by Matayo, Amy
I open the door and my lungs close.
The moment of truth, but right now, I’d rather live a lie.
* * *
Teddy
Jane has been quiet since she opened the door.
She closed it right away, so fast I didn’t have a chance to see anything at all.
Even now, she’s silent, though I’ve tried more than once to get her to talk. Finally, she takes a deep breath. I foolishly dare to hope it’s to give me a real response.
“Do you have any pets, Teddy? That’s my next question in the game.”
“I don’t want to play the game. Tell me what you saw.”
“Nothing but people. Lots of people. Now answer the question.”
I hesitate, but then relent. “If I told you I have three cats, would you think less of me?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Now it’s my turn. What did you see?”
“Only yes or no questions, that’s your rule.”
“Fine. Did you see a gun? People? The police?”
“Yes to the people. My turn.”
She’s leaving something out, I can feel it. Something important. My heart begins to hammer like it hasn’t in an hour.
“Jane.”
“I asked you a question, Teddy.”
“What question?” I can’t hear anything over the throbbing in my throat.
“I asked if you like singing or songwriting better.”
“Songwriting.”
“Hash browns or French fries?”
“Hash browns. That’s not even a contest.”
It’s a word volley. Hot potato. Don’t let the ball drop or you’ll lose the game. Don’t get burned or you’ll be scarred for life. I swallow.
“Christmas or—”
There’s a thud against the door.
And another one.
“What did you see, Jane?”
My voice is too loud. My pulse is too hard. My blood is too cold.
“It isn’t what I saw.” Her voice cracks on the upward lilt. She’s talking too loud. “It’s who saw me.”
“Who saw you?” I give her shoulder a little shake. Not too rough, but not too gentle, either. I should be shaking myself. Punching, even. I’m the one who wanted to open the door.
There’s a gunshot. And another.
We scramble backward.
I hear the click of Jane’s gun as the door slowly opens.
Chapter Nine
Jane
The boy who pushed his way in here…I’m not sure he’s going to make it.
With the low glow of my phone’s flashlight hovering overhead, I bend over the boy’s prone body, my hair falling on his chest as I listen to his ragged breathing. His lungs are wet, his breaths spongy and thick. He came in whispering, shaking, pleading, covered in blood from his left shoulder to his forearm, soaked with urine on one side of his jeans. He collapsed in a heap the moment the door closed. I caught him in my arms just before he hit the floor. He’s moaned off and on since, but he hasn’t woken up.
A cut, deep and lacerating, trickles a thin stream of blood littered with tiny and not so tiny shards of glass. Thick glass. Spotlight glass. I remember hearing it rain down way too many hours ago, never once thinking about the people it was lightly impaling. The largest piece of glass was wedged in his skin at the bend of his elbow. Teddy pulled, and it ejected with a jerk, the backed-up blood flowing down to the boy’s fingertips. All we’ve managed to do so far is to ebb the flow a bit. Hopefully, it’s enough.
“How’s his heart?” Teddy asks.
I bend closer to his chest to listen for a heartbeat. It’s still there, seemingly strong as ever. But without a stethoscope or a blood pressure cuff, I’m just guessing.
“Still beating steadily.” That much I know.
I know that, and I know that I hate the gunman and everything he’s put us through tonight. I hate him even more for almost making me a murderer.
I almost shot the kid. The knowledge that I could have ended his life hasn’t yet left me. My hands still shake. My pulse still pounds. My anger still thrums. My cell phone battery remains at two percent. If that light goes out, we’ll be more alone here than we’ve been so far. The only thing currently keeping the boy’s blood from bubbling out is the extra tee that once served as Teddy’s change of clothes, now wrapped tight and double-knotted just under the boy’s shoulder.
His head now rests in my lap. Aiming the phone light directly on the boy’s shoulder, I keep my hand pressed over the hole and cry while Teddy racks his brain for a new idea.
“Can I use your jacket?” he asks.
“Of course. Do you need me to help tear it?”
“No, I’m just going to ball it up and stuff it underneath his shoulder to catch the blood from the other side. Maybe if it slows, it will have time to clot…” He pauses, takes a few deep breaths. I’m not the only one crying anymore. “I can’t think of anything else to do. Nothing else…” Panic rings loud in Teddy’s voice, guilt deepening the sound.
“Get my jacket, Teddy. You’re doing great. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”
I repeat those last five words while Teddy snatches the jacket and tucks it quickly under the boy’s back. He cries out in pain, his head shifting a bit in my lap. Placing both hands at his temples, I hold him still. I’m not sure if moving around will hurt him, but keeping him still seems to make sense. I stare at his young face; in the dim light, he appears to be early-teens, spots of acne dotting his forehead with its evidence of youth. To think of what this kid has been through adds another layer of sadness to a day that can’t take much more. I don’t want him to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want Teddy to die. Hurt is taking place beyond this door, and the possibility of it infiltrating these walls terrifies me. My job is to take care of Teddy, but I’m not sure I can protect them both. One women, one gun, three men if that door opens. The odds are stacked against us even before the dice are rolled.
Teddy’s shoulder brushes my chest as he dabs at the boy’s wounds. “It’s my fault. All of it. You don’t have to tell me otherwise.”
His voice has no inflection, just matter-of-fact resignation. My heart crashes to the floor. There’s more defeat in his words than one person can repair. I say nothing because there’s nothing to say. Lies scream louder than the truth anyway.
The boy lies still, my hand on his chest. There’s a slight up and down movement that relaxes me a bit. I shift to bring my legs out in front of me and lean against the wall. I’m tired. Teddy seems more so. It’s coming up on two hours, and I want this nightmare to end. Teddy turns off the phone and settles in next to me. He’s holding the jacket in place, I’m holding the shirt. Our hands touch, but it isn’t awkward; oddly enough, it’s the most familiar thing in my world now, like a stranger’s sweater you try on at a rummage sale that instantly feels like it belongs to you. In this room, his touch belongs to me…something I’ll miss when we’re gone. The one beautiful thing in a big patch of ugly. I place my hand on his. Teddy’s fingers lock around mine one at a time and settle on top of the boy’s still moving chest. We stay that way, side-by-side in a newly formed ring of three.
“When I was a kid,” he whispers, “I wanted to be a doctor. A pediatric surgeon, specifically. My cousin Dillon—the one I was telling you about that wants me to be her maid of honor—lost an older brother before she was born. He was four. Died from leukemia. She’s been sad about it her whole life even though she never knew him. Still is from time to time, especially around the anniversary. When we were young, I promised her that I would be a doctor one day so I could save all the little kids in her brother’s name.” He takes a slow breath. “I meant it, but then music started to become my passion. I was good at it, you know? And eventually, it took over, and the doctor thing left completely. Every once in a while, I wonder if I should have pursued it. I don’t think about it often, but I’m thinking about it now. There isn’t much worse than knowing your older brother di
dn’t get to live while you did.”
There isn’t much worse.
He has no way of knowing, but he’s just hit a soft spot inside me that hasn’t been touched in years. An old familiar swirl of blacks and blues and purples mixed in with familiar sharp red streaks snake through my mind. The red hurts like a bullet, exactly the way it should. His reasons for wanting to become a doctor match my reasons for wanting to protect people.
Half my heart constricts, a throb starting at the core and working its way outward. Everyone experiences heartbreak differently. Mine hits all at once and feels like a thousand bee stings right above my breast bone. The pain is quick, doesn’t normally last long, but it’s long enough to make catching a breath difficult.
I blink into the darkness, memories hitting so fast that I want to duck and dodge them. But the act would be silly, wouldn’t make sense to Teddy, and the boy’s head needs to remain still so we can save him. This is what I tell myself, because I need to help somehow. I need to protect someone. I only hope that maybe someday that someone will be me.
I don’t tell him he’s wrong.
I don’t tell him there is something worse.
I don’t tell him that being the parent of a dead baby is the worst thing of all.
* * *
Sixteen and pregnant, a child beauty queen suddenly ugly in her actions. A good girl in my church’s youth group who turned into a pariah the moment people began to figure it out. My stomach gave it away, or it would have if my boyfriend hadn’t brought me up as a prayer need during Wednesday night group without asking my permission. Ah, prayer requests. A wonderful tool when the heart is pure; a powerful weapon when gossip is the real motive. People needed to know was his excuse. But what he really needed was their sympathy. He was the pastor’s son, and he tossed me into the court of public opinion without bail or a single phone call or even a cup of water. They say opinions are formed in the first four months of pregnancy, but I’m here to tell you they happen overnight when all eyes turn toward you with judgment in them.
The youth pastor asked everyone to keep it quiet.
His wife listed off my options.
I chose to keep the baby, but the baby didn’t keep me. She came early at just under thirty weeks. Born at 2:32am and died at 2:39am. Most of me died the very next minute.
The entire church delivered meals…to my boyfriend’s family.
They delivered silence to me.
The next day all communication ceased.
Including his. We broke up while I was in the hospital and I haven’t seen him since. Closure is a funny word, one that rarely—if ever—comes to pass. You live with an ache that never goes away. You look down every sidewalk hoping an answer will walk by. I’ve looked on every block in every city I’ve visited, but I haven’t passed one since.
The next week we found a new church.
The next month we quit going altogether. The critical stares followed me everywhere and only got worse. I had soiled the pastor’s son; those were the words of many. Why would we willingly subject ourselves to that sort of treatment? It’s a funny question with a poetic answer.
You don’t. In fact, you do the worst thing you can: you close off so completely that you can’t love or be loved…not by anyone at all. And then you travel so far down that winding road that you can’t find a way back, so lost on the pathway that eventually you stop looking altogether. Love is pointless, anyway. It only obliterates your heart into pieces you no longer recognize.
The next year I quit God completely. When you lose a baby—even if you were scared, even if it wasn’t planned, even if you slept with your boyfriend only once and would rewind time if given the opportunity, even if initially you didn’t really want the baby at all—you lose faith. In humanity, in yourself, in God.
Now, looking at this kid lying on my lap, I feel myself wanting a little of that faith back.
I’m pretty sure God is the only one who can get us out of this.
* * *
Teddy
Something’s changed about Jane. She’s quiet, hasn’t said a word in minutes, not even when I told her I thought the kid might live. One minute we worked frantically to save him, but when I announced his heartbeat was stronger, his breathing more regular, that he would ultimately be fine as long as this ordeal didn’t last into next week, she said nothing. It happened when I mentioned Dillon’s brother. I’m not sure what triggered them, but Jane has skeletons moving around in that closet of hers. I know this because they’re currently sharing living space with mine.
“Is there anything you want to talk about? Anything on your mind?”
A shuddering sigh comes up through her toes and manages to break my heart. Those skeletons are covered in a heavy layer of dust from years of being dormant. Maybe I shouldn’t nudge them awake, but she needs to know I care. Being in this room for this long makes you reassess everything important. If I die today, I need to go on the heels of a conversation that matters.
Jane sits up a little straighter and shakes her head. “No. There’s nothing on my mind.”
I nudge her knee a little with my own. “Are you sure? It seemed like—”
“Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
I nod. I’m no stranger to uncomfortable topics and the desire to avoid them. Jane needs the mood to lighten, so I wander back to a familiar standby. I only hope it will do the trick.
“Kissing on the beach or kissing in the rain?”
“What?” I can picture the frown on her face even though I still haven’t seen her face.
“Say it, Jane. It’s time for a new round of that game. Now answer the question, or I win.”
She sighs. “The rain, of course. I’m not a big fan of the beach.”
“Me either. Too hot.”
“Exactly.” She sighs. Whatever is on her mind, I’m going to have to work harder to pull her out of it and into this game. I’d give anything to hear her smile again. I go again out of turn.
“Paperbacks or E-readers?”
“It’s not your turn, but paperbacks. E-readers suck, although one might come in handy right now.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re bored with me?”
I hear it, a small smile.
“Not bored exactly…” Her tone lightens, and I give myself a mental high-five.
“I’m offended,” I say.
“You’ll get over it. Bubble gum or breath mints?”
“Gum, obviously.”
“Breath mints would probably be a better choice.”
“Don’t insult my breath.”
“Won’t happen again. Okay, my turn.” I think for a moment. “Puppies or kittens?”
“Both, but specifically Collie puppies and Scottish fold kittens.”
“You have a Scottish fold?”
“No, I want a Scottish fold. I fully intend to buy one someday.”
I don’t tell her I hate cats but that it’s the only cat in the entire world I’ve considered owning. Taylor Swift has a couple of them. I saw them in Nashville once and fell a little bit in love—with the cats, just so we’re clear—and I’ve tossed around the idea since. I also don’t tell her I grew up with a male Collie named Joe and have vowed to own another one when life settles down someday. You can travel with a cat in ways impossible with dogs. After the day we’ve had, I may go ahead and get both. Waiting for someday suddenly feels foolish.
“Oh, I have one,” I say. “Cooking shows or Housewife shows?
“You keep going out of turn.”
“Rules were meant to be broken, Jane. Now answer the question.”
I can practically hear her frown. “What are Housewife shows?”
“Of Beverly Hills, of Orange County, of Atlanta.”
“Oh, ew. Cooking shows for sure.”
“Same,” I say. “I’m a big fan of the Hell’s Kitchen dude.”
“You don’t strike me as the cooking type.”
“I’m totally the cooking type. Or I’d like
to be someday.”
“Before or after becoming a surgeon?”
“Before for sure. I fear my surgeon days are over.”
“You shouldn’t give up so soon. Not when—”
Her next words get lost, disappearing somewhere between her throat and her tongue.
Time is cruel. It doesn’t allow you to prepare ahead or plan the right way to react. It just starts and stops and gives you nothing but a split second to decide whether to ebb or flow with it. Sometimes even that split second isn’t long enough.
Not when gunshots rain.
Not when screams reverberate.
Not when bodies slam together.
One second we’re talking. The next I’m on top of her, the kid wedged against the wall somewhere beside us. That’s the way life goes when it veers off course with no time to analyze the right and wrong of the decisions you make.
I only have a second.
I have to choose, and as one, two, three, four bullets slam through the door and rush past our heads…
I choose Jane.
Chapter Ten
Jane
I can’t breathe. He’s on top of me, and I’m supposed to be on top protecting him, but bullets are flying over us. Moving seems dangerous, and everything feels wet because I’m crying, and I can’t breathe because of my lungs. Fear has squeezed them shut, and the water from my eyes is filling them, and I’m drowning. I’m choking. This is it. This is the moment I die, and everything is just so sad because I wasn’t done living.
I think of my mom.