It was Tuesday that it happened. Or actually, maybe it was Thursday. I know it definitely wasn’t Sunday though. Anyway, it was sometime in the morning and I had just gotten out of the house. I saw Mr. Rowland when I was walking down the street, and he waved at me. Or Mrs. Rowland. One of them had the little girl trailing along like a little piece of cotton, caught on an adult’s hand and dragging a bit on the snarls in the road. Megan, I think her name is, right? She waved at me with her free hand in kind of a desperate grab at the air, though I think I’m a stranger to her. I waved, saluted back in a way I guess.
I didn’t see anyone else I knew til I got to the school to pick up Patrick, early, because he was sick. He had a headache. Or a stomachache. Wait, no, I definitely saw Ellen running home with all her grocery store bags slung over her arm. She always walks, because the store’s only a block away–two blocks–and then she piles herself with cans and bags and hobbles home, trying to get everything unloaded before she strains something. She was so harried and shiny that she didn’t even kiss me on the way, just gave a bit of a nod. Though she might’ve said something.
When I got to the school, there must have been at least two police cars in the lot, their lights all flashing. Four cars. Lots of police officers. They were all milling about like ants swarming on something sweet. You could practically see their mandibles clicking. Do ants have mandibles? Anyway, I edged past them and tried to go inside, and someone stopped me, a policeman. A policewoman, and she said–he said, “Excuse me, this is a crime scene. We can’t let you past.”
I felt the ground waver under me and I said, in a voice gone high with fright, “You don’t understand, my son is inside. I have to get in. You have to let me in, my kid’s in there. Please.”
She shook her head, but she was uncertain. I said “Please,” again and she turned to ask. I ran in, like I was sneaking in, my heart pounding too fast and my brain blurred with panic. I shoved through the doors and ran, and my feet pounded as fast as my heart down the linoleum hallways of the school. I could hear the buzz of voices in some nearby corridor, down the English wing. Or math. It must’ve been science, actually, I think I remember the wasp wings or frogs and skulls or whatever it is in lacy tufts and clunks of bone, all caught in jars that lined the shelves running down the hall.
I rounded a corner and there was a whole gaggle of people crowded around a body on the floor, my god there was blood streaking the cheerful dull tiles and limbs crooked and there was Patrick’s face in the crowd peering over and my god, my heart skidded and thumped and then picked up its ragged rhythm. I thought all my bones might just let go and clatter on the floor. He saw me and he ran to me. He elbowed his way through the crowd of kids and teachers and the shrill words, “Everyone, it’s okay, he’s going to be fine, it was an accident. Back up–Sarah get back right now or you are staying in detention for a week. Back up.” Patrick landed in my arms and I don’t know what they were all saying or what the other kids were doing or what was happening with the kid on the floor or the cops who were filtering through, saying things like “The ambulance is on its way, ma’am, has someone heard from his parents?”
My kid’s arms were locked around my neck and he was shaking a little, just a tiny shuddering in his shoulders, and I held him while he tried not to cry and I felt so immensely hugely scared and relieved and certain, for a moment, that holding onto Patrick meant everything was going to be okay. I remember that.
I love this, that panic leading to a lack of memory and details.
I love your style. So conversational and good to read.
This is brilliant. You captured the fog that comes with trauma. That the single important thing to remember eclipsed everything else. Well done!