Riley is here.
Another realization breaks through, the sun burning off the fog. I am a mother. My heart stutters with a stunned relief as I remember this miraculous fact. The rest I piece together more slowly, my mind still sluggish. Kevin went home to get the hospital bag I never packed and plans to return later with Cookie. I need to stay in the hospital three more nights. Chase will have to stay in the hospital a few more weeks. He’ll need the help of a respirator as his lungs continue to grow, and he can’t regulate his temperature yet, but he’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.
I’m working up the energy to get Riley’s attention when a nurse wheels a cart into the room. As if I had conjured him, there he is. My baby.
The nurse maneuvers the cart next to the bed.
Riley jerks awake and leaps out of her chair over to the cart, gazes down at Chase like she’s unwrapped a present. “He’s adorable, Jenny.”
The nurse picks him up. He’s bundled tightly in a cotton swaddle, which gives him more bulk. An IV and monitors are bolted to his rolling crib, and wires crisscross his little body. “He can only be out of the NICU for a few minutes. I figured you’d want some time with him. Skin-to-skin contact helps these little guys, if you want to lie with him for a little while, Mommy.” She starts to unfurl Chase from the blanket, and I shimmy my gown to expose my skin and swollen boobs. I’m ravenous for him, desperate to touch him by the time the nurse negotiates all of the cords and settles him into my arms.
Riley reaches over and touches his foot as if it’s made of glass. “Look at these tiny toes.”
Seeing the way she looks at him brings me just as much joy as I thought it would. More actually, much more.
“Toes that I made in my stomach!” I look up at Riley, watch her watch Chase. “You made this happen, Riley… without you, we wouldn’t have tried again and we wouldn’t…”
I can’t even finish the sentence. It will never be possible for Riley to understand how much her part in this miracle has meant to me.
“I was happy to help. But you did this, Jenny. You made a baby!” She moves closer and rubs her finger along Chase’s veiny scalp.
“I didn’t know how much I would love him. It’s like…” I don’t know how to explain this to Riley, the sheer force of this love. It’s something that she won’t understand until she becomes a mother, like all those women who’d told me, “Just wait.”
“He looks so much like Kevin,” Riley observes. I know Cookie will say the same thing as soon as she arrives, likely with a stack of Kevin’s baby pictures in hand as proof.
“How’s Kevin doing… with everything?” Riley asks tentatively.
What should I say? What can I say? That I had to hide the sleeping pills and lock up the knives at Cookie’s? That I watch him through the bedroom window pacing the backyard in the middle of the night?
“Today was a good day. You should have seen him in the delivery room. He cried, Rye. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry before.”
“I’m so happy for you… for you both.”
I can tell she means it. It’s a bone-deep truth and it chases away the bad feelings of the last few weeks. Almost.
“Thank you for being here, Riley. It means a lot.”
“Oh, Jenny, of course I would be here.”
“I didn’t know….” I wish Riley would acknowledge this, the feeling that we are slipping away from each other. That I’m not imagining it. That’s it’s real, and if it’s real, then we can fix it.
Riley shakes her head. “Shhhh. Not now. Not right now. It’s not the time. We don’t have anything to talk about except for you and this little man. Can I get you anything? Does anything hurt? What do you need?”
I reach out for Riley’s hand and squeeze.
“I’m okay, I don’t need anything.”
What more could I need? For one single moment, I have everything.
Chapter Thirteen RILEY
A news story is like a fire. It has to be fed, nurtured in order to stay alive. It can be stoked with meager bits, pieces of kindling, small developments that turn a puff of smoke into a spark. Or sometimes it’s doused with an entire bottle of lighter fluid and surges into an inferno. That’s what happens when the video of Justin Dwyer’s shooting is released to the public. A fresh wave of visceral outrage.
This is becoming a grim ritual—the video release of a racist encounter or worse, a murder. Granted, I understand why they go viral, why the media plays them on a constant loop. There’s a prurient, clickbait quality that people can’t turn away from. But sometimes it gets to be too much. You’re buying a pair of shoes online and, boom, you’re seeing someone get brutally Tasered at a traffic stop while his toddler waits in the car, all because he didn’t signal properly. You’re catching up on your friend’s wedding photos on Facebook and, with one click, there’s cops savagely slamming a teenage girl in a swimsuit to the ground and punching her while she cries for someone to please call her mom. It’s all a relentless reminder that there will always be people who see you, and people who look like you, as dangerous, or unwelcome, or inferior. The hurt that comes with watching these videos accumulates, a scab breaking open again and again. Then comes the paranoia: after all, these are only the incidents caught on camera; you have to wonder what people are doing or saying beyond the reach of the lens—a lot worse, probably. So it’s hard, harder every day, harder with every video, to stuff down the humiliation and anger to simply get on with breakfast, bedtime… life. But still, however painful, I recognize the power these videos have to say, Look, this happens, this is real, please do not turn away. It’s the same reason I do my job: People need to see this.
I could only bring myself to watch the video of Justin dying a few times, and it already felt like too many. It’s vivid in its shock even if it’s grainy and soundless. In the first frame a figure runs through the alley in a flash and then it’s gone. When Justin appears on the screen seconds later, he’s sauntering along, minding his own business, head bopping up and down as if he’s listening to a song he really likes. He’s nearly at the end of the alleyway, about to turn right, about to walk two blocks east, back to his house. He’s nearly there, and for a split second, I think it could end differently. He might keep walking, turn that corner and continue on home, grab himself a Coke out of the fridge, and sit down to play some video games.
That’s not what happens.
Justin stops in his tracks. What unfolds next occurs so quickly that many of the news outlets, including KYX, have shown a slow-motion version, which is somehow more disturbing, drawing the scene out even longer. Justin stops walking, reaches into his right coat pocket. He pulls out a dark object, about the size of his hand. He takes an earbud from his ear as he turns. The footage is too grainy to make out his expression. I see it in my mind anyway, the curiosity morphing into shock as he jerks one way, then the other, and then falls to the ground. How quickly he collapses, like something in a cartoon.
But what stands out about the video beyond Justin’s tragic death are two things. Justin doesn’t match the description of the guy they were looking for—Rick Sargent. Even in the black-and-white video it’s clear that Justin is wearing a bright green North Face jacket, not the black coat Rick was reported as wearing. He’s also a good six inches shorter. I know all this from the incident report I finally got from my police source. It underscores that Cameron shouldn’t have shot. And that’s the other thing about the video. You can see Cameron charge around the corner a split second before Kevin. This is why I watched the video the second and third time, in slow motion. Kevin didn’t shoot first. In the video Kevin follows Cameron, sees his partner shooting, raises his gun, and fires. Then, while Cameron just stands there, Kevin runs over, drops down to his knees like he’s whispering something to Justin.
“What the hell did that cop say to the kid after he shot him?” a pundit shouts on WHYY. As I drive, morning talk radio is on fire dissecting the shooting. Everyone and their cousin has an opinion.
“You saw him reach into his pocket. He could have been reaching for a gun. Those officers had a reason to shoot. These youngsters need to listen.”
“That’s what he was trying to do—taking out his headphones. He was dead before he got a chance to listen!”
“That guy who ran across the shot. I bet that’s who they was really after, but we all look alike, right?”
“You shouldn’t be a police officer if you’re that afraid.”
“No one goes to work saying, ‘I’m going to kill someone today.’ ”
“Police officers have a split second to act. Blink your eyes. Can you make a decision that fast?”
“If you keep attacking cops, and claim they’re racist, they’ll stop policing.”
I switch to another station. There’s a man talking about racism against white people, the author of yet another book about why white men are so righteously angry. He’s arguing that anti-white rhetoric is reaching “dangerous levels” and that there’s nothing wrong with having pride in your nationality.
“I know I’m supposed to be ashamed to be a white man in America right now. Well, let me tell you I am not,” he says.
I slam my hand against the control and switch the station again. Beyoncé has never been a more welcome presence in my life.
Rush hour traffic is a beast. I shouldn’t have tried to drive all the way out to St. Mary’s hospital before work, but I just wanted to bring Jen’s shower gift—the Mama Bird T-shirt—so she knew I was thinking of her, especially today, before Sabrina announces the indictment. Sabrina called the press conference last night, right after she leaked the video footage to MSNBC. At least, I suspect it was her, to drum fervor in time for her announcement. She wants as big a stage as possible. And she got one, fifteen full minutes with Joy Reid and an Anderson Cooper appearance, which means she doesn’t need me anymore. I don’t begrudge her this, though I am annoyed that she reneged on an exclusive interview with me and she hasn’t returned my calls the last two days. Her office has been dodging me. The best I can hope for is a few minutes after the press conference today.
The press conference that will change my friend’s life.
I’ve called and texted Jen at least once every day since Chase was born and haven’t received a single response. I tell myself it’s because she’s busy with the baby, especially since he’s probably still in the NICU. I don’t want to stress her out or force myself on her, so I’m just going to drop off the gift at the front desk and hope they’ll get it to her. I’m still waiting for some magical moment when Jen and I can reset, pick up where we left off. Where did we leave off?
The visitor lot is full so I pull into the patient lot, hoping it won’t matter if I take a space for five minutes to run this to the nurse’s station. I haven’t even opened my door when I spot Jen’s beat-up Camry in the row in front of mine. The engine is running, I can tell by the plume of exhaust fanning into the cold, and even through the fogged-up windows I can see Jen’s blond hair, her head slumped down on the steering wheel.
My first instinct is to drive away. We’ve got to talk, yes, but I don’t have the time right now without being late to work, and I hadn’t planned on actually seeing Jenny at all, but I can’t leave her like this.
“Jenny?” I rap on the passenger-side window. Her head jerks up and I see that tears are streaming down her face. I open the door and slide into the front seat. The last time I saw Jen cry was in first grade when Lou shaved her head during a lice outbreak because it was cheaper than buying the expensive shampoo. I rush over to the passenger side and let myself in. Did something happen with Chase?
“I can’t take it, Riley. I can’t take it anymore!” She launches in as if she expected me all along. “It’s just too much. I’m so fucking tired of all these people treating my husband like a villain and a scapegoat.”
These people?
“Kevin’s not a racist, or a bad apple, or a ‘symptom of the systemic ills plaguing the police forces across America.’ ” She jabs her finger at the radio. She was clearly listening to the same morning shows I was. “This is such bullshit. And now in a few hours that stupid DA is going to stand in front of a zillion TV cameras and announce she wants Kevin’s head on a platter. Can you believe that, Riley? And on top of everything, I feel like you’ve abandoned me and that’s making all of this even worse.” Her tears escalate to full-blown sobs. “I don’t care, I had to say that. I’m mad, Riley. Really mad.”
I haven’t gotten a word in edgewise, but I stare out the window at the swirling red lights of an idling ambulance and try to figure out how to respond to this tirade.
“Well, Jen, to say I haven’t been there for you… that’s not really fair. I told you, I’ve been trying to cover the story and I’ve been busy—”
“Yeah, yeah, Riley, you’re always busy. I mean, when are you not busy? So whatever.”
Her tone is bruising… and annoying, frankly. Maybe Jen can’t relate to eighty-hour work weeks as a receptionist, but she shouldn’t judge me. I don’t have a chance to defend myself, as she’s already moved on. She turns to face me, shoulders squared, confrontation in her eyes.
“Tell me this, Riley. Do you think Kevin should go to jail? I just need to know.”
So we’re doing this?
“I don’t know, Jen, that’s not really for me to decide.”
“I know that, Riley. I’m just asking what you think. If you think Kevin’s some sort of racist monster, like everyone else seems to. Is that why you’re angry at him? At us? Because that’s not fair.”
“Not fair? First of all, you can’t say my feelings, whatever they are, aren’t fair. Also, if you want to talk about unfair, let’s talk about how unarmed Black men are being shot over and over and over. It’s endless, Jen. Endless! Do you think that’s fair? And most of these killers never face any legal consequences. I have pages of stats for you on that if you’re interested. So yeah, maybe it sucks that Kevin is being put out there as an example when so many police officers have gotten off for doing the exact same thing. But the world isn’t fair, Jenny.”
She’s biting down hard on her bottom lip so at first her words are a little slurry. “But I just don’t think you understand how hard this has all been. I kept trying to explain on email. I’m all alone and people are making all these judgments and they’re treating Kevin like he’s some sort of ‘issue’ to be dealt with. Like we have to be punished on behalf of all white people or something. Which is ridiculous, when Kevin risks his life every day to make sure people—Black people too!—are safe. All the attacks, they’re so personal. This is destroying me and I don’t deserve it. I just don’t.”
A flash of fury jolts my entire body. This was classic Jenny, always self-absorbed, always the victim. Maybe I’ve indulged these tendencies too much. Part of our friendship, of any relationship really, is the tacit agreement to allow a generous latitude for flaws and grievances. A trade-off that goes both ways, glass houses and whatnot—and besides, if you start holding your friends accountable for all their flaws, if you let the annoyances add up on a mental spreadsheet, the whole thing could come toppling down. I think back to our time at the bar the night of the shooting, how comfortable it was, both of us settled in our ways, how much I appreciated it then that one could truly know, and accept, someone the way she and I know and accept each other. It’s a paradox, loving someone precisely because you know them so well, inside and out, and at the same time nursing a tiny fantasy that they can be different in the specific ways you want them to be. Maybe it isn’t fair to expect Jen to change after all these years. But it’s eating at me, her inclination to be aggrieved, to always be so quick to think life has been unfair, that it should be easier for her.
“Are you kidding me, Jen? Destroying you? First of all, this isn’t about you. And second, talk about hitting close to home? Or it being personal? Every time a Black person dies an unwarranted or unnecessary death, it’s personal to me, Jen! It cuts close to home. All of i
t does. All the times I’ve been followed, questioned, second-guessed, judged, scrutinized, deemed inferior. All the vile comments I have to deal with—for the last ten years of my career, for a lifetime, not just for a few weeks. Everything that happened with Shaun! I mean, just weeks ago I learned that someone in my family was lynched, Jen. Strung up from a tree and riddled with bullets! So don’t talk to me about fair or how life is hard for you, okay? I’m not diminishing what you’re going through, and I want to be there for you, I do, but you’ve got to realize that you’re not the only one struggling.”
We both sit in a sort of stunned silence at all I’ve unleashed.
“I’m sorry, Rye. Okay. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better ally. That’s all they’ve been talking about this morning—ally this and ally that.” Her condescending tone irks the hell out of me.
“But there you go again, Jen. Yes, you could actually be a better ally! They’re using that word because it means something. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. And that starts with looking at your behavior and your biases. It’s like when you slammed the door in that reporter’s face and screamed that your best friend is Black and that’s why you can’t possibly be racist. Come on! And I debated calling you out on it, but I didn’t, and maybe I should have just said something right away instead of letting it fester.”
Jen looks confused. “But you are my best friend and you are Black. So what?”
“It felt like you were using me as a shield. And by the way, you don’t get points for having one Black friend. I mean, you’re not hiding any others anywhere, are you?” My sarcasm is a low blow, but Jen isn’t the only one who’s “really mad” now.
“Jesus, Riley. Ouch.”
“I’m sorry, Jen, but it’s the truth. It’s weird to me that all of your friends these days are white.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? Go out and introduce myself to every Black woman I see on the street and say, ‘Heya, want to come over and watch The Bachelorette with me?’ ”
We Are Not Like Them Page 25