Ghosting

by Edith Pattou

  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,

  I took

  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 lotr />
  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

  a man and woman,

  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.