Ever since I was a little girl of nine or ten, I've had this weird, morbid fantasy about coming home to the blinking lights of cop cars and ambulances. I mean, logically I know it would be terrible to have cop cars and ambulances in front of my house because it would mean that something bad happened. But it would also mean that my life just got interesting. And it wouldn't have to mean that somebody died. Because it's awful to fantasize about someone you love dying. And sometimes cop cars and ambulances are in front of houses for reasons other than death. In fact, I think that there are usually way more cop cars and ambulances at those kinds of scenes than are actually necessary. It's like every cop and paramedic within a hundred mile radius gets the same call over the radio and they all go to the scene. So even if it's just a little old lady with chest pain or a broken hip, it looks like they're running a drug bust out in front of her house.
Anyway, every day since I was ten years old and my mom started letting me to walk to and from school by myself, I've thought of that. I live on one of those pretty, tree-lined streets, in a suburb of Chicago called Evanston. All the houses in my neighborhood have well-manicured lawns and the sidewalks never have garbage on them, which is a plus. Whenever I'm just about to turn the corner and my house is going to come into view, that thought about cop cars and ambulances pops into my head. I think, what if today's the day? What if today's the day that there are a ton of cops and paramedics outside my house?
And then one day, it happened. It was such a regular day, I almost couldn't stand it. It was one of those days that made me think, is this all there is to life, every day the same thing over and over and over until I die? I got up, put on my favorite jeans, the ones that have rips in them that make my mom crazy, but I've had them for two years so they're all soft and worn in and even though they're a little short, they work fine in the spring because I can roll up the bottoms and make capris out of them.
"We need to get you some new cloths, Hon," my mom said when she saw me. She was standing at the stove, scrambling eggs with a spatula.
"I like these!" I said. "They're comfortable." I paused, "Not that I'm opposed to new clothes. Just give me your credit card and I'll get right on it."
And that's how the day went-nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. I ate breakfast, went to school, listened to my best friend Joann tell me the same story over and over about her new boyfriend. He's such a man, he got a tattoo of a pineapple just because, and isn't that hilarious, and he's not like all the other guys, blah, blah, blah. I mean, I love my Jo, but it's like as soon as she tells me something, she forgets she told me. So I have to hear every story exponential amounts of times.
Most of my walk home, I was thinking about what I was going to make myself to eat. I was thinking, I want a grilled cheese. I think we have cheese. Do we have bread? And then of course, right before I turned the corner onto my street, I had that same old thought-what if today's the day that there are cop cars and ambulances outside my house? Zero percent of me thought that there would be. And then I turned the corner.
Two cop cars and an ambulance. TWO COP CARS AND AN AMBULANCE. So many thoughts raced through my mind-they're in front of my house right? Where's my mom? Oh my god, please let her be alive. Please, please, please, what, what, what, oh my god. Without even realizing it, I started running as fast as I could toward the scene. I was wearing flip-flops and I ran so fast, one of them fell off my foot, and I left it. I didn't care. Then I was standing in front of a cop-a young guy, fresh faced and kind of nervous looking. There was this tiny part of me that registered the fact that this guy was very good looking, and I hated myself for noticing. It probably has something to do with being traumatized, like how if you flipped your car and you were stuck inside and everything was burning around you, there would be this small part of you that would think, I'm going to die wearing these underwear? I guess that's how the human mind works, or at least that's how my mind works.
"I'm Mae Carver. This is my house. What happened?" I asked the beautiful young cop. He put his hand on my forearm, I think both to comfort me and keep me at bay.
"I'm Jim-uh, Officer Deaver," he stuttered. "We got a call that there was a domestic disturbance at this address." He was a little breathless, which made me uneasy. Cops are supposed to be stoic and calm, and I almost felt like he needed me to comfort him.
"What?! What kind of domestic disturbance? My mom is Geraldine Carver. Is she ok?" My mind was racing-domestic disturbance, domestic disturbance, oh my god, what, what, what-like a stock ticker of terrifying possibilities. "Did my stepdad hurt my mom?!" I almost shouted. It felt like I'd been waiting years for an answer to the question that was screaming inside my head-WHAT HAPPENED??
"Everyone is ok," Officer Deaver said, and his face softened as he said it. He was obviously relieved to be able to give me some good news. "I don't know all the details, but there was a fight that escalated and your mom ended up placing a call to 911." I looked past him and tried to find my mom or my stepdad, Alan. I saw some cops milling around in my front yard, and if they weren't in uniform, they could've been at one of those beginning of summer barbeques, standing around the grill talking about wives and kids and world news. Finally I spotted Alan sitting on our front steps, talking to an officer. He kept pointing toward the ambulance, then running his hands through his thick wavy hair. He looked more distressed than I'd ever seen him, and even though I was pretty sure this incident had been his fault, I felt sorry for him in that moment.
It occurred to me just then that I'd been standing there talking to Officer Deaver for what seemed like hours but was probably just a few minutes, minutes I'd wasted. I needed to find my mom-NOW. I pushed past him and ran toward the ambulance. Its back doors were open and I could see my mom sitting on the stretcher inside. An older man with graying hair, who I assumed was a paramedic, was dabbing at my mom's cheek. She had an ice pack in her hands and she appeared to be laughing. Wait a second-laughing? I felt a hand on my wrist as I started to climb into the ambulance. I looked back, and there was Officer Deaver, his big brown eyes almost pleading with me to not make his life harder by not respecting his authority.
"Miss Carver," he said, pushing his brown hair, which was the tiniest bit damp, off his forehead. "Please let the medics do their job." I just gave him an are-you-kidding-me look and ran over to my mom.
"Mom! What happened?" I sat down next to her on the stretcher and felt the cool metal floor of the ambulance against my bare foot. One of my flip-flops was lying in the street somewhere. My mom turned to me and I could see her left cheek was cut and her eye was almost swollen shut. "Oh my god, mom! What did he do? He hit you?!"
"Oh honey, I'm so sorry you had to come home to this," she said. "Alan and I..." she trailed off. "We had a fight, and-"
"And he hit you?" Rage started to build up inside me and any sympathy I had felt for Alan disappeared. I felt like I was in the middle of one of those TV shows my mom loved to watch, like Dateline. You know, where the wife is found strangled in the bedroom, or she goes missing and then months later, they find her bones in the desert. The cops try to figure out who did it, and 80 percent of the time it's the husband. And the other 20 percent of the time, it's the ex-husband or the boyfriend.
I sprang up off the stretcher, jumped out of the back of the ambulance, and ran across the yard toward Alan. My mind was quiet now and singularly focused on getting to Alan and hurting him. I started screaming before I got to him, and I don't even remember what I said. It was like I floated up out of my body and was watching the whole scene play out from above. I heard Officer Deaver yelling at me to stop, but his voice was so far away. I tasted something hot and salty and I realized tears were streaming down my face. I didn't even remember starting to cry.
The last thing I remember is Officer Deaver grabbing me, putting his arms around me and squeezing tightly to hold me back. I wanted him to let go, so I could get to Alan and kill him. I wanted to kill Alan for hurting my mom. I wanted to kill him for hurting me, for ruining our family. I struggled to get away from Officer Deaver, but it also felt good to have his arms around me, the way it always feels nice when someone gives you a really strong, tight hug. In the weirdest way, it made me feel safe. But that's the last time I felt safe for a while.
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Nebraska Stars
Подростковая литература"It was just one kiss. It only lasted a moment, and when we pulled away, reality came rushing back. I could see it on his face. He stepped away from me and even though we were only inches apart, I felt like I was standing across a raging river from...
