Ghosting (14 page)

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 lot

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.

Not knowing if it’s morning or afternoon.

Not remembering.

And then I do.

I stumble out of bed

to the bathroom.

Leaning over the toilet,

I heave

and heave

until nothing more

comes out.

Mom hears me

and runs in,

wrapping her arms

around me.

Wiping my hot face

with a cool washcloth.

Later

we’re sitting at

the breakfast table,

Mom and Dad and I,

and they tell me what

they know

so far.

That Emma is in

critical condition,

but expected to

survive.

That the last they heard,

Faith was still in surgery.

And it didn’t

look good.

That nobody seems to know

about Brendan.

They think

he’s at another hospital,

in Chicago.

And Felix?
I ask, my heart pounding.

And that’s when

they tell me.

That Felix survived.

He came through

surgery,

but he lost

his right eye

(like an eye was something

you could carelessly lose).

And now,

he

is in

a

coma.

Brain trauma

is a tricky thing,

they say.

He may never wake up,

they say.

And if he does wake up,

he may never be

the same.

Or he could be

fine.

At least as

fine

as you can be

with only

one

eye.

POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

His name is Walter Smith.

Nineteen years of age.

Five foot seven inches,

barely 130 pounds,

brown hair.

He was born at 6 a.m.

on a Sunday morning,

January 16.

No father listed

on the birth certificate.

Mabel Smith

is listed as the mother.

No known address

for a Mabel Smith,

though she has a record:

several arrests

for drug possession,

public intoxication,

and disturbing the peace,

but that was all

twenty years ago.

Walter Smith was

raised by his grandmother,

Adeline Smith,

the woman he calls

Mother.

She’s homeschooled him since

the age of eleven,

in the house she inherited

from her sister.

The two,

Walter and Adeline Smith,

have always kept to themselves.

But according to neighbors

there have been escalating

signs of dementia

in the grandmother:

-sitting on the front stoop, arguing loudly with her dead sister

-wearing a winter down parka as she gardens in the hot summer sun

-dancing in her nightgown in the tangled undergrowth of the neglected property.

Numerous complaints

by neighbors

about the deteriorating house and yard.

Numerous complaints

by the grandmother

about being harassed

by neighborhood kids.

And even though I didn’t know

it was called the “ghost house”

and that neighborhood kids

used it to scare themselves,

I can’t say I wasn’t aware

of the house, of these people.

I was.

But I confess I thought

they were harmless.

Eccentric.

And that the people around them

should just

live and let live.

God’s truth,

I was blind.

Well, that’s something

I’m going to have to

live with until the day

I die.

Sunday, August 29, 8:00 p.m.

MAXIE

Word spreads fast

about what happened

at the

ghost house.

And Sunday night,

the night after it happened,

there is a vigil

at the school.

For Brendan,

for Emma and Faith,

and for Felix.

Hundreds of kids

fill the

football field.

I hadn’t wanted

to go–

not at first.

But Mom and Dad

said they’d go with me.

Wanted
to go with me.

And so I said

okay.

There are news trucks

and camera crews,

which Mom and

Dad hurry me past.

I sit in the bleachers

with Mom on one side

and Dad on the other

and hope no one will

recognize me.

And because I am

the new/old girl,

they don’t.

The whole thing is overwhelming,

but somehow beautiful, too,

all these people

gathered together,

shaken to the core,

mourning,

and frightened.

And then they start

lighting

candles.

First one,

then a few,

then more and more.

Till the field is

filled with

flickering candles.

I don’t have

my camera (still confiscated),

but Dad has loaned me his,

and Mom smiles

when I click a photo

of that

winking,

sparkling

sea of light.