We followed the sheriff’s car to the hospital, which was about eight miles from our house. As Andy drove, I grabbed my phone. “Who should we call?”
“Why don’t you wait until we know something,” Andy said quietly. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s always been a rock during times of crisis. He doesn’t pace or become anxious. He can place his emotions to the side, compartmentalize.
I, on the other hand, fret and worry. Once, when our middle daughter, Allyson, broke her arm after getting a pair of Rollerblades for Christmas, Andy was the one who scooped her up and took her to the emergency room. I was beside myself at home—calling my mom and any friends who would pick up the phone—while Andy was as calm as a windless sea.
Andy put on his blinker to turn onto Miccosukee Road. Even without taking his natural serenity into account, I understood his hesitance to tell people. Putting the situation into words would make it real in a way.
Ann has been shot.
We received the information as we would a stack of mail. Passively. To call someone, the information would need to pass through our ears, hearts, and brains, and then emerge from our mouths. Somehow along the way, it would transform an idea into a fact.
Ann has been shot.
Andy just wanted to focus on driving, on learning the facts, on getting to his daughter. He held onto the steering wheel in the ten and two o’clock positions. Even as I chattered, he didn’t speak unless necessary. He didn’t speculate.
I searched through the contacts on my phone.
“Who are you calling?”
Even though we lacked information, I wanted to share the news so people could start praying for Ann. I felt anxious, as if someone was squeezing my heart.
“We need to call a priest.”
Andy nodded.
I called the church rectory and left a message. Then I called Sherry, a friend of ours who is a nurse in the emergency room.
After that conversation, Andy saw that I still had my phone out. “Just how many people are you going to call?”
“We need prayers,” I said. Andy definitely wanted people’s prayers, but it hadn’t occurred to him that telling people was the first step of that process.
Next I called my oldest daughter, Sarah, who lived in Pensacola, and broke the news. She and her husband, Scott, would drive over right away. Then I called Allyson, a senior at the University of Central Florida in Orlando.
“Do you have anyone who can drive you here?” I asked. I knew she’d be too upset to drive.
“Jamie’s here,” she said.
“Hand the phone over,” I said. I gave Jamie very specific instruction to drive safely and to get Allyson here as quickly as possible.
Then I called Kathleen, a friend from church, and asked her to send out an e-mail so people could start praying. I provided the only information I had. Lastly, I called Janis, a friend who is an absolute anchor. She’s the type of person who’s completely willing to be there for someone when needed and willing to disappear when she’s not. Everyone’s reaction, obviously, was total surprise. But even as I told my dear friends, people all over the sleepy little town of Tallahassee were logging on to their computers and reading about the young man who had shot his girlfriend.
Thankfully, I didn’t realize in that moment that our personal tragedy was about to become a public item of interest. I just wanted to get to Ann.
Upon our arrival, a nurse told us a doctor would be in to see us shortly. She ushered us into a windowless room before disappearing into the hospital corridor. We could hear the bustle and noise of the ER outside the door. Doctors being paged, stretchers being wheeled down the hallway.
As we waited, Father Chris from our church showed up, his blue eyes full of concern. Soon after, our friend Sherry showed up, as well as Kathleen.
It’s probably just a small wound, not a life-threatening injury, I thought to myself. I knew we wouldn’t see Ann until they were done working on her, and I knew that took time. The length of our wait didn’t concern me as much as the reason we were there in the first place.
But Andy was a fish out of water in the hospital. With every passing minute, the small room suffocated any hope he had about Ann. He had expected the hospital you see on TV shows, where the doctor meets you in the hall as soon as you arrive and delivers the news.
“Why do you think it’s taking them so long?” he asked, his eyes grave with worry. Suddenly our roles were reversed.
“Everything takes time,” I assured him. From my hospital experience I knew that there’s paperwork and a procedure for everything.
“I think they’re delaying because they just don’t want to break the news to us.” His voice drifted off.
I glanced at my phone. Its clock automatically adjusted for daylight savings time, which had occurred that day. It confused me, since the clock in the car hadn’t been turned ahead. I tried to glance outside, but the windowless room revealed no clues. Andy felt as if we’d waited for hours, but isn’t that how time works? The more time you want, and the more you need time to move forward, the more it seems to stand still.
“They’re hiding something,” Andy said, sitting motionless in his chair. At work he was used to being the one giving orders, making decisions. I could tell it troubled him to sit and wait for someone else to come and give him information.
“You don’t know that,” my friend Sherry said comfortingly. “The doctor will come just as soon as he’s free. Just wait and see what he says.”
My phone’s reception flickered in and out, but I still managed to alert people of our whereabouts.
Ann has been shot.
No matter whom I told or how many times I said it, it didn’t feel real. The trauma settled over me like a fog—keeping me from feeling the cold, harsh reality of the situation.
When a doctor and a nurse finally came in, they stood in the corner of the room. The nurse held a clipboard.
“Ann was shot through her right eye at close range with a shotgun,” the doctor said. “She has been gravely wounded. Her right hand was also injured.”
A shotgun in the eye at close range? I knew enough about guns to know shotguns spray pellets from a shell. They aren’t precise enough to only hit her eye. As my mind raced, Andy asked to see her.
“Really, it’s a miracle that she survived.”
“What do you mean?” Andy asked.
“After being shot at this range, it’s just amazing she’s still alive.” He paused and added, “Her condition is grave, but stable.”
As the nurse led us—Andy, Sherry, Father Chris, and me—back to a large room to see her, that word stuck in my gut. A miracle? How dare he use that word! This was not a miracle. It was a nightmare.
It was about to get worse.
When we got to the room, we stopped near a young woman in a hospital gown on a trauma bed. Her head was bandaged.
Ann?
The right side of her head was completely covered with gauze, with just a sprig of hair shooting out. Only a part of the left side of her face was visible. A tube emerged from her mouth.
Was that Ann’s mouth? Her mouth was perfect, with full lips I’d kissed a thousand times. Well, when she was little. Over time—I can’t remember exactly when—kisses had become hugs, “Mommy” had become “Mom,” and our nightly bedtime routine had become “text me if you’re going to be late.”
Surely I’d recognize her lips.
I stood at the foot of the stretcher. The patient’s feet were covered, so I hesitantly lifted the sheets to look at her feet. I saw her ankles, and it began to sink in.
Her arm was exposed beside her body.
Is that Ann’s arm? There was so little to judge from.
“Right orbit trauma,” I read aloud from the label on the wristband.
“Until the patient’s identity is confirmed, they just label the injury,” Sherry said. “The tube coming from her mouth is there to . . .”
I looked back at her left hand and spotted a little freckle on her middle finger.
My mind swirled as Sherry spoke. Life—it suddenly felt—was happening around me. Near me. To me.
It was Ann.
Father Chris began to perform the anointing of the sick. This is simply a series of prayers, usually administered to bring spiritual and physical strength to someone who is close to death. Incorporated into the prayers are petitions for the forgiveness of sins.
We watched as he anointed her forehead and did the sign of the cross on her hand. Normally this is done on both hands, but Ann’s other hand was bandaged. It was a very comforting—and challenging—thing to observe.
An orthopedic doctor came into the room.
“Mr. and Mrs. Grosmaire, I’m Dr. Lee,” he said. “I’ve been consulting on what to do for Ann’s facial reconstruction. Plus, she will need work done on her hand as well. Her fingers have been damaged.”
A plan to reconstruct her face? And then her injured hand? Was it possible? Was she going to survive this? How could she? If she did, what would that look like? A few years ago in Florida—and all across America—the Terri Schiavo case had dominated the news, leaving everyone with ethical questions about people who depended on life support. I couldn’t help but ask similar questions about Ann. Would Ann actually survive this enough to have her face rebuilt? Would I sit by her bedside day after day, waiting for some sign?
As the doctor spoke, Andy’s shoulders softened. After convincing himself in the waiting room that Ann had died, even this horrible sight filled him with relief.
I, on the other hand, had a growing sense of dread. Life as we knew it was over. Whether or not she survived, everything would be different.
Glancing around the room, I noticed a necklace sitting on a tray. It had been around Ann’s neck the last time I had seen her; it was her favorite, and she wore it frequently. The silver chain had a silver rabbit at the end with a small, round, pink stone tucked in his paws. The necklace was sitting in a specimen cup. It was stained with dried blood. Ann’s blood.
“Would you like it?” one of the trauma nurses said quietly, picking up the cup and handing it to me.
Someone stepped forward from a corner of the room. A man with green khakis and a matching polo shirt. The shirt bore a badge, and his belt held a holstered gun. A sheriff’s detective. “No,” he said. “You can’t take that. It’s . . .” He paused for just a moment, as if every word caused him pain. “It’s evidence.” His eyes dropped to the floor.
Of course.
My daughter’s bunny necklace was now part of a police investigation. Along with Ann’s necklace, they would also keep her cell phone as evidence. Notebooks in her car. The champagne glasses filled with sparkling lemonade that Ann and Conor had used on their picnic. Everything was evidence.
“After the investigation, maybe, we’ll see if we can get it back for you,” he said. I set the cup back on the table, then a young woman came into the room.
“I’m sorry to have to do this,” she said, her big brown eyes full of compassion. “But I need some information for admission to the hospital.”
“Of course, I understand,” I said. We stepped just outside the door to fill out the paperwork.
As Ann fought for her life, I dealt with the details. Sign here. Initial here. We accept cash, checks, and credit cards. May I get a copy of your insurance card?
I could tell she was uncomfortable asking me for this information, so I tried to assure her that I understood. These details actually provided a momentary respite. I knew how to locate my insurance card and check into a hospital room. I did not know how to deal with a life-changing accident.
As they prepared to move Ann to the Neuro Intensive Care Unit, I went outside to the parking lot to make a call.
“Mom?” I said into the phone. I imagined she was making her evening meal in Memphis. “There’s been an accident. Ann’s been shot, and you need to come right away. Call Dan or Tim and see if they can drive you.” I knew she was too old to make the ten-hour trip alone, but one of my brothers would be able to bring her safely.
Afterward, Sherry offered to take us upstairs to show us where they had taken Ann. We walked through the emergency room, down long halls, up an elevator, and around the corner. The Neuro Intensive Care waiting room had three recliners, some plastic chairs, and a little kitchen. There was also a small desk and a computer. The room only had three walls, and it opened to the hall.
By evening a crowd of friends, church members, and coworkers spilled out from the small waiting area and into the hallway. My friend Jennifer came up to me, put her arm around my shoulders, and said, “There’s an article online about what happened. About how Conor turned himself in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently, Conor walked into the police station and confessed to killing Ann,” she said. “He thought she was dead.”
“Where did you read this?” I gasped. What I was thinking was, Why are you telling me this? I definitely didn’t want to know, but now the information was right there dangling in front of my face. I had to open my eyes and face the situation.
“The Tallahassee Democrat,” she said. “Apparently, he drove around awhile before turning himself in.”
Up to this point I figured something had gone terribly wrong. An accident. Jennifer’s information made the shooting sound more . . . intentional.
The computer just sat there in the waiting room, holding the answers to questions I hadn’t mustered the emotional energy to ask; but I sat down in the plastic chair, reached for the computer mouse, and took a breath.