And there he was, throwing himself on top of me. Protecting me.
I lay as still as I could, playing dead beneath Miles and trying not to think about why I couldn’t feel my legs. I opened my eyes just a little, peering through my lashes, and realized we were right near the girls’ bathroom. I saw a pair of shoes, redacted shoes, walk inside.
Where I’d left Sarah and Lee a few minutes ago.
I held my breath and tried not to sob as I heard more gunshots. And then a pause.
And then I heard a conversation that changed my life.
“What’s this?” It was his voice. “A cross necklace? Who the hell wears this ugly-ass cross necklace?”
“Me.”
The voice was strong. Not quavering or scared. And I knew it was Sarah’s voice. It had to be. It could only have been Sarah.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s mine. Can I have it back?”
“You think Jesus is looking out for you now?”
“I do.”
Pop. Pop.
The next few minutes are still a blur. There was yelling and crashing and footsteps and Miles whispering for me to not move, don’t move. But I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. And then he climbed off me and there were sirens and police officers and blood and an EMT asking me my name.
The next clear memory is hours later, after I woke up from surgery. My parents and my little sister, Tara, were all there, hugging me and crying, and a doctor told me I’d been shot in the spine and I might not be able to walk again.
I’d have to deal with my feelings about all of that later. First, I had to tell everyone what I’d heard. I had to know what happened to Sarah, because I needed to apologize to her.
“Sarah McHale?” the detective who had come to ask me questions in my hospital room said. “Unfortunately …”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
I’d heard Sarah’s last words, though. They were brave and defiant as she declared her devotion to the Lord. Just a few minutes before, I’d been shaming her for not being the kind of Christian I was, but then she was the one to stand up to this monster, to use her last moments refusing to deny her faith. I don’t think I would have been strong enough to do that.
I told everyone who would listen about what Sarah had done. The police, her parents, our preacher. I also told them about Miles, being the hero I never would have expected. And I vowed from that day on to never be the judgmental person I’d been before. That wasn’t what being a Christian was supposed to be about. That wasn’t what God wanted from me.
And for the first time in months, I felt like I had some clarity. Yes, my life was upside down and I was going to have to learn how to fit into this new reality, but I felt like God was guiding me again. I knew what He wanted from me. And I knew the first step was to forgive. Forgive myself for the person I had been, for the way I’d treated Sarah the last time I’d seen her, and to forgive the boy who shot me, because being angry at him would solve nothing.
The only person I’ve had a hard time forgiving is Kellie Gaynor.
Shortly after the shooting, she started telling people that the cross necklace police had found in the girls’ bathroom was hers. That she was the one who had spoken to . I don’t know why she lied. It’s not like anyone would believe her, anyway. Kellie was an angry, rude person who’d never stepped into a church in Virgil County as far as I knew. So for her to try and take that away from Sarah, to take her last moments of bravery from her …
I don’t wish Kellie Gaynor ill. But I want nothing to do with her. And I hope she thinks about her lies every day and regrets them.
It’s not super logical, I know, that I could forgive a boy who put a bullet in my back but not Kellie. Maybe it’s that I already had bad feelings about her and she just proved me right. Maybe it’s that her lies made a mockery of my faith and tried to damage a moment that meant so much to me. Maybe it’s that she could suffer the way I had, the way the other survivors had, and still bring herself to fabricate stories and take something away from the dead.
Or it could just be that by the time I found out what she was doing, I was all out of forgiveness.
When that boy shot me, it was random. He didn’t know me. He was younger than me, and I don’t think we’d had a single class together. He was just messed up and angry, and I was there. But something about what Kellie did feels personal. She tried to take something away from Sarah. And, because what Sarah did had resolidified my own faith, had been my light in the darkness after the shooting, it felt as if she was taking it from me, too.
I’m sure God would want me to forgive her. I’m sure that’s what I’m supposed to do. But it’s not something I’ve been able to just yet.
I stayed in the hospital for several weeks. I finished my classes there while doing physical therapy and trying to get used to my new life on wheels. Honestly, I think that transition was harder on my parents than it was on me. I’m not going to say it was easy or that I didn’t get frustrated quite a bit, especially in those first months, but I was alive. God had watched out for me, and I knew I shouldn’t take that for granted. I finally understood that He had a plan, and this was part of it.
And alongside all of the struggle, there were also good things that happened to me after the shooting. First, Logan and I got back together. He visited me in the hospital every night, driving an hour each way just to see me after work. By the end of the summer, we were engaged. On Valentine’s Day of the next year, a month before the one-year anniversary of the shooting, we got married. And six months ago, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl, Miriam.
The other thing that happened was that I finally figured out what I wanted out of my life. And two years ago, I started applying to nursing school. The nurses I knew when I was in the hospital kept me comfortable and sane and held my hand when things got really tough. I want to be that person. In a strange way, getting shot was the light I needed toward my path.
I don’t want to romanticize what happened to me or the other victims that day. I feel like I need to emphasize again that it wasn’t easy. Sometimes it’s still not. Some days I still get upset, thinking about the things I used to be able to do. Some days, especially in the spring, memories of the shooting keep me awake at night. I’ve had to forbid my dad and sister from ever talking about hunting in my presence, because it instantly makes me think of the sound of those gunshots.
But, at the same time, I have a good life. I hear so often from people that if they went through what I have, if they were disabled or in a wheelchair, they don’t think they could go on. But if I let myself feel that way, I would have missed so much good. My family and my future and my friends—Lee and Eden and Miles and Denny, the other survivors who have come to mean so much to me—there are so many wonderful things in my life that I am eternally grateful for.
There were a lot of tragedies the day of the shooting, but I am not one of them. I have found peace and beauty and a renewed sense of faith. I am not someone to be pitied or mourned, because I survived, and I found my place in the world. I am able to wake up every morning, smile at my husband, hold our little girl, and feel certain that I am on the path God intended for me.
Miles Mason and a group of surgeons may have been the ones to save my life, but forgiveness—that’s what kept it worth living.
With love,
Ashley Chambers-Osborne
Ashley was the one who started the story about Sarah. How had I not known that?
I’d never been sure exactly how the myth began. I’d just assumed that it started and ended with that cross necklace the police had found in the bathroom. That they assumed it was Sarah’s, given her family and church connections, but I’d thought the rest of the story had just been spun out of a real-life game of telephone, passed around town, getting bigger and bigger until Sarah became a saintlike figure.
But Ashley had started it all. She’d overheard something and, in all of the chaos, thought it was Sarah. But I knew i
t hadn’t been. Because I’d been with Sarah, squeezed into a stall, looking her right in the eye. I’d been so focused on her, on the sound of my heartbeat, that I hadn’t remembered hearing anything else around us.
Now I knew that, for Kellie, it hadn’t just been about some necklace. It had been about her words. Her words given to someone else. She’d been branded a liar not just about that piece of jewelry but about the way she’d used her voice. She’d been made an outcast and her words had been used to make Sarah a hero.
Don’t judge me for saying this, but while Ashley’s letter made me feel worse for Kellie, it also made me feel a little relieved. Because it meant this whole thing wasn’t entirely my fault for not speaking up. I still felt guilty, of course. I’ll probably always feel guilty. But Ashley’s assumptions about what she’d overheard were to blame, too.
But the main thing Ashley’s letter did was reaffirm my decision to try and get the truth out there.
Not everyone was on board for that, though.
Miles spotted the note tucked beneath my windshield wiper before I did. We were leaving school on a Tuesday afternoon in early April. I’d stayed after class to get help from my English teacher. We were reading Othello, and despite my love of theater, Shakespeare was still kind of out of my depth. I was hoping to get some clarity on a few passages I’d highlighted.
Miles had waited for me in the cafeteria, and once I was done, we headed out to the student parking lot together. It was nearly empty.
“You’ve got a note,” Miles said, pointing to the folded piece of paper on my windshield.
“Weird.” I unfolded it. The handwriting was large and the letters were round. Miles shifted next to me, coming to read over my shoulder.
Leanne,
I’m sorry I missed you. I was hoping we could have a chat. Come by the church sometime or give me a call.
Brother Lloyd
“Why was he at the school?” Miles asked.
I folded up the note and shoved it into my pocket. “No idea. Maybe he’s doing something with the Fellowship of Christian Students.”
“Don’t they meet in the mornings?”
I shrugged.
“It sounds like he was waiting for you,” Miles said. “That’s creepy.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said. Honestly, I was far less freaked out about the idea of Brother Lloyd waiting in the school parking lot than I was about why he was waiting. If he wanted to talk to me, that meant Sarah’s parents had probably told him what had happened at their house a couple weeks earlier.
Brother Lloyd was the preacher at Virgil County Baptist. Even though I didn’t go to church there, I’d met him several times. He’d officiated Ashley’s wedding and spoken at the funerals of several of the shooting victims. Including Sarah’s.
He’d seemed like a nice enough guy, if a little pushy. Growing up, anytime he’d seen Sarah and me together, he’d tried very hard to convince me to join their congregation, something I know embarrassed Sarah, who’d made a point to never pressure me about church stuff. And even though I never did join their church, he was still very friendly whenever we crossed paths.
Somehow I didn’t think this was just a social call, though. He wanted to talk about Sarah, and I doubted we’d be in agreement during that conversation.
“You gonna call him?” Miles asked as we climbed into my truck.
“No. I think he just wants to talk about what I told the McHales.”
“Mm.”
“Speaking of,” I said as I turned the truck out of the parking lot. “Have you thought any more about that favor I asked you? About writing the letter?”
He sighed. “I dunno, Lee.”
“Come on,” I said. “Denny and Ashley have already done it. And Eden’s going to. Please.”
“No one wants to hear what I’ve got to say.”
“I do.”
He frowned and looked away, the conversation clearly over, whether I liked it or not. For the most part, Miles had gotten his anger under control. But I knew that old fury was still inside of him. If he was pushed too far, it might awaken. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument, so I let it go for the moment. We could come back to it later.
We would come back to it later.
Once we were parked in my driveway, I slid out of the truck and was halfway up the steps when Miles said my name. I turned back and saw him, still standing by my truck.
“Be careful,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. This Brother Lloyd dude and the McHales … just be careful, okay? Don’t get chased out of town or anything.”
“That’s not going to happen, Miles.”
And I was right. It didn’t happen. Not exactly. But still. Maybe I should’ve listened to him.
I didn’t find out what people were saying about Kellie Gaynor until the start of the summer, about a month and a half after the shooting.
I’d had Mom take me to visit Ashley in the hospital. She’d gotten my number from Sarah’s parents, and even though we hadn’t known each other well at the time, she’d sent me a message to see how I was doing. She was the one in the hospital, the one going through physical therapy and adjusting to her new wheelchair, but she was checking on me.
We’d texted back and forth for a few weeks. That’s when the text chain between the five of us had gotten started. Ashley was the one to bring us together. She’d been the one to reach out to all of us, to create a network for all of the survivors, so that we had a safe space to yell or vent or cry when no one else could handle what was going on in our heads.
All of the survivors but Kellie, of course.
I didn’t know why she’d been left out of the group at the time. I’d assumed it was because Ashley hadn’t found a way to get ahold of her number yet. Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe. I’d known people in town were angry with Kellie about something. I’d seen some of the harassment firsthand. But I was still very much in the dark about so many things that had happened during the shooting.
Or things people said had happened.
It had been weeks before I’d even heard about the rumors regarding Sarah. Mom had worked hard to keep most of the gossip and news away from me. At the time I hated her for it, but I think I understand why now. It was just so much. It was everywhere and constant, and I was barely getting by as it was. I felt like I was always either sobbing or screaming, and the only times I felt any sense of calm were when I was with the others.
Which was why I wanted to visit Ashley. I’d had to beg Mom to take me. She hadn’t wanted to at first. She thought the hospital might be too much for me, and as much as I resented her for coddling me, she wasn’t wrong. Walking through those sterile halls, hearing coughing patients, crying families, it all just reminded me of inevitable death.
But, hey, what didn’t?
Mom dropped me off and went to run errands, promising she’d be back in exactly an hour. I found Ashley’s room with the help of a nurse. She was sitting in her wheelchair, dressed in some comfy-looking purple pajamas, and she’d just turned on the TV when I walked in. She turned and grinned at me when I tapped on the open door.
“Lee!” she said. “Come in, come in! Oh my gosh, you cut your hair!”
I reached up and touched the soft fluff at the top of my head, barely long enough to call a pixie cut. The hairdresser had had no choice but to buzz most of it off after I’d attacked it with the kitchen scissors a few weeks earlier. “Yeah. I, um, didn’t like it long anymore.”
“It looks nice. Very edgy,” she said. “Guess what I’m doing right now.”
“Watching TV?”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “But not just any TV. Saturday morning cartoons. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve watched Saturday morning cartoons? Because I don’t even think I remember the last time.”
“Me either,” I said, glancing up at the television screen. It was some show I didn’t recognize. “I don’t th
ink I even know what airs on Saturday mornings anymore.”
“Let’s find out,” she said.
You’d think it would’ve been weirder, seeing her for the first time since the shooting. Especially since we weren’t friends before. I expected things to be awkward or depressing. She was still in the hospital, after all. And maybe there was a little bit of unease at first, on my part, but that faded fast. We watched cartoons for a while, Ashley occasionally asking me about the other survivors: how Denny’s physical therapy was going, if I’d talked to Miles recently. She told me about one of the cute male nurses and how she was finishing out her senior year with a tutor.
I think one reason it felt so difficult to be around people back then—and even now sometimes—is that they only had two responses to the shooting. They either wanted to talk about it constantly, ask questions, hear the details, or they wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened at all. Like maybe if no one mentioned it, I’d forget. Ashley didn’t do either of those things. We didn’t talk much about the shooting, but when it came up, we didn’t try to ignore it, either.
And when it did come up, toward the end of our visit, it gave me my answer about why Ashley had only connected five of the six survivors.
“It’s crazy about Sarah, huh?”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere. I turned away from the television and focused on Ashley, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were still on the cartoons, but I noticed that she was twisting locks of her dirty-blond hair around her fingers.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s … it’s something.”
“She was so brave,” Ashley said.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Brave. It had only been six weeks, and I already hated that word. At the time, I was convinced the only one of us who had really been brave was Miles, and even he changed the subject any time someone mentioned how he’d thrown himself on Ashley.
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