by Liz Crowe
“Mama, you were—” I stopped. She truly had been a supermom, the volunteering, chaperoning, party-throwing, cookie-baking, house-always-clean and dinner-always-cooked type. I didn’t appreciate that fully until this very moment. “Why didn’t you just tell him?
She snorted. “Right. I can’t imagine how that conversation would have gone.”
“Well, it might have kept us from sitting here in the basement today, talking about you and Daddy getting a divorce in your sixties.”
She glared at me. “I tried to make it up to him. Lord knows, I nearly killed myself for a couple of decades getting most of y’all through your teenage years intact. But that was the goal. Nothing more. When you came along I was, I don’t know, a shell. I had nothing left to give.” Her shoulders hitched. “I’m sorry. You’ll understand, maybe, someday. Or maybe not. You’ll be better equipped than I was.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go have iced tea. Lord knows you’ve offered that to me often enough as a way to solve problems.”
She smiled a little. “Oh, it’s not a problem-solver, necessarily. It does gives you a chance to catch a breath and see a problem in a different light.”
“Fine, whatever.” I held out my hand. “Let’s go do that.”
We sat with the glasses in front of us, words dried up for the time being. But for the first time in my entire life, I sensed the silence as a comfort, not a stressor.
She looked up at me, her green eyes still watery. “You’ll talk to him for me? He listens to you. And he’s just being so dang stubborn, you know? He doesn’t want a divorce. He’s still too Catholic for that.” She turned her glass around on the table. “I told him that. Which didn’t help.” She sighed “Me and my damn mouth.”
I hesitated, stalling, so as not to reply to that leading comment. What in the world I might say to my nearly sixty-five-year-old father to convince him not to divorce my mother, after all they’d been through, escaped me completely. I patted her hand. “Yes, Mama. I will.”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost Aiden forever.”
I sipped, not wanting to agree with her and make it worse. She put her work-roughened hand to my cheek. I leaned into it.
A siren screaming past made us both look toward the window. Our little town, once nothing more than a place for the employees at the various horse farms to shop and bank and pray, had been overrun with suburbanites and their Starbucks coffees and BMW SUVs parked in the garages of houses built on the land those horse farms once occupied. That seemed to mean a lot more emergencies requiring sirens.
Mama got up and closed the window. “Thank you for coming over,” she said. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”
As if on cue, a wave of nausea hit me. I got up and ran for the bathroom. Mama followed me and handed me a cool, wet washcloth after I’d finished losing the scant contents of my stomach.
“It’s bad, huh?”
I nodded. She patted my knee and walked out.
When I made it to the kitchen, she had a lemon and some ginger sliced and was boiling a pot of water on the stove. I dropped into my seat and pushed the tea glass aside so I could put my head on my arms.
She rubbed my shoulders. “I’m so happy for you, Angel. That man is such a catch.”
I chuckled. Leave it to my mother to remind me of that fact.
Another, louder siren shrieked down the street, followed by what sounded like the entire Lucasville police department. “Mercy,” she said. “Go lie on the couch a minute. I’ll make this up for you. I swear it will help.” She dropped the lemon and ginger into the boiling water as I passed by. I must have fallen asleep and directly into a dream filled with my brothers, all sad, a couple of them crying, which was beyond strange.
Someone was shaking my shoulder. I tried to turn over, lethargy pulling me down deep. “Angelique. Wake up.” I opened my eyes. My mother stood over me, clutching her computer tablet, her expression wild.
“What is it?” I tried to get my bearings. The light seemed weird. It must be a lot later than I thought.
Mama kept staring down at her phone. “Turn on the television,” she said, before dropping into her chair. “Quick.” Panic blossomed in my chest. I grabbed the remote and pointed it at the TV. “Channel seven.”
I found it and stared at a video image of my old high school, newly expanded and fancified with all the money that had poured from the rich commuters. It appeared to be surrounded by police cars and ambulances and three fire trucks. A scroll of words ran across the bottom of the screen. I read them once, then again.
Mama gasped, jumped up and grabbed my arm. “Where’s Cara?” she said. “We have to get to her.”
“I … I … I d-d-d-don’t know.”
“I have to get to her.”
I blinked, listening to the announcer.
“Lucasville High School is on lockdown,” a voice said. “Our reporters are not being allowed near enough to determine much. What we have surmised, from various reports of cell phone calls from students and faculty, is that there are two gunmen, both teenagers. They entered the high school about three hours ago, ran directly to the gym, and opened fire on a large group there, and are now holding the rest hostage, including several teachers and members of the administration.”
“Oh, my God, oh, Mama. Oh, Jesus.” I shook my head, blinded now by tears. She tightened her grip on my arm.
“Call your brothers. I’m going to Cara’s clinic.” She sounded completely calm, which helped me pull myself together.
I nodded, looking down at my phone. It was lit up with texts from Aiden. “Call me now,” he’d said, six different times in the last twenty minutes.
I touched his name with a trembling finger and put the phone to my ear.
“He’s all right,” Aiden shouted. “He messaged me from inside.” I put a finger to my ear.
“Where in the hell are you? I can barely hear you.”
“Airport. I’ll be there as soon as I can. But he’s all right. Tell Mama and Daddy. Kieran is okay. He sent me a text me a few minutes ago. Tell them, okay, Angel?”
I nodded, as if he could see me, ended the call and jumped a mile when it buzzed in my hand. The name “Francis” popped up on the screen.
Shaking all over I put it to my ear. “Kieran? That you? Kieran?”
“Angel,” he said. He sounded winded, as if he’d been running, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, God, are you …”
“Shush a minute. I can’t get hold of Cara. Please, tell her …” The phone went dead.
I leapt to my feet, staring at the TV screen and noting the cops all running toward the building, breaking the glass doors and pouring inside, out of sight of the many cameras.
“We’re getting reports of shots fired,” the reporter said. I watched the cops and EMTs enter the building. Then kids started piling out, running as far from it as they could get. I shook my head, unwilling to accept anything my own eyes observed.
My phone buzzed again. Daddy this time. “Where is your mother?” he barked when I answered. “We’re on our way over there now.”
“Cara’s clinic,” I whispered. “Daddy. He called me. I …”
“Who called you? Kieran?”
I nodded, unable to say his name, then dropped the phone and slid down the wall. I watched on the TV when the brewery van screeched up to the perimeter. Daddy got out slowly while Dom headed straight through the line of cops still circling the building, having jumped over the temporary barricades. I watched him punch a couple of uniformed guys who tried to stop him.
“We have a rogue witness,” the talking head said. “A man has broken through the police barrier and is headed into the building.”
My phone buzzed non-stop. Calvin sending me texts mostly. I told him where I was and that I was all right. Then I called Diana and spoke to her before trying Mama again. But she had her prime directive—get to Kieran’s wife, the girl we’d all known growing up, the mother of
Kieran’s two sons and toddler daughter.
“Reports are coming in that the shooters have been contained,” the reporter said.
“Any news of casualties inside?”
“Not yet. Wait, there seems to be someone being led out.”
I saw Dominic again, being dragged through what was left of the school doors by three burly-looking firemen. When they let him go out on the large front lawn, he dropped to his hands and knees. I sucked in a breath, got up, and ran out to my car, driving on autopilot to my old high school. But I couldn’t get anywhere near the building by then, thanks to all the media and gawkers.
I screamed that my brother was in there, that he was Kieran Love, the principal. That I had to get to him.
Someone touched my arm, and I whirled, furious and heartsick over what I already suspected. Mama and Cara stood there looking shell-shocked. I held out my arms and we stood, holding tight to each other, surrounded by strangers, praying as hard as we could.
On one level I refused to accept that my life could be so perfect and then shatter into a million pieces at the drop of a karmic hat. But I prayed hard, asking God to forgive my years of ignoring Him if He would please let my brother walk out of that high school, take us all in his arms, and tell us everything was fine.
Epilogue
14 Lucasville High School Students and Staff Dead,
Nearly 30 More Saved by Principal
From the Lexington-Herald Leader and Associated Press
By: Mia Koutras, Staff Reporter
Lucasville (AP) – Kieran Francesco Love, principal of Lucasville High School, faced an educator’s greatest fear yesterday afternoon when he bargained for the lives of his students during an armed assault and hostage situation that left many dead in the wake of the massacre. Formerly a local sports star, Principal Love, 45, is in critical condition at a local hospital, having literally stepped between the teenage gunmen and the remaining students when negotiations spun out of control.
Witnesses state that two teenaged gunmen burst into the gymnasium and opened fire on students during an Honor Society meeting with administration and staff advisors for the upcoming graduation ceremony. Ten students and one teacher were mowed down in a hail of gunfire before Love leaped into the fray.
“It was unbelievable,” one tearful witness said. “Mr. Love jumped in, like some superhero, and shouted at them to stop, to talk this out,”
Another said, “If it wasn’t for Mr. Love, we’d all be dead. He’s a real hero. He saved us.”
Reports from witnesses reveal that all the students trapped in the gym were forced to sit on the floor behind their principal while the gunmen staged a mock trial, during which Love negotiated for the better part of an hour for their safe release.
The building was on lockdown, almost since the first gunshot, thanks to a quick-thinking physical education teacher who barricaded her last period students in the locker rooms and called 9-1-1. It is believed that her initial call for help saved the lives of countless students and faculty, as police were mobilized early on, forcing the gunmen to take hostages instead of planting and detonating the homemade bombs concealed in their duffel bags. “They had enough explosives to level the entire building,” confirmed Lucas County Sheriff Mark Garnet.
Sheriff Garnet also revealed that one of the trapped students had been secretly texting information to a friend outside the building, who was then passing the information to the police command post. The student was caught texting by one of the gunmen. “All eyewitness accounts confirm that a gunman raised his weapon to execute the student after discovering his active cell phone, and Principal Love rushed the gunman as several shots were fired. The gunfire prompted the order for our forces to breach the building, eliminate the threat, and secure the hostages,” Garnet said in his official statement.
Details remain unclear as to the motive for the attack that left fourteen dead, including the two teenaged gunmen, and a community in deep mourning. Memorials are planned well into next week for the victims of this senseless tragedy.
A spokesman for the Kentucky Governor’s Office told reporters this morning that the governor would personally award Principal Kieran Love the Kentucky State Police Citation for Meritorious Achievement in a public ceremony after his recovery. This citation is the agency's highest civilian award, bestowed upon individuals who performed an extraordinary act of service or heroism in direct support of officers of the agency engaged in the official performance of duty.
***
“Angelique.”
I heard my name being called from far away. I wanted to stay under, lightly sedated and unaware of my surroundings.
“Honey, wake up.” When I realized it was Cal, I opened my eyes. He was smiling and holding something. “Meet our son,” he said, his voice breaking. “He’s perfect.”
I took a breath, and held out my arms, tears blinding me. “Where’s Mama?”
Cal stepped aside. My parents appeared. They were holding hands, something they’d been doing more or less nonstop for the past six months.
I held the blue blanket away from my baby’s face, confused and a little scared by the unfamiliar rush of emotion that gripped me as I looked down at him. Mama touched my cheek. “You all right? You scared us a little.” Daddy patted my leg, looking shell-shocked. I nodded, unable to speak, unable to take my eyes off the baby in my arms.
“You don’t have to name him … that.” Mama said. Daddy put an arm around her.
“Of course we do,” my husband said. “It was my idea.” Cal crouched down to be on my eye level. He looked his usual calm self, but I could tell how rattled he was. It had been a damn long week but the sight of his familiar face calmed my racing pulse, as it always did. “Ready for more visitors, Angel?”
“Might as well,” I said, putting my nose close to the baby’s head and breathing in the most intoxicating smell I would ever experience, no matter how many times I smelled it on the three babies I’d eventually have—one boy, and my set of twin girls.
Rosie, Diana, Cara and Margot came next. Cara looked slightly less haunted, but still rail thin.
“I hope it’s all right,” I said to her as she gazed down at my boy, who was starting to make whimpering noises. “His name and all.” She nodded, then stepped away from the bed without a word. Margot followed her. Rosie and Diana both sniffled and clutched tissues. “I’m glad y’all are staying,” I said to Rosie. She nodded.
“Me too. Aiden was miserable out west. It was a shitty year.”
“Yes, it was,” I said. “But it’s all we have, really, isn’t it? Family love. Drama and all.”
My brothers came in next. Aiden looked undone, face puffy, bags under his eyes; Dom seemed distant, and thin; Antony pissed off, as usual. He was pushing Kieran’s wheelchair.
“Damn,” Kieran said, “y’all are all the biggest bunch of crybabies. Lord. Give me my namesake, Angel, before he drowns.”
Mama had a hand on my shoulder. Daddy was at her side, the place he had resumed without any more discussion of separation or divorce. Calvin stood at the foot of my bed, giving me his unwavering support by his very presence.
“Mama, would you say a prayer?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off the sight of my brother, miraculously restored to us, sitting in a wheelchair and holding my son.
She pulled Cara in between her and Daddy. I experienced some peace at the sound of my mother’s words, but no matter how many times I sat, holding one of my own babies close and thanking the Lord for their existence, I would always have issues with Him, or the universe itself, for making me live through a moment when I believed I had heard my sweet, red-headed, ever-the-peacemaker brother’s voice telling me to “Shush a minute” for the last time.
“It all evens out, somehow,” Mama said, startling me. I hadn’t heard her say “amen.”
Cara went around the bed and put a shaking hand on Kieran’s shoulder. He tensed at her touch, as if surprised by it. She bit her lower lip. “The doctors say th
is most recent surgery was the last thing they could try,” she said. Kieran frowned up at her. She met his gaze. I pondered them, and how, exactly, they’d weather this shitstorm life had thrown at them.
“Guess I’ll be the first Lucasville High principal who can pop wheelies in the hall,” he said, his tone light, his gaze back down on the bundle in his arms. My brothers formed a half circle around him and Cara. Tears ran down her flushed cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Angelique,” she said. “I just can’t seem to stop.”
I held out my hand to her. She grabbed it, sending me straight back to the long night after the attack, when she and I and my mother huddled together in a waiting room, seemingly unable to let go of one another.
My brother had saved a lot of lives that day. And had been shot three times, once in the spine. He was alive, thank the Lord, but only barely for the first few hours. He would probably not walk again.
I talked with Cara almost daily throughout my pregnancy, which dovetailed with Kieran’s many surgeries and recoveries. Our bond was strong after that horrific first forty-eight hours.
Plus, I sensed her need to have someone who loved Kieran as much as she did who would listen to her darkest fears. He barely slept unless on strong medication, thanks to constant nightmares. He berated himself over the kids he didn’t save. His own kids were terrifed, since he’d hardly even look at them, much less let them near him in his “condition.”
I spent a lot of hours talking with Mama and Daddy and Margot and Cal about how best to help him and Cara. Kieran once told his wife he wished he’d died, according to her, when she’d called, apologizing all over the place for bothering me. Death, he claimed, would be better than living as an impotent cripple.
I’d been so furious at that, I’d marched, huge pregnant belly and all, into the room where he’d taken to moping around every day. I slapped him on the face, hard, twice.
