Such Was the Common Occurrence

of Mass Shootings in America

 

The shooting had barely made national headlines. Such was the common occurrence of mass shootings in America, Lee thought. It made local news, of course and a brief mention on NPR, where Lee was quietly listening to the radio and scrolling through his phone in the Outback, waiting for Analise to wake up. There were reports from a bus boy at the Cable Mountain Lodge who was taking a smoke break when he heard the shots ring out and dived back inside the kitchen, yelling “Shooter!” and terrifying his entire kitchen staff. Other reports and eyewitness accounts by those who were camping nearby, unsure if the sound was from hunters at first or wedding patrons or something else.

The most horrific reports came from those who were at the wedding. They described the loud sound of the rifle, the popping of the revolver. The confusion, the terror. How they had hit the ground and covered one another in fear and trembling. Unsure when it was over. How it had felt like fifteen seconds and fifteen minutes all at once.

But no one had died. Not yet. Though Lee was getting calls from local media outlets who wanted to talk to Becca.

Yet CNN was already covering another shooting where, at a protest in Salt Lake, a white man had shot a black Muslim man down in the street, the man’s only crime being his seemingly similar appearance to a militant group that had, the week before, claimed to be behind a bombing. The black Muslim man, named Mohammed, was, of course, not allied with such a group, but merely trying to make his way through the throng of protestors and cops blocking the intersection near where he lived to get home to his wife and daughter. The white man had realized as much when a plastic bag filled with milk, eggs, cheese, and two packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups had exploded on the sidewalk, along, of course, with the man’s brain. He had injured two other people as well. The white man would later go home to eat his gun after dinner, for dessert.

There was no real news so far, only speculation, about the shooting in Zion. All news reporters said was that a note had been found in the man’s truck. The note being of intense interest, as everyone wanted to know the why, of course. How could someone perpetrate such an act of violence? Politics and mental illness were always the obvious culprits. But what if even these failed to really explain what was behind a person who did such a thing? Could there ever be a satisfying answer to such a question? These mass shootings were almost on another level of evil, practically demonic.

The man’s name was Richard Smith, that’s all that police knew or released via the press. Lee wondered whether they were distantly related in some way while his head throbbed with pain.

Lee lay in the driver’s seat and felt the car spin slightly around him. After they’d gone to the hospital and checked in last night, he’d bought a bottle of whiskey before the State Liquor Store closed at ten and downed more than half of it in the car, alone, with Analise asleep, trying to calm his nerves, chain-smoking outside the car, while Becca spent the night upstairs with her mom.

Once Analise was up, the two of them walked into the hospital, used the bathroom on the first floor to brush their teeth and wash up, and met Emily and Becca in the upstairs waiting room. He overheard the conversation of two young men, talking in the chairs beside them.

“What do you eat when you’re high?” one of them asked the other. “You have any go-to junk food?”

“No, well, I mean yes, popcorn.”

“Ah, but is it a special kind of popcorn?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it! Knowing you. What is it?”

“Well, I use fancy popcorn that I then sprinkle with some black truffles, French sea salt, and melted ghee.”

“Ha! Seriously? You’re fucking something else, you know that?”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“You should post a picture of that shit.”

“Ha, yeah, maybe, although my Instagram is pretty much dogs, cats, and coffee.”

“Lee.”

He heard his name being called.

“Lee!” he heard Becca, now shouting.

“What? Oh, sorry. Hi, Mom,” he turned to face Becca and his mom.

“Hola mijo.”

The two of them hugged, coffees in hand, bags under their eyes, both of them quiet, reserved, somber.

“How’s your mom?” he asked Becca.

“Well, it’s not very pretty, but I think she’s going to be okay.”

“That’s great.”

“Yes. It is. Thanks to your mom here.”

“Oh,” said Emily, waving the compliment off. “I’m just happy I was in the right place at the right time. Praise the Heavenly Father, right?”

“Yes,” Lee.

“Uh-huh,” said Becca.

“And how are you, niña?” Emily moved toward Lee and grabbed Analise out of his hands.

Becca quietly motioned to Lee that they needed to talk. How, exactly she did it, he couldn’t quite say. Some combination of the look in her eyes and the subtle gesticulating she did with her fingers communicated all. Lee thought about how impressive it was that he could interpret the gesture and understand it’s meaning, he and he alone, because he and Becca, for better or worse, were bonded together, through marriage and partnership, but also through suffering and loss. And no other glue or adhesive as that of the shared love through suffering was a stronger bond.

“I think I’m going to need to stay here for a while,” she said to Lee, whispering.

“Oh, yeah, I mean, I guess I hadn’t even thought that far in the future.”

“The doctors say it will be a week of recovery at the very least, and then physical therapy. I don’t know what to do, but I want to be here. I need to be here.”

“Yes, you should be. Is Jacob coming down?”

“I left him a message last night, but he didn’t get it till this morning. He’s on his way now, though.”

“Well, we can do whatever to make it work.”

“Thanks, babe.” She smiled weakly at him, and oh, how warm her smile was! “You know, I kept thinking last night, how, if my mom died, I would be an orphan. Both my parents now dead. And I don’t want to be an orphan.”

“You couldn’t be an orphan,” Lee said, “because we are your family now. You, me, and Analise. And my family even. No orphans allowed.”

Becca laughed. She and Lee embraced. Emily came over to them with Analise, gently rocking Analise in her arms. Becca held out her arms to grab her. She kissed Analise’s forehead and as she looked into her tiny eyes—little black diamonds—her pudgy arms and legs, rounded belly, soft, wispy, beautifully smelling brown hair, she was flooded with emotions she forgot existed—adoration, wonder, affection, love. In another context, say a TV show, Becca would have scowled cynically at the scene in front of her—the gaudy cheesiness of the hugging, the smiling—but not today.

The four of them walked into Rebecca’s room to see if Rebecca was up, and as they did, Becca looked around her. Seeing Emily and Lee and Analise, and knowing that her mom would make it, that her mom was okay, and not dead, and that she herself would not be an orphan, Becca smiled, and she was so unused to this—smiling—that it hurt her cheeks.

They stood over Rebecca’s bed for a minute, waiting for her to awake. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Zachariah walk down the hallway and take a seat in a chair. She nudged Lee with her foot and motioned with her head toward the hallway.