by Ashley Smith
“We’re sorry,” he said. “He’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean?” I asked, not understanding. “Where’d he go?”
My husband was dead at twenty-three. Murdered right near our house, just a few hours before dawn. It wasn’t supposed to happen. He couldn’t even speak at the end, couldn’t tell me he loved me. Nothing. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Paige.
I got to the small hallway in the back right-hand corner of the living room and made a left into the bathroom. Feeling for the switch on the wall, I turned on the overhead light. A small lamp sitting on the bathroom counter was already on. I walked directly across the room and stood in the corner of the L-shaped countertop with my back to the mirrors that lined the adjoining walls behind me and to my right.
Now I was facing this guy. Just to my right was a long stretch of empty counter space with the lamp at the end and a tall linen cabinet. To my left was the sink and, next to it, a burgundy candle and a framed picture of Paige and me from my cousin’s recent wedding. Paige was dressed all in white; she was the flower girl.
He stood several feet away, directly across from me in the doorway, pointing the gun.
For the first time I could focus on what he was wearing—a big red down jacket, black dress pants, and the red baseball hat still pulled down low over his face. Trying desperately to remember every detail about him just in case I made it out of this place alive, I made a mental note that he was several inches taller than me—I was looking up at him—and in the thick jacket, his arms and shoulders looked huge, like those of a weight lifter. I couldn’t get a good look at his face under the hat. Defined jaw, prominent chin—I could see that much. I could tell he was pretty dark-skinned. I could see his eyes shifting from one side of the bathroom to the other. But the rest of his face was hidden. I guessed he was probably in his thirties.
“I’ve got to hear if the police are coming,” he said, still speaking in an angry whisper. He turned his head to the left and stepped back into the dark hallway, listening. His body disappeared in the shadows, and I could hear his down jacket swish as he moved. All I could see in the light now were his red sleeve, his hand, and the gun.
Standing there, I started to feel totally sick about Paige—just imagining what she would have to go through if this guy killed me right here. She had lost her daddy. He was never coming back. What was it going to feel like now for her to lose me too? She’s going to question you, God. She’ll ask, “Why’d you take my mommy and my daddy away? Why did you leave me alone?” What are you going to say to her? How are you going to make this up to her? I know my child’s heart, and it’s going to break.
I was remembering the first time I saw Paige after labor and delivery. I was sitting in a hospital bed looking at a Polaroid that one of the nurses had brought in to me. Paige was just two pounds fourteen and a half ounces, and she was so fragile when she was born, the nurses had to take her away before I even got to look at her. But there she was in that photograph, so tiny and all wrapped up in those tubes and begging for her life. It just about killed me. When I finally saw her hooked up to those machines in the special-care nursery, I felt as if my heart was coming apart right there. “Let her be a fighter,” I was praying. “Just let her be a fighter. Let her make it.” And she did make it. She was perfectly healthy. My miracle baby. My angel child. I’ve got to make it out of here for her.
Moving my small vanity stool aside with my foot now, I pushed myself up and sat on the bathroom counter, trying to get control of my thoughts. He was still standing in the doorway with the gun. I was shaking profusely. My chest, neck, and arms flushed with heat, and I could feel sweat beading above my upper lip. How was I being mugged right now in my own home? If this had happened two days ago, I wouldn’t even be in this apartment. If my grandparents hadn’t agreed to loan me that money at the beginning of the week, I would never even have moved in here. But then, thinking about the last four years of my life—Mack’s murder, my descent into that drug addiction nightmare, giving custody of Paige to Aunt Kim, the car accident, all of it—I thought, “Why am I surprised? Of course I’m being mugged in my own home. Of course this is happening to me.”
“Do you know who I am?” He had stepped back into the light and was shifting slowly from one foot to the other, speaking in a low, angry tone, his jacket swishing. He looked massive—his body almost filled the doorframe. And he kept that gun pointed at my chest.
“No,” I said, squinting at him, trying to read his face. What does he mean—do I know him? This is Atlanta. I’m being mugged in the middle of the night. How am I supposed to know who he is?
Then he asked, “Have you been watching the news today?” He kind of cocked his head back, exposing more of his face, and under his hat I could see he was looking me dead in the eye.
“A little,” I answered, still confused. I grasped the countertop with my hands and leaned forward. What was he getting at?
“The whole courthouse thing?” he said. “You know, Bri-an Nichols?” He pronounced the name slowly, his voice getting louder but still low and controlled.
“Ye—yes,” I said, starting to understand. Is it him? I strained to better make out his features. I hadn’t paid much attention to the mug shot on TV. Plus, I’d been at work and dealing with the move all day. I couldn’t remember that guy’s face. Could it be? No. Was Brian Nichols even the guy’s name? This couldn’t be happening to me. Not after everything else. Surely not after everything else. Not this guy. He’s supposed to be in Alabama. The officer said Alabama.
He took a step toward me and was standing fully in the light now. Still pointing the gun with one hand, he raised his free hand and grasped the bill of his hat. Then in one quick motion he ripped off the hat, took another step toward me, and stuck out his neck, almost getting up in my face.
“Now do you know who I am?” His voice was louder and angrier. He froze in front of me with his face stuck out in this terrifying expression and his eyes wide open, as if he were waiting for me to feel the full impact of his identity.
I leaned back toward the mirror, trying to pull away from him. My hands and arms were trembling uncontrollably at my sides. “Uh-huh, yes,” I said, nodding slowly. “I know who you are.” Three people. This guy killed three people. At the courthouse. He was loose and now he’s here? In my apartment? I struggled to understand. Was this happening?
Now I could see his face in full view. His head was closely shaven, nearly bald; his forehead was high, his cheeks filled out, and his eyes small and kind of set back under his brow. He looked younger than I thought—maybe in his early thirties, not much older than me. He was dark-skinned, but his complexion looked washed out. His eyes were shifting again from one side of the bathroom to the other. He looked angry, frustrated, almost afraid.
“Please, please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded, sitting up straight and clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking. “Please don’t hurt me. I have a five-year-old little girl and she needs me.” I could feel the blood rushing to my face, and I was having trouble getting air. “My husband died. She needs me. Please.”
In that moment I could picture Mack again, stretched out in the parking lot of that apartment complex with the paramedics’ machine hooked up to him. “Give more air,” the machine kept saying. “Breathe. Give more air. Breathe. Give more air.”
“Give him some more air!” I cried out. “Help him breathe!”
Suddenly Brian Nichols moved back toward the bathroom door. Still facing me, he stepped out into the hallway and turned his head to the left toward the living room again.
I wiped my palms on my jeans. Does he hear something? Surely somebody heard me scream. I was screaming bloody murder out there. Somebody had to have heard me. But what if they did? I’m stuck in here with this guy who’s already killed a bunch of people and he’s got a gun on me. I don’t want to die in a shoot-out.
I remembered an expression Mack’s mother used to say: “Expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised.” I
f I could just stay alive, I thought. Whatever it takes, God. Whatever it takes.
“Look,” Brian Nichols said forcefully. “The police could already be on their way.” He stepped into the bathroom, eyeing the shower curtain across the room to my left.
“Get in the bathtub,” he said, motioning toward the tub with his head. “Get in the bathtub now.”
3
seeing pain
Get in the bathtub?” I asked, hesitating. Oh, man, that’s the last thing I want to do. The bathtub would be the place where he could blow my brains out and make the least mess. He could just shoot me, close the shower curtain, and leave.
I looked to my left at the yellow-green-and-blue plaid shower curtain I had just put up the day before. I was thinking that it didn’t match anything else in this bathroom. My mind was tripping out so much from all the stress, I started thinking about the decor in here—how I wanted to get away from the burgundy-and-gold theme of my bathroom in the other apartment. I really wanted to go for a fresh, summery look in here, more like that shower curtain.
“Get in,” Brian Nichols answered in the same low, controlled tone. He stood there pointing that black handgun and waiting for me to move. I slid off the counter, walked to the tub, pushed the shower curtain back, and stepped in.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat down like he asked, feeling my stomach turn as I crossed my legs Indian-style and heard my socks slide over the plastic tub. My back was against the side of the tub so that I could face the room. Brian Nichols was standing in the doorway, which was now on my left. The toilet was just to my right. The long, empty counter was just across the room on the far wall, and the sink was on the right-hand wall just past the toilet.
Sitting there, I suddenly thought that maybe all of this was God’s will. I mean, what if it really was God’s will for me to die tonight? What if I was supposed to just die right here in this bathtub, another victim of the guy my step-dad had warned me about? It looked like it was going to happen. Brian Nichols could shoot me right here. And maybe God was ready for me. Maybe he was going to take me home now because I couldn’t get my life together, just like Aunt Kim had prayed after I gave her custody of Paige two years ago. Aunt Kim told me what she’d prayed: “Lord, if Ashley isn’t going to quit doing those drugs, then just take her home.”
I thought back to the phone calls I had made over the last several months to the guy here in Atlanta who could get me the drugs. I would only call every now and then. Maybe once a week, if that. I was getting it together now. I was getting back on my feet. I could stop when I wanted, I would tell myself. But sometimes when I dialed the guy’s number I would pray, “Lord, let him be there, just this one last time.” Or, if I was feeling really guilty, “Lord, let him not be there. Don’t ever let me be in touch with him again. Help me.” All of the back and forth. Lord, let him be there. Lord, let him not be there. Months of it. What was I doing? I was playing with God. I was mocking him. Maybe now he was saying, “It’s over, little girl. You can’t stop, so I’m going to have to bring you home.”
I felt a wave of heat sweep over my body and my heart start to race. God, if I’ve done something that’s going to make you take me away and leave Paige without a mother, please, please forgive me. I won’t do those drugs anymore. Just give me another chance. Give me a chance to get it right. I really do want to live for you. I want to see Paige grow up. I want to be there. Don’t let her miss out because of my mistakes.
Then I felt a sickening sense of dread. It was probably too late now. Too late for second chances. Too late for me to get it right. Actions had consequences—I had already learned that. And my actions spoke for themselves. I had shown God I really couldn’t put those drugs down, and maybe tonight I was going to have to pay for it. Maybe in God’s eyes it would be best for Paige if he just took me off the scene completely. Maybe I didn’t deserve to see her grow up. Please! If I could just go back, I would change so much. I understand now. I want to change!
But I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t change anything. I had made my mistakes—all of that was over. It was done. I was sitting here in my bathtub with a gun in my face, and I was in God’s hands. That was all. I was just going to have to fight for my life tonight and trust God to do his will. There was nothing else I could do.
Brian Nichols was still standing near the door.
“Look,” I said, trying to sit up straight against the side of the tub. “I told you, my husband died. Somebody stabbed him, and he died in my arms four years ago. Now my little girl doesn’t have a daddy. I can’t leave her without a mommy too. I can’t leave her alone like that. Please! She needs me to live. Just please don’t hurt me.”
The tears started coming, and I struggled to get my words out. I can’t leave her without a mommy too. I can’t leave her alone. I could see Paige’s face in front of me again. Those full cheeks, fair skin, and little pug nose. She looked just like Mack.
“What’d you do, spit her out?” I had asked Mack once when we were standing over Paige’s incubator at the hospital. She stayed in the special-care nursery for six weeks after she was born before we could take her home. Even with all of the machines and tubes hooked up to her, anyone could see that she looked like her daddy.
Mack was almost too scared to touch her. He had never held a baby before, let alone one so little and sick. The first time the nurse asked him if he wanted to hold Paige, he said, “No way!” and took a big step back.
“Look, son,” the nurse replied firmly, “if you don’t hold her, I’m gonna drop her.” Mack threw out his arms instantly and took Paige, and his heart was won.
I nudged him and smiled. “Tried to get out of that one, huh?”
Keeping the gun pointed at me, Brian Nichols turned his head toward the living room and set the baseball hat, still in his hand, down on the counter next to the small gold lamp. “My husband died,” I said again, putting my hands on the side of the tub and choking on the tears now. “Somebody stabbed him. My little girl won’t have anybody if you hurt me.”
I wasn’t sure if he could hear a word I was saying. He was looking around the bathroom again. His eyes shifted to the sink, the toilet, the floor, the toilet, then back to me; and even then, he wasn’t looking me in the eye. Does he even see me? How can I get him to feel what I’m feeling? He’s got to get this. I needed him to think about what Paige would have to go through if he killed her mother, to imagine what it must be like for a little girl to know that someone had also killed her daddy. My husband died in my arms. They stabbed him to death, and he was gone. Gone, they said.
Now my mind was back in that dark parking lot the night Mack died. I could see him hanging onto the passenger door of the truck, putting his foot on the footboard as if he was going to get in. Standing several yards away, I could tell right then that something was wrong. He couldn’t even lift himself into the truck. His body just seemed to crumple.
“Mack!” I called out, running toward him. When I got there he collapsed in my arms and his eyes closed almost instantly.
“Honey, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” I said, sinking to the ground with him. “Honey? What is it, what’s wrong?”
But he didn’t answer. He didn’t open his eyes. Then I looked down and saw his white tee shirt turning red around the front of his shoulder. “Help me! Please!” I cried out. “Please! Somebody help me!”
Brian Nichols waited a few seconds, then walked across the bathroom and took a seat on my vanity stool near the sink. I had picked up that stool at an Augusta flea market, polished the gold metal frame, and covered the cushion with striped silk to match the burgundy-and-gold stripes I painted on the walls in my old bathroom. Why was I thinking about this decor stuff again? My mind was all over the place. I remembered it took me two weeks—what felt like forever—to paint those stripes on the walls. I didn’t own a yardstick and had to measure and draw the lines using a ruler. And I wanted the lines to be perfectly straight.
Maybe that was my
step-dad’s doing. Maybe my perfectionism all went back to those hours of chores he gave me to do every Saturday during high school. I couldn’t even go off to the lake with my friends because I had pages of chores front and back. Not just chores like “Clean the bathroom,” but “Get up on the counter, remove the light fixtures, wipe down every lightbulb, and get into every corner.” Week after week of that kind of work just changed me. I mean, I gained some discipline and all. But now I was a twenty-six-year-old woman who drew perfectly straight lines on the walls of a large bathroom using a pencil and a twelve-inch ruler.
Letting the gun droop in his hand, Brian Nichols sat opposite me several feet away from the tub. He was leaning forward with his forearms propped on his knees and the big red jacket riding up behind him. The vanity stool had basically disappeared underneath his body. Hunched over the delicate, gold-plated frame, he reminded me of a teenager trying to ride a little kid’s bike. In the mirror behind him, I could see the back of his shaved head moving as he talked.
“Do you know what I was on trial for?” he asked, looking down at me.
“No,” I said. “I don’t know why you were on trial.” All I knew was that he had killed those three people at the courthouse.
“Well, let me tell you this: I was falsely accused. My girlfriend of seven years falsely accused me of rape.” He was looking just to the left of my head as he talked, as if his mind was somewhere else. Rape? Oh, God, protect me in here. I glanced down, and where his pant legs were riding up, I could see that other gun—what looked like a small black gun—tucked inside his black sneaker against the inside of his right leg. He wasn’t wearing any socks.
“Falsely accused you of rape?” I said. “That’s terrible. Man, I’m sorry you had to go through that. And being on trial and everything. I can imagine how awful that was. Nobody should have to go through all that. I’m really sorry.” At this point I was going to agree with everything he said and try to feel his feelings—whatever it took to connect with him and gain his trust. He had to see that he could relate to me.