Ghosting

by Edith Pattou

And not in a good way.

  I arrive on McKinley Road two seconds behind

  the first ambulance.

  I say first because it was clear

  from the initial 911 call

  that we were gonna need more than one.

  A lot more.

  MAXIE

  I keep telling them

  I’m not hurt,

  that it’s not

  blood

  on my shirt,

  it’s

  MoonBuzz.

  Then I realize.

  It is

  blood.

  Felix’s

  blood.

  A man with pale eyelashes

  is talking to me,

  his voice calm.

  I’m not hurt, I keep saying.

  Finally he looks me

  in the eye

  and says softly,

  You’re in shock.

  Which shuts me up.

  Because,

  yes,

  that’s exactly what

  I am.

  In shock.

  And likely to remain that way

  for a

  long,

  long

  time.

  CHLOE

  “Blood and Sandals”

  Sitting on the curb,

  I have this weird

  peaceful drowsy feeling,

  even though my foot throbs like

  my beating heart has slid down into it,

  and blood is pooling

  under my sandal.

  A lot of blood.

  (That sandal is going

  to be ruined and

  it’s too bad because

  those silver sandals

  are my favorites.)

  There are flashing lights

  and cars and people

  rushing around.

  Someone shines a light in my eyes.

  Someone else is talking to me,

  asking what my name is

  and what the date is,

  like I really care about that

  right now.

  The boy next to me has started to cry

  and I feel sorry for him,

  but I wish everyone would just

  shut up and go away

  because all I really want to do

  is

  go

  to

  sleep.

  WALTER

  If Billy Clanton had only surrendered

  a lot of bloodshed would have been spared.

  But the town must be protected and

  a sheriff has to make the tough choices.

  The girl with the yellow hair, sitting by me on the curb,

  she understood.

  Mother. Where is Mother?

  Billy Clanton had a gun. I saw the gun in his hand.

  But the thing I picked up. It was a toy, not a gun.

  A rubber toy. That squeaks.

  The toy is wet, with Billy’s blood? Or someone else’s?

  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
r />   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