Ellipsis

by Kristy McGinnis

  “There was another injured child, wasn’t there?”

  Ronda nodded, and clenched her jaw before replying. “Mmhmm, Louisa Gonzales. The family has left the state, maybe the country, I’m not sure. They weren’t documented and with all the publicity, they were afraid ICE would show up at their door. It didn’t help that every time her name was mentioned in an article, some local yahoo would comment and ask about her ethnicity and nationality. I spoke to her father shortly before they disappeared and he said they just couldn’t afford to get involved.”

  For Louisa’s family, Dill hadn’t just hurt their child; he had disrupted their entire lives. They’d lost jobs, friends, and their very home. A child who had been through trauma and probably needed the security of familiarity more than anyone was thrust away to who knows where to deal with healing alone.

  We spent the next hour sharing our own progress or lack of, in the healing process. The group, I learned, had taken to informally calling themselves The Tribe. It was a tribe no one actually wanted to belong to, a tribe of broken hearts and lost dreams, but it was also true this was a tribe of warriors. They shared pictures and stories of their children with me. Broken free of my self-absorbed world where I was the only one hurting, I listened to the stories and better understood just how much beauty and potential had been lost.

  Ronda was clearly the anchor here; she was the strong one, the organized one. Her firm tone belied the struggle in her own home, though, I learned. When her son was killed, he had been protecting his twin sister, her daughter Aliya. Aliya wasn’t recovering well; she barely spoke anymore unless it was part of an angry outburst. Aliya had already been through one round of in-patient treatment in the same VCU mental health ward I had been in, and was in intensive therapy now that she was home. Ronda confessed they weren’t sure if the therapy was making a difference; the child they’d known and loved was forever changed and in her place was an angry, isolated stranger.

  Dill Hobert’s victim list was longer than the newspaper indicated, I thought. We, the survivors, were also mortally wounded. We were walking ghosts, phantom apparitions of the humans we used to be.

  We shared more than our trauma and the physical absence of our loved ones. Each of us was plagued by the burden of “what could have been.” The loss of potential stung, a question that was never to be answered. Yet what surprised me most weren’t the more poignant stories, or the moments when tears threatened, the strangest moments were the occasional hints of laughter. Even as broken human beings we somehow pulled those dormant trills from each other.

  When I returned home that afternoon, I felt a little less alone than I had before. I still felt completely unsure about actually becoming active in any political outreach the group might undertake, but I thought I might at least benefit from the communal moments. I knew I couldn’t stay hidden in my house forever. It was scary to imagine letting anyone else in, but I had to decide before the new school year began. I couldn’t carry my uncertainty about my own fate into a classroom full of second graders. I would need to decide if I could bear living for another potential 40-50 years without Charlie in this world.

  24

  Charlie ran ahead of me, the green hood on the back of his hoodie swaying rhythmically for a few beats, until Stoagie got the better of him and surged. Charlie clutched the leash tightly and then almost tripped over a rock. He glanced back, checking to see if I’d witnessed the near mishap and then laughed when our eyes met.

  “You have to pull back when he does that, show him who’s boss!” I yelled, although I knew it was pointless. The truth was Stoagie had always been boss and none of the discipline classes we’d tried throughout my childhood had ever taught him a thing.

  As they broke through the treeline, there was a moment where they seemingly disappeared completely and I felt an unreasonable stab of panic. I called his name and ran faster, trying to keep up. As soon as I breached the perimeter of the canopy, I stopped and stared ahead. Lake Michigan loomed, somehow the forest of my youth now intersected the waters of my youth, although they’d never converged before.

  Charlie had reached my old sailboat, and before I realized what was happening, he and Stoagie were sailing George out onto my old familiar waters. I called his name again, and he turned to look back at me and with a brilliant smile, he waved.

  “No!” I yelled, willing him to come back, and then the persistent ding sounds from the phone on my nightstand jarred me awake.

  I once read a book about a girl who fell out of a tree and died.

  I climbed up the tree in our backyard and tried falling from it but I didnt die, I just hurt my shoulder bad.

  My father wouldn’t take me to the doctor bcuz it costs too much money

  Sometimes I think maybe I didn’t climb high enough and I should try again…

  My eyes had finally cleared enough to read the messages, but I squeezed them shut again. I was angry to have my beautiful dream snatched away. I’d dreamt of Charlie before, but this had been the clearest, he felt so close, nearly tangible, and then it was gone. The words on my screen reverberated, though, and my concern over C overrode the anger.

  Did something happen?

  Nothing ever happens. Every day it is the same. He comes home and I try not to be seen.

  Your father?

  Yeah

  He hurts you?

  C? Still there?

  Yeah… I just dont know how 2 answer. He doesnt beat me if thats what u mean.

  What does he do?

  Mostly nothing. Mostly just yells at me to go to my room. Maybe grabs my arm but never touches my face.

  What about your mother?

  Sometimes he hurts her but sometimes she screams at me too and thats when they seem to get along best.

  Sometimes women feel hopeless, and they just don’t know how to leave. There are people who are trained to help them do that though, they can get both of you help C. I just need to know your name.

  U don’t understand tho. He would kill us all if police came here. I know it.

  Has he threatened to do that?

  Yeah. And he would really do it. I know it.

  I can help. Tell me your name.

  No one can help….

  Give me a chance C, I promise I can.

  C… are you still there.

  I’d been sitting upright and banged my head backward against the headboard in frustration. I wasn’t qualified for this; I had no idea if this was an emergency situation right this minute or if I should report it the next day. Reluctantly, I got out of bed and went into the living room to get Morris’s card. After dialing, it rang several times and then a groggy sounding Morris answered. My number must have shown on his caller ID because he knew who I was immediately,

  “What’s happening, Ms. Sanger?”

  “He texted again. He sounded really bad,” I explained. The truth was the moment Morris answered, I’d regretted the call. Morris could do nothing at this hour and it was possible this kid was just playing games. My gut told me this was a sincere child in need, but I wasn’t exactly confident about my own intuitions anymore.

  “I’ll head over, give me about 30 minutes,” he replied.

  “Head over? Here you mean? Now?” I asked. When he affirmed, I tried not to panic. After hanging up, I raced to dress and tidy up a little. No one had been inside my house since Narek left after the funeral. Then it struck me he hadn’t asked my address; how would he even find my house? Oh yeah, he could find out anything about me he wanted, I remembered. As unreasonable as I knew it was, it felt as if my sanctuary was under threat of being violated. I scrolled through the messages again. Had I misinterpreted? Was I making a bigger deal out of this than I needed to?

  Whatever doubts I felt were moot because I soon heard the knock at the door, and I forced myself to walk across the living room to let him in. I opened the door, and my heart pounded as I motioned behind me and stepped across the threshold. He looked different, I realized, and then it hit me he was weari
ng khaki pants and a golf shirt, not his usual uniform.

  At my raised eyebrow, he said, “Perks of being a sector chief. I can be in uniform or civvies, on the clock. I figured you might not want your neighbors to see a police officer entering your house at two a.m.”

  “You thought it’d be better if they just saw a strange man coming here at this hour?” I asked incredulously.

  He had the grace to look a little embarrassed by that and confessed he really hadn’t thought much about it at all. After apologizing for the late-night intrusion, he asked to see the phone.

  “Well?” I asked after he finished reading and then scrolling and rereading the conversation. “Is it as bad as I think it is or am I being dramatic?”

  “I’m concerned,” he admitted. “I think it feels authentic, and at best, we have an abused child situation. At worst, it’s an abused child with a gun.”

  “I mean, are you any closer to identifying him? It seems like he had to have been in the classroom when the shooting happened if he got his hands on Charlie’s phone, and the list of kids who walked out of that room is pretty short.”

  Implicit in my comment was that four kids hadn’t walked out at all. Two others had been injured and left on EMT gurneys. Dill Hobert left in handcuffs. The remaining student list would have been relatively short. How difficult was it to identify who on that list might have a problematic background?

  “We are working it, and while the most likely scenario is the child would have been in that class, it’s possible they could have come across the phone in some other way. One of the hardest things to do during an investigation is resisting the urge to jump to conclusions too fast because then we start missing the clues that point to something else,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Here I was thinking maybe the most obvious explanation should be explored first. What do I know about detective work, though?” I replied, not bothering to hide the dripping sarcasm in my voice.

  “Ms. Sanger, I know this probably seems slow and frustrating…”

  I interrupted. “No, it doesn’t seem that way. It is that way. No one could save my son in time, but this boy can be saved. You need to work faster.”

  Without thinking, I added, “And stop calling me that; you’re not my student. My name is Nell.”

  One side of his mouth curled up in a half-smile and he replied, “You’re right, we need to work faster. We’ll figure this out, Nell. In the meantime, just keep doing what you’re doing but if it does ever feel overwhelming, let me know. This isn’t your job, and it’s okay to step back.”

  I sighed and threw my hands up in the air, so he knew I understood. He walked casually across my living room floor and studied Charlie’s painting of Ben’s red horse. I stood silently next to him for a moment, looking again into the wide brown eye of the mare. Charlie had added just the tiniest fleck of white there, indicating a reflection. Although I couldn’t see what the reflection actually was, I knew it was Charlie himself. He’d stood there, locking eyes with her, and she had seen him. That hint of reflection was proof he had been real, he had indeed existed.

  “Nice painting,” Morris commented politely, and I nodded.

  “It was one of my son’s,” I admitted.

  He looked surprised and said, “Wow, that’s impressive. He was thirteen, right?”

  “Just. He was actually twelve when he painted this. He was studying under Ben Hamilton, not sure if you know who that is.”

  “Of course. We have several of his prints hanging in the station. I can see why Hamilton would choose him as a protege. Are you also an artist?” he asked with sincere interest.

  I laughed at that. “Well, if you count cutting holiday shapes out of construction paper to decorate a second-grade bulletin board, I am indeed an artist! No, Charlie got all of his talent from his father.” At his curious look, I explained, “Narek lives in Armenia. He’s a pretty successful artist there. We were never married, it’s… complicated.”

  He smiled and confessed, “I understand. I have a few it’s complicated stories of my own.”

  I decided I liked his smile, and then I decided that was a really unwelcome line of thinking, so I cleared my throat and said brusquely, “You have everything you need here tonight?”

  He nodded, and I walked him to the door and said goodnight. He walked away and then turned back and said, “Make sure you lock up. You’re in a decent neighborhood, but there have been a few vehicle break-ins lately.”

  “Yes, officer,” I said flippantly. It didn’t hit me until after the door closed, just how normal the entire conversation had been. The subject was not very normal at all, but the tone of our conversation had been a natural thing. Even my anger had felt natural and normal, the type of response any person who felt frustrated with constraints might have experienced. I’d taken for granted the casual back and forth that had marked most of my life. It felt odd to notice a semblance of that sneaking back in, odd in a disturbing way. The unease that filled me was difficult to identify at first, it wasn’t sadness or anger, those I was used to. It was something worse. Guilt. Every moment I allowed myself to indulge in normalcy was a moment of disloyalty. Angry with myself, I vowed not to fall into that trap again.

  25

  Just let me know you’re okay.

  I hadn’t heard from him in two days. Numerous scenarios explaining his absence had occurred to me, each worse than the previous. One of the most realistic, though, chilled me. What if his father had found the phone? Had our communications possibly put him in even more danger?

  Morris had called the previous afternoon to give me more bad news. Technology wasn’t proving to be our friend. They’d looked into every student who had survived that classroom, and none fit the profile they were looking for. The phone company had been a bust; somehow this child had successfully spoofed his GPS location and was only accessing the device via Wi-Fi. If he turned on the cellular, they claimed they might be able to help. We’d essentially hit a dead end. I felt dejected by this, but Morris still seemed confident they’d resolve it. I tried to find solace in the fact Morris was actually qualified and experienced to know about these things, but it was little comfort in the face of the current silence from C.

  Whatever overthinking I’d been about to indulge in was interrupted by a call from Ronda Jenkins. For once, I was grateful to be distracted by her pushy nature.

  “We’re meeting today at 1 for lunch, women of the tribe only. You’ll come join us?”

  I was feeling a little stir crazy, constantly staring at my cell phone screen. Maybe getting out would be a good thing. “I think I can make it…” I began hesitantly.

  “Good,” she interrupted. “We’ll be at the Razzledazzle brewery; you know where that is?”

  I ran my free hand through my hair and shook my head. “Wait, what? Lunch at a brewery?”

  “Yes, there’s a taco truck and trust me when I say it deserves a Michelin star,” she explained.

  I tried to picture the Ronda I’d met, dignified, regal, dressed to the nines, at a brewery, buying food from a truck. Did she eat her tacos with her hands, or did she use a fork? Suddenly, lunch sounded even more interesting.

  “I’ll be there,” I replied.

  When I arrived at the brewery, the others were already seated. They stood to give a greeting hug, one by one. I hadn’t been sure if I’d perhaps exaggerated Ronda’s presence in memory, but as soon as I saw her, I realized if anything, my memory had been a little subtle. On this day, she wore a bright fuchsia dress that clung to her curves and a pair of matching fuchsia heels. Her lipstick also matched. Lulu’s hair was unbraided now and framed her pretty, round face before cascading down her shoulders. She was somewhat stuffed into a Redskins football t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Sherry was every “older” mother, I’d ever worked with on a PTA project. It felt uncharitable to call her oversized, khaki capris and faded floral shirt frumpy, but that was the word that came to mind. Looking around, I realized it was extremely unlikely
the four of us would have ever naturally gravitated to one another.

  “So, we were talking about diets before you got here,” Lulu said. “I’ve gained twenty pounds in the last few months. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a small woman before, but this is a lot of gain in a short period of time, even for me.”

  The battle of the bulge felt like such a benign topic. Had a group of women ever met for lunch and not somehow discussed diet and weight loss? I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but I’d envisioned a more formal discussion about laws and organization building, not the casual girlfriend chatter of a normal world. My slight discomfort with the seeming banality of it all was shattered by the conversation that followed.

  Ronda said, “Look, girlfriend, you need to stop beating yourself up. We are all coping however we can. You’re not the same, you have been changed, and that’s a process.”

  Lulu’s friendly face seemed to work overtime, as multiple muscles twitched and her top lip sucked in. I wasn’t sure at first if she was trying not to laugh, or trying not to cry.

  “I know, but I just fucking hate laying this stuff out in front of you all. I’m the lucky one, I know it. I have my Sam at home. Compared to the rest of you, I shouldn’t complain about anything ever. I’m sorry, I feel stupid for even mentioning this. I just need to eat fewer tacos.”

  One perfectly groomed eyebrow raised on Ronda’s mahogany face and she said, “Oh no, you don’t. You’re in this with the rest of us. Don’t forget that I also have a surviving child who was there that day. I know exactly what you’re dealing with in your home and it isn’t pretty. Losing DeShaun is the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life, but watching Aliya try to recover is almost just as bad. No one who hasn’t been here can know just what these kids have been through, how it’s changed them, and what it’s doing to our homes. So, don’t you dare start with that survivor guilt stuff, because like I told you back on day one, I won’t have it.”