Interim(132)

“I’m not sharing,” Mr. Walters said, snatching the candy bar and ripping it open.

He was starving. Jeremy was starving. Everyone was starving and tired and cranky and angry. They were confused and worried, too, but they hid those emotions. After all, anxiety was weakness, and they wanted Regan to sense only strength, even if that strength came in the form of an argument.

When Regan was once more stabilized, Mr. Walters asked the doctor to please keep her alive this time. That launched another fight—more of a spat—and Regan’s dad was relegated to the main lobby for a few hours.

No one wanted to discuss the tragedy—thirty-two minutes of terror. No one wanted to discuss the victims, both dead and wounded. Twenty-two. Twenty-two victims—eleven dead, eleven wounded. Split right down the middle like she’d planned it, like she was a killer with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Among the dead, four teachers: Mr. Armstrong, Ms. Stacy, Mr. Howard, and Ms. Griffin. She died shortly before the medics reached her. Seven students—all of them connected to Hannah’s pain in some way. All considered bullies, even the unlucky one who caught the bullet through the lab door. But they were victims now—given no opportunity to right their wrongs, to grow and be better, to mature and learn how to love.

Jeremy thought of Brandon—his last ditch effort to dig deep and find the goodness within. He hated Jeremy’s guts—the sentiment pounded all over Jeremy’s body—but he wouldn’t allow Jeremy to die for him. Maybe it was pride, but Jeremy didn’t think so. Or at least he chose to believe that Brandon made the conscientious decision to do something right—to save his life—and Jeremy would forever be indebted to him.

The massacre was the only news—both local and national—for two weeks straight. Along with it, came all the mistakes of up-to-the-minute reporting. The numbers changed daily. The killer had a multitude of motives until everyone agreed on one. The gun debate flared up right on schedule—that moment directly after the first report. Everyone cried and screamed and fought with one another and proclaimed their moral superiority.

“I know what’s best!” they bellowed during discussion panels on cable news networks.

White noise to Jeremy. It was all white noise. He was the only one who truly knew Hannah. He was the only one who could understand her pain and her plan. That understanding didn’t excuse what she did, but it allowed him to release the day—her horrifying actions and death—from his heart forever. There was no reason to dwell on what she did or how she went. His only reason lay clinging to life in a hospital bed on the fourth floor of Mountainview Regional Medical Center.

“Regan?” he said tentatively. “You know it’s really unfair if you leave me.”

Silence.

“I can say with certainty that I’ve had one of the shittiest lives ever,” he went on. “And I deserve to be happy.”

Pause.

“With you.”

He watched her closely.

“I feel like you need me to remind you,” he said. “There’s this—” He pointed to his scar. “—and my angry dad. Who I killed, by the way. Yep. Killed my dad because he tried to kill me over the gu—” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Well, he tried to kill me, anyway. Then there’s Brandon and his gang. Brandon’s weird hero thing that’s totally f*cked with my head. Hannah and all the stuff that happened with her. Oh, our school massacre. There’s that. Remember my journal? Remember how I wrote about doing exactly what Hannah did? Are you hearing this, Regan? My life is f*cked.” He paused. “No wait. My life was f*cked until we started talking. And then dating. You changed everything. You made it better. But you’re not done making it better, so you have to wake up eventually.”

She remained still.

He sighed. “I can yell at you again, but that might get me banned from the hospital.”

He thought he saw her mouth twitch. He froze, watching her carefully. No movement. He imagined it.

“Regan, wake up,” he ordered.

Slight movement. Now that he didn’t imagine! He sprang from his chair and grabbed her hand.

“You awake?” he asked.

He tried to be cautious about it. She hadn’t moved since she’d been admitted. What made 2 P.M. on a Saturday afternoon so different?

He eased his grip on her hand. “Move your fingers.”

Her index finger jerked.

His face lit up. “You heard me yell at you, didn’t you? And your dad was so pissed. Soooo pissed! But I was right to yell at you, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I, Regan?”