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I try to move. I try to shift, to stand, to push myself up and out of bed. I have to get to her. I don’t know what is going on, only that whatever it is, that whoever has forced their way into our home and tied me up and bludgeoned me, is not here to make friends. My head swims. It feels dull and heavy. My feet and wrists are bound. I should know what to do. I’ve been trained for this, but none of the information is easily accessible. Pain has made my recall nonexistent.
Eventually, I drift back into nothingness. I don’t want to, I fight it, but it’s no use. The darkness takes me anyway.
I awake to hushed voices speaking rapidly down the hall. I no longer hear Nicky’s cries, but one voice belongs to Bethany. Our bedroom door is open and in the next room, I hear Bethany giving instructions. Numbers. Banking information. Based on the bits of the conversation, I make out that she is at the computer. She always has issues with that computer. Suddenly, I feel dizzy. They are going to kill her. I turn my head to the left and puke all over the sheets my wife proudly brought home just last week. I’m so tired. If it weren’t so cold and if my wrists and feet weren’t bound and if my wife weren’t about to die, I might just go back to sleep. But I don’t go back to sleep. I know that I have to find a way out of this room, out of this bed, out of these restraints. I know enough to know this isn’t a simple robbery. I saw the perp’s face before he knocked me out. It’s one I’ve seen before, one that is etched in my memory. It’s the same face I put behind bars three years ago. He did not come here simply for money. Men like him never do.
According to the clock on the wall, it takes me eight minutes to free myself from the restraints and the bedroom. The first thing I do once I’ve freed my hands is reach for the drawer in the nightstand. I fish for the gun only to find it missing, which isn’t surprising. It’s efficient, but a terrible hiding spot. I grab the one in my T-shirt drawer instead.
Instinct kicks in. I take inventory as to what I’m up against. I flip the power switch. Nothing happens. The power has been cut, and the alarm did not sound. The intruders are not amateurs. Keeping me alive has been their first mistake. Hopefully they’ve made others.
Slowly, I move toward the door, tiptoeing quietly, carefully. Unfortunately, in my haste I am not careful enough. I bump the lamp at the end of the dresser and it crashes to the floor. The one Bethany’s mother gave us as a housewarming gift, the one my wife insisted on keeping just in case her mother ever asked about it. I hated that lamp from the first time I saw it. Now it lies broken on the floor. Now it has given me away.
I round the corner quick, gun drawn, counting the men within eyesight. There are two. One is standing over Bethany, who is seated at the small desk built into the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. He’s staring back at me, wide-eyed. I am guessing he is not the one tasked with making sure I stayed in bed. He positions the pistol at her temple, a clear warning.
The other man has his weapon trained on my children. Nick and the girls are on the loveseat, huddled together, their eyes glassy, their faces mostly blank. It’s apparent they are in shock.
Bethany has her back to me. She argues with the man standing over her, insisting,swearingthat the password she is typing in is correct. She promises she isn’t lying.
She isn’t.
I know my wife and I know how bad she is with numbers. She can’t remember a password to save her life. Obviously. Our household finances have always been my job. Bethany has never cared to be involved.
I shift my stance, training my gun on the man seated opposite my children, calculating how fast I will need to be to kill both men. If it’s just the two of them, I might have a shot.
My hand isn’t as steady as I’d like it to be, but it helps that I’m running on nerves and adrenaline. My training has kicked in. Lining up my sight, I take aim. Abby sees me and she shouts my name, and all hell breaks loose. I fire, hitting the man closest to my children in the shoulder. But I don’t stop there. I empty my clip into the both of them. Everything happens fast, but it feels like slow motion.
Bethany falls to the floor and then claws her way under the desk. I rush toward our children. The intruders have toppled everything over, and I am not that steady on my feet. It’s a strange thought, but I realize I will ever only know bits and pieces of whatever has happened in this room.
Nick runs toward his mother. The girls don’t move. Abby is slumped over onto Kelsey, her face buried in her sister’s chest. At first I think she is crying, or hiding, or both. When I reach down to lift her up, I feel the warmth, and I know. She’s been shot. When I look down, I see Kelsey is covered in blood. Abby rolls in my arms, her head flopping backward over my arm. Her eyes are fixed open. They stare at the ceiling. I shake her before I drop to the floor. I feel for a pulse, although I know I won’t find one. I know my daughter is dead. But that still doesn’t stop me from trying to save her, from ripping her once pink pajamas open and performing CPR. I hear Bethany’s screams and I feel Kelsey tugging at the sleeve of my shirt. “Daddy,” she whispers. “Abby is dead. Mommy is bleeding.”
“Daddy!”
I feel a hand on my chest. It shakes me. “Dad, wake up.”
I open my eyes to find my children standing over me. Nick looks alarmed, and Kelsey has tears streaming down her face. “Daddy, you’re doing it again.”
* * *
I rear up,until I’m sitting fully upright. I clutch my chest and try to catch my breath, and when it doesn’t work, I ease back against the headboard like a cornered animal. I am covered in sweat. I am certain a heart attack is imminent. This is more than reflux. I am going to die. And my children are going to witness it.
“It’s just a bad dream,” Nick says, forcing the glass of water that was on my nightstand in my face. “Breathe.”
My hands are shaking too much to take the glass, so I wave him off, wiping the sweat from my brow. Nick counts backwards from ten. “Slow deep breaths, like the doctor said.”
He’s talking about the therapist, not an actual medical doctor, and I don’t know when he grew up, but I do as he requests, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly.
When the shortness of breath passes, I lift the covers, and Kelsey climbs into bed with me. I expect Nick to follow suit. But he doesn’t. He stares at me, a little frightened, but also with a disappointed look on his face. “You’re okay now?”
“I’m fine,” I say, inching over. I pat the spot next to me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“You talk in your sleep,” he tells me, as he shakes his head. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Should I come tuck you in?”
He gives me a look. A look that reminds me of his mother. “Just help Kelsey get back to sleep. Mom will be pissed if she falls asleep in class again.”
“You shouldn’t use that language,” I say. It’s important to remind him I’m still his father, even if he has outgrown my bed, even if he has assumed the caretaker role in this moment. He may think he is too old and too tough to need me, that perhaps I need him more, but he is wrong. “Goodnight,” I add. “Thank you for the water.”
“Tell me a story,” Kelsey says, watching Nick retreat from the room. “But Dad?”
