Upon the announcement of the Lyla’s Law decision the atmosphere in Senator Arthur Denning’s office was euphoric. Perhaps because of her inevitable association of the gun case with Gregory Kane, Allison Varner politely deflected all references to the matter and tried to pretend as much as possible that it did not exist. That evening, worn down and vaguely sad, she ate her dinner at the coffee table while the evening news filled the TV. When the picture of the Supreme Court building appeared she turned off the sound. Random images of angry crowds, robed men and talking heads flashed by. Eventually, a video of a smiling man and woman holding a three-year-old girl appeared. Thinking that the gun case coverage has run its course she turned on the sound.
“We just want to thank all of the people who worked so hard and so long to make this possible,” the woman said. “Even though Lyla is gone, this law bearing her name will stand as a shield to help protect our daughter, Ellen, and all the other children in this state.”
“Ms. Masterson, the opponents of Lyla’s Law have vowed to begin an initiative campaign–”
Allison jammed her finger back down on the mute button. Masterson? Those were Lyla’s parents? After Lyla had been killed they had chosen to have another child, another little girl? Allison thought. How could you do that? She wanted to scream. How could you abandon Lyla that way? How could you have another child as if Lyla was replaceable like a failed car or a broken washing machine? You should have . . . .
Suddenly confused, Allison couldn’t finish the sentence. Never had another child? Lived your lives in perpetual grief? Crawled into a hole and ceased to exist? a little voice in the back of her mind asked. None of those things made any sense, she knew. But how could you face the pain of possibly losing another child? Allison demanded. What if this girl, this Ellen, was shot or hit by a car or fell off her bicycle? Or got cancer like my Brian?
One and out? the tiny voice demanded. One terrible thing happens and you become so paralyzed by the fear of it happening again that you stop living? it sneered. Yes! Yes! Allison shouted at her traitorous self. Once bitten, twice afraid? the nagging voice asked. She had heard that voice, faintly, once or twice before, but she had always been able to silence it, to drown it out. But now it had come back louder than ever.
I can’t! I can’t! she shouted at herself. Images of bombed-out buildings and bodies lying in the street flickered across the TV and Allison mashed the power button until her finger hurt. She found a bottle of bourbon in the cupboard and poured an inch of it into a glass. She didn’t usually drink the stuff but all the scotch seemed to have disappeared. This was Brian’s bottle, still at the same level it had held the last time he went into the hospital. Knowing that they would not allow him any whiskey he had made himself a farewell drink. He liked it over ice. He said that bourbon was one of America’s great contributions to the world.
Before she finished her glass Allison’s head began to spin and she lay back and closed her eyes. For no reason that she could name she began to cry.