A Spark of Light(37)

When George’s hearing returned, it was with the man’s scream.

—


THE GUNMAN WAS OUT OF control. He was muttering to himself; he had stomped on Dr. Ward’s leg. Izzy bent down over the poor man, soothing, trying to do something—anything—to stave off the pain. Dr. Ward was shivering, sweating, in shock. The false comfort of the status quo had been shredded, and what would happen next was anyone’s guess.

She glanced over at Wren. The girl had her eyes screwed shut as if she was trying to will this into a nightmare, instead of reality. She must still be holding the scalpel. Izzy had known she had to get rid of it as soon as she saw the shooter doing full body checks before and after each woman went to the bathroom.

She blotted Dr. Ward’s forehead with a strip of gauze. On the pretense of ministering to him, she said loudly, “Ssh, it’s all right. It will help if you focus on something else right now …” Izzy looked up, as the other women turned at the sound of her voice. She made eye contact with each of them in turn. “Think of a nice beach maybe. Down on the Gulf Coast. I don’t get down there very much myself, but my boyfriend and I, we keep talking about taking a trip.”

If the shooter noticed that she stressed that last word, he didn’t show it.

There was a charged moment of silence. They had all read the missive in the bathroom, but there hadn’t been an explicit plan of action.

Suddenly Joy grabbed her belly and jackknifed forward. “Ow,” she moaned. “It hurts. It hurts like crazy.” She began rocking back and forth.

“Shut her up,” the shooter commanded. He turned to Izzy. “Do something.”

Izzy moved toward Joy. “Do you still feel the pain?”

“Yes,” Joy said, squeezing Izzy’s hand three times. A sign. “Right now.” She screamed.

“Shut her up,” George said. “Shut her up or I’ll …”

He stepped forward, either to threaten or to coldcock her, but as he did Janine stretched out a foot.

Just like that, George Goddard went sprawling.

—


NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW.

Wren watched him trip, and when he did, he dropped the gun.

When she was very little, she used to imagine what it would feel like to fly. On windy days she would unzip her raincoat and spread her arms and leap into the air and know, just know, that she was airborne for an extra heartbeat.

Now, she flew.

She leaped off of the couch and dove for the gun at the same time George did. Her hands were still tied so she went down like a stone and wriggled on her elbows. It was a tenth of a second and, at the same time, an eternity. She felt her fingertips graze the barrel of the gun and he knocked it away from her.

Wren raised her bound hands and slammed them down as hard as she could into his outstretched palm.

He howled, and the scalpel stuck deep in his flesh, sliding from between Wren’s palms.

“You bitch,” he cried. He yanked the blade from his hand and then grabbed the gun.

Wren couldn’t get up. Her hands were still tied—the angle of the scalpel, when she had held it, had made it impossible to cut the tape, although she had tried like hell. She scooted backward on the carpet, slipping in the fresh blood from Dr. Ward’s injury. In that moment all she could see was the shooter’s red, red eyes and the twist of his face and his thumb pulling back the trigger. She wondered if it would hurt, when she returned to stardust.

—


WHAT WE KNOW, OLIVE COULD tell you, is not what we think we know.

One year, she had run a psychological study in which she told her collegiate subjects that scientists had discovered a chemical that had antiaging benefits. When told that the scientists didn’t really know how that worked yet, the students reported not understanding how the antiaging effects occurred. But when told that scientists had figured out the methodology, the students reported an understanding of the process—even without being given the details.

It was almost as if knowledge was contagious. People constantly claimed to “know” something when they didn’t have the facts and tools to uphold their claims.

Maybe for this reason, she’d thought that at this moment, she would be reliving the high-water marks of her life, the memories of love and joy and justice. She thought she would see her first kiss with a girl made of moonlight in a lake at summer camp; or her last kiss with Peg, when each put a bookmark in her reading material and curled toward the other like parentheses before they turned out the light.

Olive thought, and therein lay the mistake.

When it came down to it, at the end, you did not think. You felt.

What did she feel?

That you will never cease to underestimate yourself.

That love is fleeting.

That life is a miracle.

That the reason she had come to this clinic, on this day, at this hour, was this.

Acting purely on instinct, Olive LeMay threw herself in front of the bullet.





Two p.m.





THE SUNLIGHT WAS OVERWHELMING.

Izzy watched it glint off the silver bars of the wheelchair. She was temporarily blinded and then forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, to push the wheels over the threshold of the clinic door.

It wasn’t just the sunlight, though—it was cameras and shouted questions as someone emerged from the belly of the beast. Izzy froze, unsure of where to go and what to do.