,
but she is not smiling.
Dad jumps up.
I can see fear
in his eyes.
I’ll be right back, Emma, he says.
Just as the door closes behind them I hear
the words minister or priest? clear and distinct.
My blood turns to ice.
Faith, I shout.
Monday, August 30
MAXIE
On Monday instead of going
to school
I go to
the hospital.
Mom and I get flowers
from the grocery store
to take to
Emma,
Faith,
and Felix
Faith’s room is the closest
so we go there
first.
The door is
closed.
I hear the sound of a woman
sobbing
and my brain goes blank.
I drop the flowers and
don’t even realize it.
Suddenly the door
opens
and Emma’s dad is
standing there.
He stares at me
and all the flowers
scattered at my feet.
Then
he smiles.
I look past him into the room
and see Faith and Emma’s mom
sitting by the bed,
and she’s not sobbing,
she’s laughing,
though
tears are running
down her cheeks.
And even more wonderful,
I can see Faith, lying in the bed,
her
eyes
open.
Emma’s dad bends down and
helps me pick up
the flowers.
We almost lost Faith last night, he says, handing me black-eyed Susans and asters, but she came back to us.
FAITH
They say
I nearly
died.
Twice.
Once in
surgery,
and again
last night.
And I know
it’s true.
Because of
the birds,
and because
of the voices
calling me
back.
Especially
Emma’s.
Her voice
was the
loudest.
And it
makes sense,
because
after all,
I’ve
never been
able to
say
no
to
Emma.
Tuesday, September 7
MAXIE
For everyone else
school started
a week ago,
but I finally go to school
ten days after
that night.
I don’t want to
but Mom keeps saying it’s best
to try to stick to a routine,
to keep things
the way they were
before
it happened.
As if that was even
possible.
And it sucks.
The minute I walk through the doors,
I know I can’t be
there.
It was already going
to be weird,
as new/old girl.
But because of
what happened
it is like I have this
giant RED letter
pinned
to my chest.
Except I don’t know
what letter
it is.
No one does.
So I either get these
sad,
pitying looks,
or else eyes that
dart away.
Like looking at me
might get them
shot, too.
Emma, and Faith,
and Felix
are all still in
the hospital.
And, weirdly, the silence about
Brendan
continues.
No one knows what happened
to him, even
where he is.
It’s like he’s surrounded
by this
cloud of secrecy.
Even all those reporters
can’t find out the truth.
Chloe and Anil
have friends
who circle them
protectively
like wagon trains
in the
Old West.
I see Anil once,
coming out of math.
He calls out,
but I run,
in the other direction.
Pathetic.
Cowardly.
I can’t talk to Anil.
If I did,
if I looked into his eyes,
the tears
would start up again
and
not
stop.
Hiding behind my
locker door, I overhear Chloe,
pale, foot in a boot,
leaning on crutches,
talking to her friends.
No, I wasn’t shot, she says. I just tripped and cut my foot. You guys know what a klutz I am.
Her friends laugh
and hug her.
And I start to feel sorry for myself
because I am the new/old girl,