by Kate Hewitt
My head was buzzing and I suddenly felt sick, my stomach cramping so hard and fast I had to double over.
“Mr. West…” Clumsily the woman patted my shoulder, and I shrugged her off. She stepped back, waiting for me to get hold of myself.
Slowly, with painstaking effort, I straightened. I was bathed in an icy sweat and I had to keep myself from shaking. Shock, I realized distantly. I was in shock.
“May I call someone for you, Mr. West?”
I shook my head. There was no one to call, no one to help me in this moment. My brain still felt frozen, each thought like an air bubble slowly surfacing up through the ice. It was hard to grasp any of them; they popped before I could even try.
“I need to get my daughter from preschool,” I finally said.
Two
Maria
“Look at that.”
Selma nodded at the television suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room; on the screen, a news reporter with a somber look was standing on a busy street. A handful of people were sitting around, watching the news with only mild interest as they waited for their English class to begin.
Selma and I were doing our usual Tuesday volunteering at the Global Rescue Refugee Center in the Bowery, sorting clothing donations into piles—men, women, children, and those too worn or stained to be used. The last pile was by far the biggest.
“What is it?” I glanced at the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen: Woman Shot on Subway. Assailant has not been found. I looked away.
“Isn’t that near here?” Selma said, sounding more curious than worried, and I turned back to the screen.
On the J train between the Bowery and Canal Street Stations… a single gunshot… assailant fled.
“It’s right around the corner,” she remarked, and I felt a fluttering inside that I didn’t understand.
“Yes…” It was almost as if I knew, as if some old sense in me had awakened, attuned to tragedy, acquainted with grief. “Yes, it’s very close.”
I stared at the screen, waiting for more. Then a picture flashed up—a close-up of a driving license photo, blurry yet distinct.
Selma gave a soft gasp. “Don’t we know her? Doesn’t she volunteer here?”
I stared at the familiar face, the light brown hair, the smiling eyes, even though her mouth wasn’t smiling, not for a license photograph. If it had been, I would have seen that crooked front tooth that somehow seemed friendly, in this world of straight, overly white teeth. Laura West’s slight snaggle tooth had felt like a knowing wink, an arm around the shoulder. See? We’re alike, you and me. Even though I knew we weren’t.
“Yes,” I said softly, as I resisted that sweep of loss, like an empty echo reverberating through me—old, yet familiar. So familiar. “We know her.”
And I knew her best of all the volunteers, although I didn’t fool myself into thinking that Laura West would count me as a good friend, or perhaps even as a friend at all. Conversations over coffee, the odd joke or shared confidence did not make a friendship, not really. It just meant more to me, because I had so little.
“She taught English, didn’t she?” Selma asked.
“Yes.” She’d been here just this morning. I’d bumped into her at the door as she’d left and we’d done an awkward little dance before she’d held me fast by the shoulders, making me tense just a little as she firmly maneuvered me to the side. Sorry, she’d said breathlessly. I’m late for Ruby. I’d nodded in understanding, still a little nonplussed, and she’d given me a smile of apology.
Take care, Maria, she’d said before hurrying away.
She always called me by name; she was that sort of person. We’d chatted frequently, nearly every week, although about nothing too important. I remember the first time she came up to me: Where are you from? Bosnia, Sarajevo. Oh, I’m sorry. A hand on my arm, a compassionate look. It was almost as if she knew.
“Laura West.” Selma stared at the screen, her eyes wide. “To think she was here, alive, a few hours ago.”
The thought made me want to shiver. Just a few hours ago, we’d been chatting.
“Poor woman.” Selma shook her head. “She had children, too, didn’t she?”
“Yes.” I felt cold inside, numb and frozen. “Three girls.”
One of the staff called those waiting into the English class, and after they’d filed out, I went over to turn off the TV.
Before I hit the button, I stared at the screen again; they’d moved onto a report about some business crisis, but in my mind I still saw the photo on the driver’s license. Laura West. When we’d met, I’d noticed she’d had kind eyes. She’d asked me if I was married, if I had children—no to both, of course. She’d shown me a photo of her three daughters. The littlest one had reddish-gold hair and a gap-toothed grin. She’d been worried about them, about their little troubles, the love and fondness evident in her voice even when she spoke about their defiance and difficulties. Listening to her had felt like glimpsing another kind of life, one where warmth and love and family all loomed large. It was like listening to a fairy tale, but one that was real, and wonderful because of it.
The news program segued into an advert for rejuvenating skin cream, some sort of miracle cure. I watched the smooth, smiling face of a woman meant to be in her sixties, silver hair swinging jauntily as she strolled along a garden path, and for a second I saw my mother, her face as wrinkled as an old prune, wasting away. I turned the television off.
“It’s very sad,” I said to Selma. “Everyone here will miss her.”
And so I told myself that would be the end of it. I’d put this little grief away with all the others, shut it all up and try not to think of it again. That was the only way forward—to exist. Walking through the wasteland one slow step at a time. For the last twenty-six years that had been how I’d lived; it was the only way I knew how anymore. But even as I told myself this, I pictured Laura West, how her nose crinkled when she laughed, how she’d always ask if I wanted a coffee, and again I felt that wave of grief. Put it away, Maria, I instructed myself. Just put it away.
Yet I could not stop thinking of her as I left Global Rescue and walked to the Bowery station where I would take the J train home, in the opposite direction as she would have, to Astoria, in Queens. I volunteered at the refugee center twice a week, during my days off, but the rest of the time I stayed in Astoria, working at a local hairdressing salon, run by a fellow Bosniak, Neriha.
When I got to the station, I saw it was closed; it must have been quite a few hours since Laura’s death, but there were still no trains running in either direction. Bright yellow tape blocked off the entrance and a bored-looking policeman was guarding it, just in case. I stepped back quickly.
People were milling around, trying to figure out what had happened, or simply annoyed that the train service was disrupted. I heard a man swearing into his phone, complaining how he was going to be late “and all because some saddo probably threw himself in front of the train”.
I walked away blindly, unsure where to go. I felt disorientated, as if I no longer knew my way, when I’ve lived in this city for nearly twenty years. For a moment, it was as if the streets I’d walked so many times were unfamiliar; the buildings rising so high above me felt as if they were closing me in, pressing down. I pictured Laura near here, walking towards her death, her bag swinging jauntily, having no idea. It all must have happened so quickly. I’d seen it too many times… it was nothing but the matter of a moment. Here, then gone.
Standing there on the sidewalk, people pushing past, twenty years fell away and I didn’t know where I was. I struggled to breathe.
Someone grabbed my elbow, and I let out a little cry.
“Are you all right, madam? You looked faint.”
I stared into the kindly face of a strange man, his dark face creased into a worried smile. I stepped back, pulling my arm away.
A deep breath, and once again I pushed it all down. Down, down, as far as it could go. “I’m fine, tha
nk you,” I said, and I walked on.
I would have to take the bus. I stopped again in the street, trying to remember where the bus picked up passengers. The bus system of the city had always seemed so inexplicable to me, a complex crisscross of routes that felt impenetrable but now must be navigated. I could figure it out, I told myself. I’d got all the way to America by myself, I could certainly get home to Queens.
In the end, it took nearly two hours and three bus transfers before I made my way to my apartment on 31st Road—a small studio I’d lived in by myself for the last six years.
When I’d first come to America, I had shared an apartment with four other refugees—two Bosniaks, a Serb, and a Croat, all put together by the state department’s resettlement program, all fleeing the Bosnian War and its devastation on our lives. All of us from different cities, some of us speaking different languages, with different memories we needed to forget. Before the war, none of it would have mattered. Back then I couldn’t have even told the difference between a Serb or a Croat, a Muslim or a Catholic, and no one I knew would have cared anyway. But after—and life feels as if it has always been an after—I spoke to none of those girls. I hardened my heart against all of them, because I did not know how else to be.
Now, in my little studio, I reheated some leftover stew—I always made a pot for the whole week and ate it every night. It was easier, when it was just for one. Usually I would sit at the tiny table, reading a book from the library—I preferred romance novels, fairy-tale froth my father would have despaired of—while I ate. Even now I could picture the glass case of books in our old sitting room, velvet drapes drawn against the night, and how he’d have me sit on his lap as he told me how precious they were. If you can read, Maria, you will never be alone. How little he knew.
Tonight, however, I felt too restless to read, memories darting in and out of my mind like shadows I tried to dodge… the crackle of my father turning the pages of his newspaper, my brother’s face, filled with fear. Maria, did they…? My mother’s fluttering fingers, holding onto my wrist. Promise me…
To block it all out, I turned the television on, even though part of me didn’t want to. I turned to the news and took my bowl of beef stew out of the microwave as I half-listened to a report on the economy, the reporter’s voice a drone in the background.
Then, as I sat at the table, a woman faced the camera with another story, her expression appropriately sober.
“A woman was shot by an unknown assailant on a subway train today. The woman has been identified as Laura West, a mother of three who lived in New York and had been volunteering at a local refugee center.” A terrible, telling pause. “It is not currently known whether she knew her attacker.”
They flashed another picture of her on the screen, this one some sort of family snap, probably culled from Facebook. She was laughing on a beach, her arms around two children, their faces blurred out for legal reasons. I stared at the photo, her head thrown back, her smile wide as she embraced all life had to offer. So much joy.
Laura West. How many times had we laughed and chatted over the last year? We’d talked almost every week; she’d bring me a coffee during one of our breaks, milky and sweet as she knew I’d liked it. We’d sit at one of the little tables in the front hall and gossip—or rather, Laura would chat about her life and I would listen. I loved to listen.
It seemed impossible to me that she’d died, and so violently, even as some weary part of me was unsurprised. Wasn’t this what always happened? Things ended, one way or another. They always ended.
Now, sitting alone, I recalled some of the many details Laura had offered up freely, imparting them almost carelessly. Her three daughters—Alexa was the oldest, Ruby the youngest, at just three. I couldn’t remember the middle one’s name, much to my regret. And her husband… Nathan, he was called. He worked too hard, he wanted a better life for his family, but it came at a cost. This had been said in a sorrowful tone, capped with a sigh. He had a tough childhood… dragged around by his mom, his dad never in the picture. He wants better for our girls. I know that. It’s just…
She’d never finished that sentence. Now she never would.
The news changed to something else, something far away, and I forced the memories of Laura back down. I was sad, yes, I could admit that. I could allow it. But I had to push all the rest away, just as I did everything else.
Really, in the end, I hadn’t known Laura West all that well, even if I’d always looked forward to seeing her, had called her a friend. The reality was, I had probably meant very little to her. Two women, caught up in the same place and the same time, chatting over coffee once a week. It wasn’t as if I’d been really involved in her life.
Sitting there with the news droning on, I had no idea that I would become so involved, more than I ever could have imagined.
Three
Nathan
The next few hours were a blur of shocked pain and disbelief. I left my office, and the policewoman, and went to collect Ruby. It had suddenly become essential, absolutely crucial, to find my daughter—all my daughters—and keep them safe. It was the only thing that could both drive and anchor me now.
“I’m sorry, but we will need to talk to you again, Mr. West,” the policewoman had said with a grimace of regret. “And you’ll want to pick up Mrs. West’s effects…”
I’d shrugged her words aside, not wanting to think about what they meant, Laura’s things in some locker, languishing in some strange place. “You have my contact details,” I’d said, as if I were talking to a salesman, and I’d strode through the office, not willing to meet anyone’s eye. I was afraid their pity might break me. I would shatter.
“Nathan,” Jenny had called softly. “What…”
I shook my head. They would hear soon enough. Everyone would. But, for now, I just needed to find my family… what was left of it.
I took a cab uptown because I couldn’t bear the thought of the subway. Would I ever be able to take it again? Images of Laura on the train, a man with a gun… I realized there was so much I didn’t know.
I didn’t even know if it was a man who had shot her, or if he’d shot anyone else, or where he’d shot her. The head? The heart? I pictured her slumping in her seat, her body crumpling, and my stomach cramped again. I was imagining something from a horror movie, not real life. Not my life. Not Laura.
Yet somewhere out in this city there was a person who had pointed a gun at my wife. Who had shot and killed her—why? Why were you even on that train, Laura?
My thoughts swooped and reeled like a flock of desperate crows, finding no place to land. Nothing made any sense. My stomach cramped again. It hurt to breathe.
Miss Willis was struggling to decide whether to look concerned or irritated as I was buzzed into the entrance of The Garden School, a genteel-looking brownstone on Seventy-Eighth Street, the walls painted with colorful handprints and saccharine logos—Happiness Starts Here. Bright Minds, New Beginnings. Bullshit.
“Mr. West, it’s been—”
“There’s been an accident.” I spoke tersely, focusing on Ruby who was standing behind her, looking wilfully woebegone, clearly feeling forgotten and wanting me to know it.
“An accident?” Miss Willis sounded skeptical.
“Yes, an accident.” A sneer entered my voice; I felt, quite suddenly, consumed by rage. Did this sanctimonious woman actually doubt me? “Come on, Ruby.”
“This really shouldn’t happen again,” Miss Willis persisted.
I whirled around, my teeth bared in a feral snarl. I felt the need to do violence, to smash or hurt something, make it break. I clenched my fists instead.
“Trust me, it won’t.”
Miss Willis opened and closed her mouth, her eyes wide, and I turned back around and stormed out of the school, my heart hammering, my blood surging.
“Daddy, why are you so cross?” Ruby asked, hurrying to keep up with me as I strode down the street, towards home. I’d wanted to collect Ella and A
lexa from their school right away, just to get them home and keep them safe, but then I decided against it. I didn’t think I could cope with all three of them at once, telling them the news, dealing with their individual reactions. I needed time to think, to figure out how I was going to handle this, or even if I could. As for Ruby…
I slowed my steps as I looked down at her—curly red hair, a throwback to my crazy mother, in ponytails tied with pink ribbons. Laura had tied those ribbons. Her fingers had touched them only this morning. I could picture her, humming under her breath, smiling down at our daughter. The thought sent a fresh shaft of shocked pain rushing through me, and I bent over, my hands on my knees.
“Daddy…” Like her teacher, Ruby sounded torn between irritation and alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetie. I’m just a bit tired.”
Slowly I straightened, the anger rushing out of me in one great whoosh, leaving something far worse in its place, something dark and vast and empty. Right then I saw a lifetime of moments such as this one stretching ahead of me, unbearable in their pain and poignancy, and I had no idea how to handle any of them. I didn’t know if I could.
“Let’s go home.” I reached for her hand and started walking more slowly down the sun-dappled street, my steps lagging, each one laborious.
“Why were you so late? Where’s Mommy?” At only three and a half years old, Ruby was adorably, and sometimes annoyingly, precocious. She didn’t miss a trick, something that usually made me feel both proud and affectionate, but now it just scared me. She was going to figure this out, or enough of it, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not remotely.
