by Kim Hooper
“You’re there,” I tell him. “I know you’re there.”
I stare at his face, awaiting anything—a twitch of an eye, his nose, his lips. There is nothing.
“I forgive you, for anything, for everything,” I say.
I don’t know if this is true. Do I forgive him? It is hard to be angry at him now in the state he’s in, this position of ultimate vulnerability. So what if he was pursuing a younger woman? So what if he was using her as a distraction from a life he didn’t really want? None of it matters now. Everything has changed now. If he wakes up, he might just be grateful to have any life at all. He may have no memory of his angst. He may have no memory of Tessa.
“You can wake up. We will figure things out,” I say.
He may need to hear this. He may need my forgiveness, my permission to come back. Unlike Dr. Harris, I believe in this type of thing. I’ve read stories online, stories of coma patients who talk about being between life and death. Some say they saw the quintessential white light, encountered deceased loved ones, felt the presence of immense peace that could be described only as God. Then they came back, with a firm understanding that it wasn’t their time.
“It’s not your time,” I tell Cale. “We need you here.”
And then, I swear, he squeezes my hand.
There is no corresponding movement on his face, no furrow of his brows, no slight pucker of his lips, nothing like that. Just the faint squeeze. Nurse Nicole would probably call it a reflexive movement, but I don’t know how it could be a coincidence that his hand would flex against mine in this exact moment.
I squeeze back, hoping he will respond again, to confirm I wasn’t just imagining things. There is no second squeeze though. Of course there isn’t. I am too greedy. I am meant to take solace in the small movement I got. I am meant to consider it a gift.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I tell him.
I wait, holding his hand—one, two, three, four, five minutes. Nothing.
As I walk out of his room, I can’t help but turn back at the door, half expecting him to be propped up on his elbows in his bed, a mischievous smile on his face saying, “I got you good.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say again.
And, finally, reluctantly, I go.
TESSA
IT’S ALL CATCHING UP with me, the fatigue. I knew I hadn’t been sleeping well since the shooting, but I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I got to Mom’s house.
It’s the middle of Monday afternoon. Mom took the day off work to spend time with me, and all I feel like doing is sleeping. I’ve never felt this before—the complete inability to engage in any kind of activity, the absolute need to rest.
“I’m sorry I’m so boring,” I tell her.
We are on the couch in the living room, watching episodes of The Bachelor that Mom had saved in her DVR. We used to watch that show together all the time. It was our thing. It started as a joke—“Let’s just see what the hype is about”—and then became a weekly must. We weren’t truly interested in the relationships formed; we saw it more as comedy.
“This isn’t boring. I’ve been dying to watch these episodes for months,” she says, reaching into a mixing bowl full of microwave popcorn.
“I can’t believe you’ve been saving them,” I say.
“For just this moment.”
I let my head fall onto her shoulder. When my eyes get heavy, ten minutes into episode two, I let my body lie horizontal on the couch, my head on her thigh. I am safe here. It is something so simple, I almost want to cry.
In the episode, the bachelor and one of the women are at a bar. My eyes are closed, but I imagine this bar to be Ray’s.
I am towel-drying glasses behind the bar. Cale is there, standing in his usual spot at the bar. He’s just arrived. He seems rattled. He’s looking behind him, over his shoulder, like he’s worried someone is on his heels.
“You running from the police?” I ask him.
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. “Running from a psycho on the road.”
“That bad?”
“I just … I ran a red light. I cut him off. He was pissed. I cut him off.”
“You need a beer,” I say, trying to keep it light. He seems so unnerved, it’s starting to scare me.
“Sure, yeah, a beer,” he says.
He sits. I bring him a pint of the White Dog Hazy IPA.
“He got out of his car, was swearing at me, saying he was going to kill me,” he says.
When he picks up the pint glass, I see his hand is trembling.
“I mean, I cut him off. I get it. I ran the red light as he was coming through. I could have killed him. I was distracted. I—”
“Okay, you need to calm down,” I say with a nervous laugh. He is really scaring me now. He keeps looking over his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know. Okay. Yeah.”
He takes a big sip, more like a gulp. His eyes look slightly less buggy when he sets the glass down.
“Maybe I should just go ahead and pour you another one now,” I say.
Finally, he laughs and I relax a little.
Then there is a bang, what sounds like a firework going off.
“TESSA, TESSA,” I hear.
It is not Cale’s voice. It is a woman’s voice, familiar.
“Tessa!”
My eyes flash open.
I am not in Ray’s. I am in my mother’s house.
“Tessa,” she says, looking at me with concern.
I am sweaty. I can feel my hair sticking to my forehead, the sides of my face. I am breathing fast.
“Honey, you’re here, you’re okay,” she says.
I am sitting bolt upright. Her palms are on my shoulders.
“You had a nightmare,” she says. “It’s okay.”
I look around, ensuring I am where I think I am. Mom pulls me against her chest, rocks me back and forth like I am a baby.
It was Cale.
Jed Ketcher walked into Ray’s with a gun because of Cale.
I wonder if I should text Joyce, tell her what I remember. Then again, how do I know if this is an actual memory, not just something imagined, something conjured by my subconscious?
“Honey?” Mom says, pulling away, her hands still on my shoulders. Her eyes scan mine. She looks so worried. I want to tell her I’m okay, but that feels like a blatant lie. I’m shaking, visibly. It’s obvious I’m not okay.
“I think I remembered something about that night,” I tell her.
She moves her hands to my hands. She holds them steady so they stop shaking.
“Do you want to tell me?” she asks.
“I think I know what made the shooter do what he did. There’s this guy who had been coming to the bar pretty regularly for a while. He came in that night and was really frantic, saying he cut off someone on the road and the guy was really angry,” I say. “I think it was Jed Ketcher he cut off. And he followed him to the bar. And, I don’t know … he lost it, I guess?”
She’s still scanning my eyes. I wonder if she’s looking for evidence that I’ve lost it.
“Honey, you don’t know for sure this is how it happened,” she says.
“I do. I talked to Jed Ketcher’s mother, and she talked to a friend who was on the phone with him that night, and … it’s a lot to explain.”
Her eyes go wide with astonishment.
“You talked to Jed Ketcher’s mother?”
I sigh. “Yes. Look, it doesn’t matter. I mean, it does, but it’s too much to explain.”
Mom nods, slowly, taking everything in.
“But, this guy, the one Jed Ketcher was so angry with, I think he may have saved my life. He told me to run when I was just frozen behind the bar. He saw him coming. He knew what was going to happen.”
“Okay,” Mom says. I can tell she still doesn’t know what to think.
“Like, maybe I should tell his wife about this. It will help it make sense.”
“Whose wife?”
“The guy, Cale.”
“Who?”
“The guy who told me to run. The guy who cut off the shooter on the road,” I say, impatient for her to catch up.
“Cale?” she says, seemingly stuck on the oddity of the name.
“Yes, Cale.”
“Cale what?”
“Cale Matthews,” I say, unsure why she cares.
“Cale Matthews?”
Mom goes white. I’ve never actually seen someone go white right before my eyes. I’ve heard the phrase, of course, assumed it was an exaggeration of a real phenomenon. But it’s not; she really does go white.
“What is it?” I ask.
Her eyes look pained.
“Oh, honey, there’s something I need to tell you.”
JOYCE
GARY SAID IT WOULD be best if I didn’t watch the press conference. “What’s the point?” he said. “You know everything they’re going to say. It will only upset you.”
And he was right. But I felt the need to know, firsthand, what was being said about my son. For the rest of my life, I will be the only one advocating for him, speaking for him. It is my responsibility, as his mother.
I decide I will attend the press conference in person. Gary doesn’t agree with this decision, but says he will go with me anyway. I don’t want to risk staying home because I don’t know if the stations will cut to the live press conference or if they’ll just save clips of it for their evening news programs. I want to see the whole thing, in its entirety.
When we went to the police department yesterday, the parking lot was three-quarters empty, just a few people milling about. Today, the parking lot is full. There are news vans sporting logos for all the local stations. A crowd of people is congregated in front of the station, everyone facing toward what must be a podium. I can’t see over the tops of everyone’s heads.
I’m wearing sunglasses and a large sun hat to shield my face, a hat I used to wear when gardening. I can’t imagine life being calm enough again for me to have interest in gardening. Gary says I look like someone in disguise. He says I will draw attention to myself by attempting to not draw attention to myself. Maybe he’s right; we will see. I know there are reporters here hoping to catch a glimpse of me or loved ones of the victims. Not much happens in Boise; these reporters are hungry. They know a human-interest angle for the Ray’s Bar shooting could get them jobs in bigger markets.
We stand at the back of the crowd, though Gary says that’s exactly where a hungry reporter will look for me. I tell him we’ll take our chances. He grumbles to himself.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., there’s a commotion and the crowd surges forward. I assume the police chief has come outside. With everyone’s attention focused ahead, I stand on the edge of a concrete planter so I can see.
“Jesus Christ, Joyce, what are you doing?” Gary says, tugging on my arm. “You are literally putting yourself on a pedestal.”
I slap his hand away. “Nobody is looking at me. They’re looking up there.”
Up there, Police Chief James Barnard is at the podium. There are the clicks of photos being taken with professional cameras, a sea of cell phones held overhead, attempting to get the best shot possible.
“Hello, everyone. Today I’m going to give you some updates on the Ray’s Bar shooting, as we feel we’ve come far enough along in our investigation to share critical details that may affect the lives of our citizens going forward.”
The camera-clicking slowly dies down, and the crowd goes silent. The sea of cell phones remain, videoing.
“At this time, we have found it safe to conclude that Jed Ketcher acted alone during this event. We have pored over his personal writings and have determined that he suffered from depression and had plans to commit suicide. His firearm was purchased legally in February, and he had no prior record of violence. Nowhere in his writings was there a plan for harming others, though he did express profound anger with the world at large. In looking at surveillance footage from the night of the shooting, we observed that Mr. Ketcher was involved in a verbal altercation with a man traveling south on Ninth Street after that man went through a red light and nearly collided with Mr. Ketcher’s vehicle. We believe this altercation motivated Mr. Ketcher to follow this man to Ray’s Bar. When he arrived, patrons attempted to confront him, which escalated his rage, resulting in the shooting deaths of five people and injuries to two others. At this time, we will take questions.”
I expect the crowd to erupt with inquiries, but there is just a low rumble of discussion, people turning to those around them and commenting. I don’t know what they’re saying. I probably don’t want to know.
“Can we go now?” Gary says, tugging on the sleeve of my sweater.
The first question Barnard addresses is about the identity of the man who had the altercation with Jed. He does not share it, as Detective Kinsky said they wouldn’t.
“Joyce, come on,” Gary says.
He wants to slip away now, before the crowd starts to break apart and people turn back toward their cars.
I accept the offering of his hand and step down from the planter. When we get inside our car, unscathed, he breathes an audible sigh of relief.
“I wonder who he is,” I say.
“Who?”
“The man who almost hit Jed’s car on Ninth Street. I mean, how do you think he feels, knowing he may be the reason for all this?”
Gary takes his eyes off the road to look at me.
“Joyce, nobody but Jed is the reason for this.”
He says this carefully, as if it’s news to me.
“I know that,” I snap. I refuse to be cast as the delusional mother defending her angelic son. I know what Jed did. “I’m just saying, it could be assumed that this wouldn’t have happened if that man hadn’t run the red light.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if Jed didn’t own a gun either,” he says.
I roll my eyes, look out the window.
“You don’t have to make me feel worse than I already do,” I say.
He reaches over, puts his hand on my thigh. I ignore every instinct and let it sit there.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
He doesn’t clarify if he’s sorry for what he said or sorry that the truth of my son will always cause me pain.
“Me too.”
I’m glad they didn’t say much about Jed’s journal. I want to burn the thing, the entirety of it. I want to never see it again. The person it reveals is not the person I knew. He is so angry and bitter and entitled and mean and pathetic and sad—all the things a parent never wants to see in their child. Gary wanted to read it, but I refused. He never had any fondness for Jed; the journal would only confirm his suspicions that my son had no redeeming qualities. Jed was kind to me, though. He cared for me, or I thought he did. I still cannot understand why he didn’t leave me a note, something to explain, something to console me. I’m left to assume that he hated himself so much that he thought I would be relieved if he died. He didn’t presume I would need any consolation. How did I raise someone with so little value for himself, for life?
GARY AND I have decided to make his place “home” for now. Yesterday, someone left an anonymous note on the welcome mat of my house, telling me I would burn in hell, among other things. It doesn’t feel safe there. I would sell it, except I’m not confident I could afford to buy a new house right now. As Jed said in his journal, the housing market in Boise is crazy. I never would have guessed Jed paid attention to things like the housing market. There were so many things in his brain— annoyances, grievances—that I had no idea about.
Gary goes to his garage to tinker when we get home. I know that means he wants time to himself, to think. I’m sure he wants to fast-forward a year or two, to put distance between us and this horrible thing that happened. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel sufficiently distant from it though. It will always be right here.
While he tinkers in the garage, I turn on my laptop, go to the message board. I can’t hel
p myself. I know the message boarders will have watched the press conference. I know they’ll have opinions, opinions I should probably avoid hearing, but, like I said, I can’t help myself.
LvAll21 says:
5 people dead over road rage. What a waste.
JR2018 says:
TBH, I was kinda disappointed. Thought there was gonna be more to the story. Turns out just a loser with a temper. Snore.
LvAll21 says:
Imagine how the victims’ families feel. Like, this could have been so easily prevented.
Boyseeeee says:
I dunno. Clearly the guy was gonna snap somehow.
JR2018 says:
Coulda snapped and just killed himself. That woulda been the right move.
I read these words without much reaction. I understand their feelings, in an objective way. I hate them for talking about Jed so flippantly, like his life meant nothing, but I understand. They didn’t know him. They are just people with too much time on their hands on a stupid message board called “Shooting the Shit.”
I dare to type a question, my first contribution to the thread.
MamaBear208:
Does anyone have any idea who the man was? The man in the altercation on Ninth Street?
It takes only a few minutes for a response. The fact that these people respond so quickly makes me think they get alerts on their phone when the thread is active. They live for this. Their hearts skip beats over this.
Boyseeeee says:
Prolly one of the dead guys. Jason Maguire, Robert Lang, or Rick Reed. My money’s on Jason Maguire cuz he was kinda young, seems like the type to run a light.
I know something these people don’t know. Detective Kinsky told me the man who incited Jed wasn’t killed.
MamaBear208:
But they didn’t release his identity, which makes me think he was one of the injured people.
JR2018 says:
@MamaBear208, where u been all this time? Got ourselves a regular armchair detective now.
LvAll21 says:
Lol.
Boyseeeee says:
Ha. Well, could just be the dead guy’s family doesn’t want his name out there as the person who caused this thing.
There it is, another person saying that this event was “caused” by someone other than Jed. I know it wasn’t. I know Jed is to blame. But still.