What Happened to the Bennetts(7)

I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to wail and howl in disbelief and fury. Lucinda sobbed, tears pouring from her eyes. Ethan cried like a little boy, a sound I didn’t know I remembered until now.

I knew we could not all fall to pieces at the same time. I was Daddy. I was the center, and the center had to hold. I tried to make sense of it. My voice came out choked. “What . . . happened?”

“The gunshot severed her jugular veins and tore other vessels and muscle. She sustained significant blood loss.” Dr. Chen’s eyebrows sloped like a roof sagging under snowfall. “I’m so sorry. We tried everything.”

“Explain it to me, please.” I needed to understand. I was trying to comprehend something incomprehensible.

“The external jugular vein is large and on top of the muscle that enables you to turn your head. It was severed by the bullet, which went through the front of her neck on the left and exited out the back, causing her to lose a massive amount of blood.”

My gaze fell to the doctor’s hands. I realized they were the last to touch my daughter alive.

“A young person has roughly ten pints of blood. At a fifth of blood loss, a body goes into shock. Your daughter lost almost half.”

I flashed on the horrific memory. I couldn’t speak. I could barely hear him.

“We transfused her, but she had a cardiac arrest.”

I shook my head. “Her . . . heart? Her heart is . . . perfect, it’s strong. She’s an athlete, a superb athlete.”

“Yes, but with significant blood loss—”

“I tried to stop it with my shirt.”

“That was the proper protocol. You did everything right. You did everything you could have.”

I knew why the doctor was saying that. I could see it in his knowing eyes and hear it in his gentle tone. He didn’t want me to blame myself. But I hadn’t asked because I wanted absolution.

I would never absolve myself.

Ever.





Chapter Four



The next hours at the hospital were a blur, and I traveled through them numbly. Dr. Chen told us they had to perform an autopsy on Allison, which made Lucinda cry harder—they can’t do this to her, we can’t let them—the prospect eviscerating her as if she were the one being emptied of her organs, reduced to a hollowed-out shell of a mother.

I held her close. She wanted to see Allison’s body, and they showed us to an operating room. We left Ethan in an anteroom with a nurse, guessing that it would have been too much for him, and we turned out to be right. The OR was empty, chilly, and immaculate, filled with gleaming equipment and lined with cabinets. The overhead fixture was shaped like a saucer, and only a few lights had been turned on, illuminating a gurney of molded plastic, which held a body covered by a white paper sheet. There was a large bump at the head and little bumps at the feet.

Lucinda burst into new tears, and I managed not to fall to pieces when I walked her to the gurney and moved the paper aside, just enough to see the beautiful face of my daughter. It wasn’t possible I was seeing her this way, now. It couldn’t be happening.

Her eyes were closed. Her skin was pale. Her hair was darker at the hairline, dried sweat from the game. Her headband was gone. A faint reddish line from an oxygen mask encircled her mouth, where only hours before had been a blue mouth guard. She still wore a retainer at night.

I didn’t dare lower the paper sheet another inch. I knew we couldn’t handle seeing the wound on Allison’s neck. I covered her face again, and Lucinda collapsed, sobbing against our daughter’s chest.

I rubbed Lucinda’s back, but didn’t succumb to emotion. I couldn’t. Lucinda bent over to hug Allison, crying so hard I worried she would never stop. In time, a nurse came to the window and caught my eye, and I sensed they needed the room.

I signaled to her for a few more minutes, stalling, not wanting to leave my daughter here, behind, for good, forever. I found myself reaching under the sheet to touch Allison’s cheek one last time. It was cool but soft in the way of young people, full of promise. I felt my heart break. Tears blurred my eyes. My daughter could’ve done anything, she could’ve been anyone. I wanted her to be whatever she wanted to be. I wanted her to be alive. I had taken alive for granted.

Anguish tore me up, and I understood why mourners shredded their clothes. I found myself saying I am so sorry I am so sorry, then I realized I was entering dangerous emotional territory, my rage resurfacing. I clenched my teeth so hard I couldn’t say another word.

Lucinda mopped her eyes before we collected Ethan, and she sagged as we were led to the police cruiser, where Moonie barked with happiness, oblivious. Ethan scooped the dog up, buried his face in his coarse coat, and hugged him in the back seat, crying all the way home.

Somehow we got upstairs, and Lucinda and I brought Ethan into our bedroom, cuddling with him. The bedroom was dark except for ambient light from the window that faced the street. The curtains were open, and I could see the cedar shakes of the Brophys’ roof and the zigzag tree line of the Whitmans’ windscreen across the street. The blue Nittany Lions flag in front of the Corbuzes’, next door. All the markers of my life, still in place. Except everything had changed.

Lucinda’s tears subsided, her sobs finally ceasing. Ethan fell asleep in time. I closed my eyes to the rhythm of his respiration, one breath after the other, in and out of his lungs. I didn’t know what to do or what to think. I didn’t understand. It had all happened so fast. It was as if she slipped through my fingers. My hands were still sticky with her blood, dry now, flaking off. It itched. It seared.