Ghosting (13 page)

It was a girl. My head hurts. I don’t know.

Mother. I need to keep Mother safe

from the bad guys, from the Clantons.

Need to stay strong, protect Mother.

What do all these people want?

But I recognized the girl. The girl covered in blood.

The girl on the bike. I’ve seen her, with her dog.

She was a good guy, at least I thought so.

Someone you could be friends with.

MOTHER?

POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

A pale slight kid wearing

a baggy green sweatshirt and glasses

is sitting on the curb,

holding a blood-smeared

rubber crow

in his hands,

crying.

And a pale blonde girl with a bloody foot

sits beside him, her hand

resting on his shoulder.

Even though he’s small and thin,

he looks to be about the same age

as the blonde girl and the other kids.

But I can tell right away he is separate,

not with them.

And it’s not because he’s so skinny

or pale

or wearing glasses

that are too large for his face.

The other kids are in shock,

disoriented.

But this kid, he’s got a look on his face

like he has no idea

how he got here,

what just happened.

Lost.

I approach him carefully.

All I can see is

this rubber crow in his hands.

But I’m sure there’s a weapon,

somewhere nearby.

He looks up at me

with his wet eyes,

then points,

like he can read my mind.

And, sure enough, there it is,

lying on the sidewalk.

A rifle.

ANIL

1.
I want to ride

In the ambulance

with Felix.

But they won’t let me.

The police chief says

he needs me to stay,

to help him sort out

what happened here.

As if I know.

MAXIE

The man with the

pale eyelashes

says I need to follow him to

an ambulance.

I’m not hurt,
I say again, like those are the only words I know anymore.

But what I really mean is:

I can’t move.

Since my feet

are suddenly

not my feet,

but unmovable

blocks of concrete

attached to the bottom of

my legs.

My head,

on the other hand,

feels light,

buzzy.

like it might

float away.

Then I see

Emma

on a stretcher,

her face the color of

streaky white marble,

her eyes closed and

her arm connected

by a tube

to a bag

on a pole.

And after that,

everything

goes

dark.

ANIL

1.
Chief Delafield steps away

to talk to another cop,

and an EMT guy

wearing a black shirt

with a logo I can’t make out

comes over with a couple of towels for me.

And I suddenly remember

I’m not wearing a shirt,

that I’d used my shirt on Felix,

and that my chest and arms

are streaked with his blood.

In a daze I wipe myself with the towel,

but I suddenly feel weak,

exhausted, and stop,

draping the towel around

my neck to hide my nakedness.

2.
I stare out at the scene before me,

then look at my watch.

But I can’t read it through

the splotches of blood, still wet,

on the watch face.

Time has blurred,

Maxie could’ve called 911

a few minutes ago,

or a few hours.

I don’t know anymore.

But in the space of that time,

or at least since

the first ambulance arrived,

a small city of vans and cars

and flashing lights

and yellow tape

has mushroomed

around us.

Staccato bursts of

walkie-talkie voices,

urgent, saying things like

perimeter secured,

shooter in custody.

And real voices, also urgent

and hoarse, saying things like

airway clear,

pressure dropping,

c-spine secure.

3.
Then, out of the corner

of my eye,

I see Maxie fall,

limp and pale,

to the ground.

Instinctively I move toward her,

but an EMT guy stops me.

We’ve got her, son.

4.
Chief Delafield is back.

He leads me toward the SUV.

First thing I need from you, Anil,
he says,
are the names and addresses of all the kids who were with you in the car.

I know why.

So their parents can be

notified.

Your kid was shot tonight.

And might die.

I shiver,

then start talking.

MAXIE

I wake up in the

ambulance.

You fainted,
says the man in his calm voice.

And the image of

Emma’s

marble face

comes back with a rush.

I concentrate on

breathing.

Then I see the IV

attached to the

back of

my hand.

I feel this flash of

outrage.

I don’t need that,
I say.

Just a precaution,
the man says.

Take it off,
I say.

Inside I’m screaming,

You don’t understand. I’m not the one who got shot!

We arrive at the hospital

and I’m taken

in a wheelchair

to the ER.

I’ve always been

scared of hospitals.

They make me think of

death.

But everyone is so nice,

so reassuring.

They wheel me into

an empty room,

and take some

blood

for a tox screen,

whatever that is.

Just a precaution,
they say.

I keep asking about Felix

and Emma

and Faith.

Over and over:

where are they?

how are they?

But no one will tell me

anything.

FAITH

Being pulled

onward,

like Polly

pulling me

forward

on her leash.

But I

can’t see

Polly,

only

a soft

whiteness

all around

me.

Quiet,

like

swimming

underwater,

but even

more

silent.

Movement

against

my face,

around

my body.

Soft, gentle

white birds,

like ivory gulls,

all around,

surrounding

me.

Nothing sharp,

no beaks

or claws,

just feathers,

lightly

brushing

my

face,

and

arms

and legs.

Calm and

loving

and

sweet.

Sunday, August 29, 1:48 a.m.

POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

There was a case

back five years ago,

a young man who strangled his mother,

and then shot himself.

That was a tough

crime scene to process.

But it doesn’t hold a candle

to this one.

Not even close.

Five kids hurt,

four in ICU,

three with injuries so bad

they could quite possibly

die before morning.

The Indian kid, Anil Sayanantham,

walks me through what happened

as best he can.

It’s clear he’s in shock and

I hate to put him through this,

but I’ve got to get at

the truth, as quickly as possible.

Even if none of those kids die,

God willing,

the media is going to be

all over this.

A real circus,

I can feel it coming.

But I can’t think about that right now.

Need to concentrate on

getting this job done

and getting it done right.

Sergeant Wilcox drives off

with the perp,

this boy who picked up a gun

and shot up a car full of teenagers,

and one on a bike.

This pale skinny boy

who can’t stop crying.

Who will take care of Mother?

That’s the last thing he says,

sobbing, before they drive away.

So I go up the path,

past three broken pots of roses.

Enter the house, through a screen door

with holes in the mesh.

The house is dead quiet. Dark.

I find myself reaching for my firearm.

Then I see a faint light coming

from the second floor.

So I head toward the staircase.

But just before I step on that first stair,

I hear a sound. The sound of a chair,

rocking.

From the dim light coming from above,

I see the living room, to my right.

And a figure of

a white-haired lady

sitting in an upholstered rocking chair.

Rocking.

She has her hands cupped

in front of her, and is staring down,

unblinking, absorbed by what she sees

in her hands.

Ma’am?
I say.

She looks up, then lifts her hands toward me,

as if offering me something.

My roses,
she says.
They broke my roses.

I can just barely make out a pile of

bruised pink rose petals

cupped carefully

in her hands.

Sunday, August 29, 2:20 a.m.

MAXIE

When Mom and Dad

come into the hospital room

I suddenly

start to cry and

can’t stop.

Like one of those weird

face fountains

you see in pictures of gardens in Italy,

with the water

endlessly trickling from

unseeing

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