by A. K. Smith
And there you have it, just like that: in a matter of days, Hannah Williams is alive and breathing, once again in the world. A pang of guilt makes me rest my head in the palm of my hand. She had good parents who called her an angel.
“Sunday, I’ve been thinking, why do you have to do it now? Why not wait until after the summer, and then maybe I can help you from college? Just stick with your parents a little bit longer?” Amir asks.
He doesn’t understand why I have to go now. I can’t bring myself to confide in him about everything. I can’t even vocalize the words I’m pregnant aloud. Sitting by the creek, he flicks rocks into the water, agitated.
Silent, I grab his hand as he picks up another rock. We lock eyes. “If I have to tell you, then I don’t want your help anymore. You promised I could trust you. You’re the only one that knows what I’m going to do.”
Amir studies me intently as if he could read my mind. His gaze rests on my hand on his. I’m thankful for Amir, he’s been a loyal friend almost like a cousin, but I’ve told him enough.
When I finally let go, he says, “Okay.”
After that, Amir seems to have become consumed with my covert mission—maybe a little too much. His excitement at my project electrifies him. The next day, I overhear him tell Eric outside school that he doesn’t have time to play their zombie killing game.
Eric scowls. “When will you?”
Amir snaps back, “I don’t know, Eric, maybe never. Leave me alone, coward.”
Why would he call Eric a coward? It doesn’t make sense.
I trust Amir. I think so. Why am I questioning it? I’m not sure.
I believe him when he said, “Sunday, I promise I’ll never tell another living soul, no matter what happens.”
The illusion is to assemble everything in place for the NEW PLAN and act normal. That’s why I’m going on the school trip to Pennsylvania. That and the sad fact that this will be my last good memory with Jack before I proceed with the rest of the plan.
We made special memories in Ohiopyle white-water rafting with his family, and we would have one more happy time in a beautiful place. One last time. If I close my eyes, I can smell the wet leaves, hear the rush of the rapids and see Jack’s great smile. Jack loves Pennsylvania woods, and at least he will have this fun trip to hold onto. Even though I loved the whitewater rafting part with his family, it’s not so much about the thrill of the ride this time. I relish having one special day with Jack, when I’m gone. It sounds like a sad love song. I can picture the video of Jack and I walking through the woods, his hand holding mine.
One of my prized possessions is a photograph Marcia gave me from the trip. The five of us, Marcia, Ed, Tara, Jack and me, with our arms around each other, smiling. Love, warmth, and belonging consume me every time I study the photograph. At least I know I was once part of a bona fide family. I wish I could take the photo with me, in my new life, but I can’t. It will stay imprinted on my heart forever.
What comes next, the part of the PLAN that freaks me out the most, makes me sick in my stomach, is when I have to stage the scene. I struggle with the where and when. To fake my death, I need to plan a disappearance at the water’s edge that will resemble a suicide. Amir offers to drive me to the bus station after I stage it, but I’m not convinced I want him to know the when and where. Again, from everything I’ve read, I have to be cautious and meticulous. I’m still leery of anyone being part of the actual day I change into another person. When I shred my Sunday skin, I need to do it alone. My deadline is looming—I don’t want to be close to showing my pregnancy—and I decide I will definitely fake my death before May 25.
I’m torn between two scenarios for my perfect pseudocide site—Sandy Point State Park, just an hour bus ride, or Fenwick Island beach where Clark drowned. I need to make a decision. A drowning disappearance at Fenwick Island would be the stake in the chest to HE and SHE, but I’m concerned about the three-hour drive time back to the Baltimore bus station.
A locker in Baltimore holds all my Go items. They are ready, safely stored inside. Amir rented the locker at the Greyhound bus station in case anyone might have remembered me. In it, I stuffed a suitcase I purchased at a thrift store, full of necessities for my new life. I’m prepared. When I handed it to Amir to take to the bus station locker, I almost didn’t want to let it go. The next time I held that suitcase in my hand, I would no longer be Sunday Foster.
For the first time in my life, time is flying by.
Chapter 10
American Flag, Whitewater Rafting, and Carpe Diem
Deep aqua skies, a soft wind that pats my cheeks, and warm brightness all make it a perfect day to go rafting.
This moment is mine, at least for a half a day. I will get lost in the smell of fresh earth and let the roar of the rapids block out my inner voice fearing my future.
I rest my eyes on Jack’s sweet face as the last of our group gets in the raft, and inhale the scent of fresh.
“Get ready, hold tight!” the guide yells.
I glance back once more to smile at Jack. I spot a figure perched on a large rock overlooking the twelve rafts. A bad feeling wipes away any bit of joy. Eric? What’s he holding? More like cradling something wrapped in red, white, and blue.
“Let’s go!” the guide yells and pushes the raft out of the eddy.
The words are stuck in the back of my throat, as panic swells up inside. I want to stand and scream.
BOOM.
A loud bang, bang, bang.
Movement, flashes, a piercing noise. A horrific scene unfolds in slow motion.
And then that sound again—what a horrible noise! A chilling evil boom of rapid gunshots echoes over the river. Incomprehensible. What is happening? It feels like a bad dream, a very bad living dream. I can’t tear my eyes away as the gun dances in all directions. I try to stand and fall sideways against the gear.
“Sunday, Sunday What is…” Jack is trying to move towards me.
As he stands to offer me a hand, I accidently push him off the raft. “No!” I scream.
The rest of the group panics and jumps off into a deep pool. The rocky area up ahead is turning into rapids. Too late to jump. I cover my head, not sure what is coming next.
I fall to the bottom of the empty raft. Lying on my stomach, the raft slams against rocks as I bounce down the river. An ear-piercing sound blasts a ringing noise in my ears.
My eardrums pound.
The rush of water consumes me.
Something hit the raft, I’m almost certain the sound is a bullet, so close to my ear.
I’m shaking all over. God, it’s cold.
The booming noise is still throbbing in my ears. A sickly, smoky mist surrounds me.
I’m trembling.
If I could only stop the shudder; clear my mind. It smells like something is burning. The frigid water is not the cause of my uncontrollable quivering, even the blood seeping out of my arm isn’t alarming. Darkness colors the pool of water inside the raft. I watch it spread out, and circle around me. Nothing hurts.
A dark red color swirls.
How is this happening? Oh Jack. I pray he didn’t get hit.
Focus. I know what I saw. I think I do. My mind connects the elusive dots of time of what just occurred.
Eric.
Eric Beck is the shooter. God, it happened so fast. Can that be possible? One minute, I see him perched on a rock overlooking the twelve rafts floating down the waterway, cradling something wrapped in an American flag pointing at the river—at me, at us, at my classmates. I wanted to scream at Jack to turn around. I froze instead.
Did it hit me? Muffled ringing is all I hear now. Images flash in my mind of members of the Dream Team and the Hard Liquor Boys falling into the rapid waters of the Youghiogheny River.
Cody. The horrific image etched in my mind. Cody and Jason Johnson, not jumping into the river but falling sideways, like tin duck targets at the State Fair shooting gallery. One hit and they go down, slanted, the water ar
ound them stirred up, churning, moving dark puddles of color.
The raft moves down the river at a fast pace, but I can’t get up from lying on my stomach. Is Jack okay?
I’m going to die. The irony of it all.
I can’t help it, in the middle of this horrific moment, I can’t help but think of all the hard work I’ve done to set up my own fake death. Weeks of putting everything in place to eliminate Sunday Foster. It seems deliriously hysterical as I bounce along the raft, and I almost want to laugh or cry. I must be hallucinating. Suddenly, my mind controls itself. The baby. My mind flashes to the baby inside me. I am responsible for this child, no one else but me in charge of this life growing inside me.
Will I die?
Certain a bloody bullet hole is bleeding profusely in some part of my body, I move my hands over my stomach. No pain. As I pull myself up to the side of the raft, a thunderous roar, a fast-swirling rapid looms directly ahead of the raft. Trees and sticks float by in the water. This is it—I’m now going to flip over on an uncontrollable raft that’s leaking air. No strong family unit to save me.
Jack. I see his face, at the same time, the raft plunges forward and straightens.
It straightens.
I’m okay.
I grab a section of my torn sweatshirt and try to rip it. My arm hurts, I mean throbs, but it’s almost like it’s asleep with pin pricks and I need to shake it back to life. It’s bleeding. Sopping up the blood, I see the cut is not deep enough to hold a bullet. I don’t think I was shot.
Thank God. Thank YOU, God, I pray. Please let Jack be okay. He’s one of the good ones, he’s one of yours.
Get out of the raft, my inner mind yells at me, unless it’s God trying to help me. Move. I test and lift my right leg, and then my left. I seem to be okay. As I sit up, I vomit.
Jack. I’d pushed him out of the raft. I know I did. I’m certain.
Just breathe. I wipe my mouth and crawl along the bottom of the raft toward the edge, away from the vomit, remembering what the guide had said about not standing up in the river; you could die. Really? I bet he never envisioned a school shooting on the river. I’ve grown up with the aftermath of the historic Columbine, Sandy Hook, Parkland, and all the other hundreds of school shootings and terrorist attacks on the news, who can keep track anymore, but nothing had prepared me for this.
The blood from my arm is leaving a trail across the dry bags in the bottom of the raft. I lean back and for a second, my head yanks back. My hair gets caught in something as the raft hits a large rock. I now have to yank out a clump of my hair to get myself loose. The dry bags—I have a small pack in the yellow rubber dry bag. I press forward, sliding over to reach the waterproof bags. Think, Sunday! I hesitate for only a moment, open the dry bag, and grab the most valuable possession in my life: a little pack that holds my future. Inside, beside the tampon, lip balm, and hundred-dollar bill that I’ve carried everywhere for the last month, is my most valuable possession: my Greyhound locker key. I grab some guy’s hat and a black jacket in the dry pack. My phone is also in the pack, I turn it on and there is no service. I stash it in the jacket pocket, and wonder if this is really a waterproof phone. I place the small pack in the winter ski hat (who brings a winter ski hat on white-water rafting trip). I’ll have to thank him and yank it over my wet head. I’m shaking. I jam the balled up black jacket under my life vest, and pain shoots through my arm.
Shaking uncontrollably now, I struggle to the edge of the raft, watching the blood mix in with the water. I need to get to the bank. I can do this. I tumble into the water, and go under. The life vest bounces me back and I spit out the river water.
I try to keep my head above water and maneuver my body to the bank. I grab at several tree limbs, their jagged edges cutting my cold hand until finally, with everything I can muster, I hold onto a thick branch. My hat is still on. In either direction on the river, nothing moves except for the rapids and the shrinking raft that is floating down the river. What am I doing?
Adrenaline soars through me. I reposition myself, both hands atrophied from the cold water, but they lock on the branch with a death grip. Someone will rescue me. I’ll stay here and wait for someone to find me. I repeat it, brainwashing myself with the idea. The other voice in my head reminds me of what is under my hat. That untethered voice inside me grows louder: this is it.
This is it: this is your shot a new life without any questions.
Do it, do it, do it now!
Is Jack okay? Is he alive? I need to know this one thing before I even think of trying to make my escape. I love him now more than ever. Can I leave him?
I play out every scenario in my mind as I hang onto the bent branch. If I go to the hospital—the baby. My pregnancy will no longer be a secret. My life will collapse. I’ll destroy this baby’s life with HE and SHE. The cycle will continue.
It’s amazing what freezing cold water can awaken. My mind is programming, coding an outcome. I believe, no, I know, that if I can find my way back to the Baltimore Greyhound bus station, I can make it.
Everything I need—my I.D. and money—is padlocked in the Greyhound bus station. I have the key. I can feel the pack in my hat.
I push back all the horrific images that haunt me. Block out the sickening image of Eric holding the gun, and try not to think about Jack. Once again, I had a plan. I had a way out that would be best for everyone. I’m determined to figure a way out now.
Chapter 11
Angels, Deer, and Greyhounds
My hand quivers as I slide the key, my lifeline, into the locker. I hesitate, convincing myself it’s not going to work, but it does. The vein in my forehead pulses so hard, everyone must be scrutinizing my every action. My hair is tucked up inside my ski cap. Sunglasses perch over the hat resting on my forehead, and I have earplugs in, wires hanging on my face.
No music plays. The headphones weave into my coat attached to nothing. I’m hoping for less interaction; my attempt at mimicking the kids at school who want to shut out the world. My attempt at depicting a normal teenager. NORMAL. Nothing is normal about this moment. Nothing is normal about my life, the shooting, or me. I pull the beat-up brown suitcase out of the locker, it’s heavier than I remember. My fingers curl so tight around the handle, a pain shoots through my arm. A lifeline. It’s the last thing I have left in my life. No. I correct myself. It’s the first thing Hannah Williams has in her new life.
The hair dye, the colored lenses, and the clothes in my suitcase are the catalyst to become Hannah.
Am I really doing this?
Uncertainty washes over me. My head is pounding like a club beat. Everything changes now. I want to go forward, but I’m frozen in place. I’m filthy, exhausted, numb, and not thinking straight. I’m trying to let my gut dictate this moment.
Focus. Head on over to the truck stop’s private bathroom and take care of it.
Make the transition. Do it, move. Right now. Move your legs. MOVE.
Eye contact. I can’t make eye contact. I don’t mean for it to happen, but I look up and this old man meets my dead stare, my eyes fill with water. He studies me as if he can see inside me. He smiles, revealing a broken tooth. I back up. Concern: it’s there in his eyes. I have to get it together.
I squint my eyes to block out the gunshots, the students, the blood, Eric, Jack. Oh God. I’m praying for Jack. I don’t know if God is listening to me, but I prayed for his safety on my long walk through the woods. I prayed for Jack’s forgiveness, for God’s forgiveness. My heart is cracked. Jack has to be alive, but I have no idea what happened after I pushed him out and floated down the river. I can’t go back there; can’t think about the shooting.
Focus. Focus on the PLAN at hand.
The old man is no longer staring at me. He’s moved on to the next person of interest, I step forward.
I’m walking. Just trying to move forward and function.
I’ve been practicing my name and my story. As I trekked through the Pennsylvania woods, I talked out lo
ud to the birds and the trees. Hannah Williams. Hannah Williams. Last night, when I could not take one step more, I dropped to the forest ground. Nightfall came fast and even though it was May, I shivered for hours, wondering if my clothes would ever dry. A few spokes of light poked holes through the tree canopy. Alarmed, I hid at first, frozen behind a bush, terrified thinking spotlights were looking for me in the forest. It was only the moon.
Exhaustion finally took over as I collapsed against a tree, my body wet, my face glistening with tears. When I woke, clarity found me with a strong odor of wet wood and soil as the morning light discovered me. I dug a hole, buried the life jacket and gear from the whitewater rafting company, and forced myself to eat one of the three waterlogged protein bars I had rescued and started walking. I walked and walked—at least ten miles, maybe twenty. (Who knows? Time had no meaning anymore.) I no longer had my phone, if there was a way to track it, they would find it somewhere in the Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania.
Like discovering an oasis in a desert, it must have been early morning when I heard the sounds of motors and the smell of exhaust. A truck stop! It could have been a pot of gold. I cleaned up myself and my bloody arm the best I could, bought a cheap jacket, t-shirt, and sunglasses, and approached a relic of a truck driver who was headed to his truck. Inhaling, shoulders back, I surged into my actress persona, something the years of hiding and abuse had taught me. I repeated my mantra: I can do this. In my mind I relive the scene, making sure I didn’t miss anything.
“Excuse me, sir, would you give me a ride? My boyfriend and I got in a fight—he made me get out of the car. I’ve been walking and I just need a ride.”
Six feet of wrinkled clothes froze in place. The trucker wore a grey flannel shirt, and worn faded blue jeans. His kind hazel eyes circled from my hat to my muddy shoes. He stared me down.
