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As Henry advised, I’ve refused all interviews. Or at least I had until yesterday, when I was so desperate to get out I agreed to visit the elementary school Sophie and Hayley attended. I should have said no. I know that. But I needed to get out. I needed to get to that hotel and wrap my hands around Geoffrey Dunsmore’s throat.
Call it cabin fever, call it murderous rage, call it not wanting to leave a job undone. Call it what you want. Henry will surely be pissed. But students at that school are grieving the loss of two classmates, one of whom happened to be shopping with his dad, who was also a teacher there.
The older of his children died holding strawberries as his father tried to shield their bodies with his.
I don’t know why this matters, but reporters keep asking me what I saw on the way out of the grocery store, once SWAT had arrived. They all want to know the same thing: if I got a gander at the kid clutching the strawberries.
I hadn’t actually. But I did see a kid Sophie’s age with a hole in his stomach the size of a man’s fist, still pumping out blood. I did see an elderly man with half his face shot off, but somehow his death isn’t what they want to hear about, even though the details are quite gruesome, because, you know, a life well-lived and all.
Anyway, at the school they let the students ask the questions. The event was broadcast live. On the replay, the ticker across the bottom hailed me as Incredi-Mom or Wonder-Mom or something like that, and I guess it’s all about branding these days.
The point of visiting the school was to assuage the public’s fear and to let the kids know that there are more good guys (even if they’re women) than bad. The free clothes and the hair and makeup were nice incentives, I won’t lie. I was asked not to bring up the fact that I used a gun to take the assailant down, nor has the media shown much interest in reporting that fact either.
It’s better, I was coached, to let them think I stopped the assailant with my bare hands. Which I might have done, had I been able to get close enough. Which I wasn’t able to do, not without my weapon, which I am thankful for, because without it there would be a lot more people dead, myself included. But no one wants to hear that. It detracts from the message, they said.
I’m a hero, they said.
I give people hope, they said.
The producers made a big point of mentioning several times that it’s perfectly okay to cry on air. I’m not sure what that will solve and still I think back to yesterday, wondering if maybe I should have heeded their advice. If only I’d shed a tear…then maybe.
I imagine it playing out differently, like if I’d just said the right thing, if I’d just sniffled a few times this could all be over.
I replay the scene, picturing myself going through the motions. I see the kids seated on the floor of the cafeteria. I am on stage under hot lights, and all I can think about is being on that plane, arriving at O’Hare, killing the mark, waking up and doing it all again. It’s the simple things in life that make you most happy. That is what I was thinking sitting there, my face broadcast around the world.
Fame is such a distraction.
I smile for the camera.
The irony does not escape me.
Neve Jordan, anchor of Good Day America, asks the audience if they have any questions for Incredi-Mom. One by one, I watch as tiny hands shoot up in the air. Most of the students want to know about superheroes, about what it’s like, if I know any, until this one kid, the kid that ends it all, raises his hand. Suddenly, my face feels tight and frozen. My fake smile is plastered on, while my hands remain folded neatly in my lap. The kid stands up slowly, tilts his head, and says very curiously, “So what does it feel like to shoot a man in the face?”
I swallow hard, looking directly into the camera. I smile nervously as if to say, kids these days. And then I turn to him and answer honestly. “It feels really, really good.”
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte
The camera pans to the left and then to the right again, before shakily zooming in on the girl’s face. Up close, she looks different. Younger.
Nonetheless, it’s obvious who it is.
The girl on our flight from Fort Lauderdale to Austin.
Wearing nothing but a faded T-shirt and underwear that might have once been white, the transformation is shocking. For one, she’s rail thin. Thinner than just a few days ago. Dirtier, too. Her knees are blackened. Dark circles outline her eyes.
Whatever they’ve done to her, it’s drastic.
The camera shakes as a deep male voice orders her to remove the shirt. When it steadies and zooms in on her face, I notice a subtle shift in her eyes, a flicker of fear or surprise, maybe both, which causes my palms to instantly sweat. Wiping my hands on my silk trousers, I mentally catalog everything I can about the girl and the room and the voice.
It doesn’t sound like Geoffrey Dunsmore, but I can’t be sure.
“Nice pants,” Henry says, drawing my eyes away from the screen. “What are they…Reiss?”
I smile. Henry looks out of place standing at my bar, his coffee mug untouched making it all too obvious idle chit-chat is not why he’s come. “Yes.”
“Well, they suit you. But it’s strange,” he says, rubbing at his chin. “I don’t see how he doesn’t see it.”
