Brian
I WAS underwater for a long time. I couldn’t find the surface. I knew I should be drowning, but I never died. Sometimes I was aware that I was dreaming, and I would try to force myself awake. Sometimes I even thought I was awake, only to realize I was still sleeping.
And sometimes I was back at school.
I ran in a series of endless hallways. In the distance there was gunfire, and at each intersection I would stop and listen. But no matter which direction I chose, the gunfire grew louder. I was sweating and sweating, my heart pounding, so choked with terror I couldn’t scream.
Sometime later, I hid from a shooter in a kitchen under a mound of marshmallows. They kept falling off me, and I kept trying to mound them up again before the shooter appeared. Then he stood over me, and I looked up at a backlit figure pointing a gun at me. It was a big, buff figure, and it was familiar….
Someone squeezed my hand. “I think he’s waking up.”
I opened my eyes. My mom was in a chair next to my bed, holding my hand. My dad was next to her, looming over me, and my sister, Lisa, was sitting in a chair, feet on the seat, staring at me with big, teary eyes. Mom had been crying too, her face puffy and red. My dad’s mouth was in a grim line.
“Oh, honey,” my mom said, hiccupping a sob. “There you are!”
“Hey, son. You’re gonna be all right.” Dad leaned down to pat my leg through the blankets.
“Brian, are you okay?” Lisa asked with a trembling lower lip. She was four years younger than me, skinny, with brown eyes and long dark hair that always looked messy.
Was I okay?
“What’s happening?” I tried to sit up, but there was a sharp pain in my stomach and a nauseating, tugging sensation.
“No, honey, now lie still.” A nurse was at the window, having just opened the drapes. Maybe the light was what woke me up. She came bustling over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Relax! I’ll put the bed up for you.”
She used a button to raise the head of the bed. I tried not to move and breathed through my nose as the pain faded. My head felt all loopy. I didn’t like the feeling of being so drugged up. Or being in a—
Oh. I was in the hospital. There’d been a shooter at our school, and I’d been shot.
I was alive. Oh my God. I’d really thought….
A vivid flash of memory came to me. I was lying on the cafeteria floor, certain I was going to die. A stab of pain went through my heart, and my stomach fluttered with an echo of the panic I’d felt.
Landon. Then Landon Hughes had been there. I could still hear the exact tone of his voice as he told me, in a bossy way, that I wasn’t allowed to die.
Margherita pizza.
Will you kiss me?
Holy…. Had I really asked that? Oh God.
“Do you want some water, Brian? Is there anything we can get you?” Mom asked. She turned to the nurse. “Wouldn’t he feel better if he ate something? With the drugs and all? I know he’s on a liquid diet, but maybe a little apple juice?”
“Water,” I croaked.
“We’ve got that covered, honey,” the nurse said cheerfully. She held a plastic cup with a straw to my mouth.
The liquid was heaven. I could feel my mouth coming back from mummification. I looked up at the nurse as I sucked on the straw. She had a warm and motherly sort of face, was maybe in her forties, and she was black. I hoped my dad wouldn’t be rude to her. He never used to be racist, but that was another thing that had changed in the past two years.
“Not too much at one time,” she said, motioning upward with her chin.
I let go of the straw and gave her a smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ll go get you some fresh ice. Don’t try to move, sweetness.” She bustled out of the room.
Lisa came over to the side of the bed where the nurse had just been. She petted my shoulder, still looking tearful.
“Hey. It’s okay,” I told her, though I wasn’t sure about that.
“How do you feel?” Mom took my hand again, squeezing it hard. “For goodness’ sake, Brian, we thought—” She bit off her words.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I repeated, because I couldn’t stand it if she and Lisa started crying.
“It’s so weird and gross that you were shot, Bri,” Lisa said. “It’s not fair. And I don’t want to ever, ever go to that school!”
Lisa was in seventh grade, so she’d go to The Wall in two more years. The thought made me sick. I made a strangled sound in my throat.
“Lisa, go down to the cafeteria and get an apple juice for your brother,” my dad said with a bite to his voice. He took out his wallet and handed her a five.
“Okay,” Lisa said eagerly. “I’ll get you some juice, Bri. Be right back.” With a last wobbly smile at me, she left the room.
I rubbed my face. With Lisa gone, I could ask about the gory details. “What happened? I was shot in the gut. Did they operate or….” I tried to look down at my stomach, but the sheets and a gown were in the way, and it seemed like way too much effort to move them.
“You were lucky,” Mom said in a fake upbeat voice, wiping her eyes. “They had to remove part of your colon and small intestine, but the doctor says you should be able to function normally. You’ll need to be on IV antibiotics for a few more days, and you’ll have to take it easy. But you’re gonna be fine.”
“Better than fine!” My dad gave me an attaboy smile. “I know you’d hate to miss your first year as quarterback, son. But you’ll bounce back. We’ll show those doctors a thing or two, huh?”
Mom patted my hand. “Well, now, you just take as long as you need to recover. The important thing is you’re alive, and you’re in good hands. There’s no reason why you can’t live a full life, the doctor says. Praise the Lord.”
“Guess you can get along without all your intestines. Smart of you to get hit where you had some extra,” my dad joked.
“Yes, we’re all very lucky.” Mom sniffled. “Everyone from church sends their thoughts and prayers. Reverend Arnold said he’d stop by tomorrow.”
“And Bull asked me to tell you he’s real sorry you were shot,” Dad said.
Bull was my dad’s friend from work, a guy who would go on about Democrat pedophile rings and QAnon for hours if you so much as looked at him twice. My dad and I had been really close until two years ago when he started hanging out with Bull. I hated what my dad had become, so Bull was not exactly my favorite person.
I hoped to God he didn’t visit me. Or Reverend Arnold either, for that matter. Where were my friends?
“What about Jake?” I asked. “Cameron. Gordo. Coach? There were so many… I saw—” I couldn’t finish that sentence. Could not. I swallowed down a hot lump. “And the shooters—did they…. They got them, right? Who did it? Are they dead?”
I felt myself ramping up, anxiety climbing. The monitor next to my bed beeped. It sounded like an alarm. Please tell me the shooters are dead.
My mom looked up at my dad. “Now, Brian, you don’t need to worry about that right now,” she said in a soothing voice.
But my dad grimaced. “They got away. You tell me that’s normal. That ain’t normal!”
“They…. What?” I gasped.
“Clean as a whistle. You tell me a couple of kids coulda done that.” He shook his head bitterly.
“John,” my mom warned, only it sounded faint because my ears were suddenly filled with cotton.
A vision came over me like a dark tidal wave. The rat-tat-tat-tat of gunfire down the hall. Me hiding by the water fountain as gunfire came closer. The other students huddling behind tables. The terror on their faces. The surreal sight of tables, chairs, windows, and bodies jerking in a devil’s dance.
“No. No!” I ripped my hand from my mom and tried to get out of bed.
“Honey, it’s okay,” Mom said.
“Brian,” Dad barked.
“No!”
I had to find a place to hide. I pushed off the sheets and started to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but the pain in my gut stopped me. It was so bad, I choked in a breath, and my eyes watered.
“Oh, sweetie, it’s all comin’ back. I know. I know.” The nurse was there. Her voice was soft and her hands firm as she pushed me back down and sort of hugged me at the same time. “Come on, baby. You’re safe here. I promise. No one’s gonna hurt you. Relax.”
I would have fought her, but the pain was crippling. My dad held my shoulders to the bed while the nurse injected something in the IV line.
“Please help me,” I slurred just before things went dark.
THE SECOND time I woke up, it was twilight outside, the sky a muted purple through the window. The room was quiet. I could see the back of my mother, standing in the doorway talking to someone.
I lay there on my back and stared up at the ceiling. There’d been a shooting at my school. So many had died. I’d seen it happen. And somehow the two shooters had gotten away. That was so wrong. It couldn’t be true.
It was too much. The pain inside was too much. I didn’t know how to live with it.
Then I remembered looking up into someone’s face. Landon Hughes. I’d said hi to Landon only a handful of times before, nothing more. But he’d stayed with me. He’d held my hand, pressed my wound, and kept me from bleeding to death. He’d saved my life.
I could see his face like he was still with me. The expression he had, so earnest and determined. Like he cared about me. He’d been so… so kind. I’d looked into his eyes and it was like we were seeing each other so clearly, so truly.
Scalding hot liquid seeped from the corners of my eyes. It was good that there were people in the world like Landon. It was a tiny defense against the horror that people were capable of. But maybe… maybe that tiny bit was enough. A light in the darkness.
Cops, ambulances, fire department—they’re gonna be here in just a minute. You’ll make it out of here, Brian. I swear.
I wished Landon was there right now. Because it felt like part of me was still bleeding out and maybe he could hold me together.
My mom sat down in the chair next to the bed, a tense smile on her face. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah.” My voice croaked, an octave deeper than usual.
“How are you feeling?” She took my hand, watching me warily.
“Like crap.”
Her smile got braver. “I’m sure you are. But so far there’re no signs of infection, so that’s great news. That’s the major danger with a stomach wound, the doctor says. A few more days and you’ll be in the clear.”
Great. So I was still in danger. That was nice.
I tried to sit up, but my mom stopped me. “Let me. Don’t try to do it yourself, Brian. You’ll tear something.”
She raised me up a little with the remote, then handed it to me.
“Listen, there’s someone here from the police. They want to talk to you, but if you’re not up for it—”
“Okay,” I said.
Mom looked worried. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. If they had information on the shooting, I wanted to hear it.
She went out and brought back a man. He was wearing an old brown suit jacket and tie, not a cop’s uniform. He was maybe in his thirties with dark hair and a tough but weary face.
“Hi, Brian. I’m Detective Mike Flannagan. But everyone calls me Detective Mike.”
He held out a hand, and I shook it, my grip weak.
“Hi. So have you caught the guys?” I asked.
His mouth drew into a line. “Not yet. Feel up to answering some questions?”
I nodded.
He took out his phone. “I’m just gonna record this so I don’t forget anything. Can you tell me exactly what happened? Everything you can remember.”
I swallowed, my stomach fluttering. I told him, using as few words as possible. From deciding to go to Lunch A, to the alarm, to finding the hole in my stomach. Mom hovered in the background at first, but she soon left the room, like she couldn’t listen to any more.
“Did you get a look at the shooters?” he asked me.
“No. I was behind the water fountain.”
“Um-hmm. Um-hmm.” He pursed his lips. “What about in the window, like a reflection. Did you see them there?”
“I—” I stopped, thinking about it. It never occurred to me that I might have seen their reflection. Had I? “I don’t remember seeing that.”
A wave of nausea rolled my stomach at the idea, at the memories brought up when I tried to picture it. My fists clenched in the sheets.
“Okay.” Detective Mike nodded calmly. “And what did you hear?”
“Nothing. Gunfire.” I swallowed hard.
“They never said anything? To each other or to the room? Maybe before or after they started firing?”
“No.”
I couldn’t remember anything like that either. My back suddenly felt hot and sweaty against the bed.
“Okay.” Detective Mike smiled. “That’s fine. One last thing. Can you do me a favor and give me the names of anyone you saw in the cafeteria? Perhaps when you first entered or were in line getting your food? We’re trying to get a lock on where everyone was that day. Any names you can give me would be a big help.”
My throat was dry. There was a glass of water on the bedside table, and I drank a few sips. My stomach ached and throbbed.
I named everyone I remembered seeing. The guys I’d bumped fists with. People who I exchanged nods or smiles with. Everyone I could think of.
“Can you wrap it up, please?” That was my mom, standing in the doorway. “He’s obviously in pain.”
“Sure,” Detective Mike said easily. He took out a card. “I’m going to leave this with you, Brian. If anything occurs to you later on, you can call or text me. My email’s on there too. Sometimes the subconscious mind takes in details we don’t remember until later. Okay?”
He put the card on the table and turned to go.
“How many?” I asked, my voice thin.
“Honey, I don’t think—” My mom started.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “I’m not gonna freak out again. But I need to know. Please.”
Detective Mike looked at my mom, then at me. “Forty-two were killed. There are a dozen still in the hospital, like you.”
Forty-two. I stared at the ceiling again. God, so many. Who were they? Were they my friends? My teachers? Guys I ran drills with at football practice?
“What about Landon Hughes?” I asked.
“Who?”
I felt along the bed and found the remote. I pressed it, bringing the head of the bed up farther. This was important. “Landon Hughes. He kept me from bleeding out. He held—he stayed with me. Is he all right?”
I had no memory of the ambulance or how I’d gotten out of the cafeteria. So I wasn’t sure if Landon had been safe in the end.
My mom stepped forward, her expression soft. “The boy who helped you? Yes, he’s okay, honey. In fact, I saw him on the news this morning.”
Thank God.
“What about Jake? Cameron? Gordo? Jennifer?”
“Brian, I’m gonna let you talk to your mom,” Detective Mike said. “Unfortunately, I can’t discuss the investigation, and not all the names have been released. But thanks again for talking to me. You’ve been a big help. Speedy recovery.”
He left the room. But I wasn’t about to let my questions go.
“Mom? What about my friends?”
Her expression wavered—a flicker of grief, like she was trying to hide it. She hesitated. “Jennifer’s fine. And Cameron and Gordo too.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. The pressure on my chest threatened to crush me. “Jake’s dead?”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Mom smoothed back my hair, her voice wobbly. “I know you’ve been through an ordeal, and it’s so, so hard. But I promise you God won’t give us any more than we’re able to bear. Everything will be all right.”
She was wrong. I already had more than I could bear.