More Like Her Page 13

  “I don’t believe we’ve met formally, no,” Emma says, extending her hand in front of me and to Sam.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Sam says, taking her hand.

  “Oh, please. It’s Emma,” she says, blushing slightly.

  “Emma is the head of school,” I say.

  “Oh, wow,” Sam says, nodding, taking his beer from Grady as he hands it across the table. Sam sets the beer down and then takes my sparkling water from Grady and sets it down on the left side of my plate rather than the more convenient and far more proper right side.

  Sam continues. “Here you go, darlin’.” He knows I’m left-handed. It’s a bizarre detail to remember. When would he have seen that?

  “Thank you,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips and drinking.

  “Jamie is late,” Emma says, looking apologetically at the empty chair.

  “Traffic, I’m sure,” I say. On the Internet.

  “He . . . we had a fight. On the phone. You know . . . earlier?” Emma says, looking back down at her lap. Sam politely excuses himself from our conversation and falls in with Grady and Lisa.

  “Oh?” I ask, treading lightly.

  “It was actually about what we were talking about the other night,” Emma says, still not looking at me. My stomach drops.

  “Oh?” I repeat. Is this where I blurt that I was just looking for a tampon? I’ll have to do it quietly with Sam right here—

  “Clara, mostly. That I missed her. I was talking about looking her up. Her art, you know? Her painting. All that? She’s so close, just right over the hill in Los Feliz. We should be seeing each other,” Emma says, her eyes finally locking on mine. Now this—this is the Emma I’ve come to know.

  “Sure,” I say, wanting her to continue.

  “I told him I wanted to start painting again,” Emma says, her shoulders back, her smile wide.

  “Yeah?” I ask, smiling myself.

  “He thinks it’ll just be a distraction.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m going to look into it anyway. I basically told Jamie as much.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say.

  “Yeah, it really is,” she says.

  “And Clara?”

  “I called her. We talked. It was . . . she’s just the same,” Emma says, unable to keep from smiling.

  “Really? That sounds great,” I say, still smiling. Smiling. Smiling.

  “I told her all about you, isn’t that weird? Well, she asked why I’d called, I think that’s why I brought you up. But . . . we’re going to meet for brunch on Sunday at eleven. Some place in Silver Lake. Probably serves just edible flowers or something.” Emma laughs. Her entire demeanor has changed. She’s not the same person she was two minutes ago when she was spouting Jamie-isms. It’s absolutely beautiful.

  “How long has it been since you guys have talked?”

  “Her oldest is eight. So, almost that long. She’s got three now. I knew that, but . . . the littlest one—” Emma breaks off.

  I wait. Sam looks over. Checking in. I give him a quick wink and he smiles. Maybe I’ll invite him to Jill’s after this? No. Wait. I’m going to go to Jill’s and he can ask me what I’m doing. Yes. That’s it.

  Emma continues. “She named the littlest one Emma.” She is beaming.

  “I just . . . that’s beautiful. Congratulations. Seriously,” I say.

  “I never thought of myself that way. Someone you would name your baby after,” Emma says, her voice hushed.

  “Well, you should certainly start to,” I say, smiling.

  “Yes, maybe I will,” Emma says, smiling from ear to ear. I smile back. Her joy is contagious. This is turning out to be a pretty decent night after all. Bit of a rough patch there, but we seem to be back on track now.

  Emma continues. “So, Sam, where are you from originally? The accent . . .”

  Sam looks up. “I’m originally from Shelby Forest, Tennessee,” Sam says. I’m watching him talk and just smiling.

  “Shelby Forest . . . isn’t . . . weren’t you saying earlier that Justin Timberlake was from there?” I ask. I immediately blush.

  “You mean J. T.,” Sam says, correcting me.

  I laugh. “Ha!”

  “Oh, is that what people call him?” Emma asks.

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s from there,” Sam says.

  “I educated Sam earlier about calling Justin Timberlake ‘J. T.,’ ” I say, trying to explain. Sam laughs.

  “Oh, you two know each other?” Emma asks. Sam and I stop. Like two errant kids caught laughing in church.

  “We do,” Sam answers.

  “Oh,” Emma says, nodding.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sam says, giving me a quick sidelong glance.

  “Everyone? Everyone, can I have your attention?” Debbie announces, lifting her glass of champagne. “I wanted to thank everyone for attending tonight’s little gathering in honor of Emma’s birth—”

  “Oh, can we wait?” Emma asks, interrupting. “Jamie—Jamie’s my husband—he’s still on his way. He’d hate to miss the toast!” Emma pleads, laughing nervously.

  “Oh . . . of course. That would be . . . I’m so sorry for rushing into it!” Debbie says, now considering performing hara-kiri on herself right there. Sam asks me to pass the bread. I oblige, making eye contact with him a bit longer than either of us is comfortable with.

  “Butter, too?” I ask him.

  “That’s customary,” Sam answers, his hand outstretched, his drawl making me feel somehow naughty.

  “You could have asked for . . .” I trail off, searching the table for other condiments.

  “You’re in too deep, Reid. One could say . . . a tight squeeze,” Sam says, buttering his bread, his mouth an impossible smirk.

  “Ha!” I say, letting my head fall back, my hand resting on his arm. I’m unable to keep myself from touching him. He’s within touching distance; he shall be touched. He’s lucky I’m not grabbing his crank right now. The night is young.

  “You’re oh-so-predictable,” Sam says, laying his hand on top of mine. It’s as if we’re choosing who’s going to be first up at bat, for crissakes.

  “Here’s Jamie! I want him to meet you two,” Emma says, urging Sam and me to stand and shake hands, once again, with the mythical Jamie Dunham, the future Norman Mailer. I begrudgingly take my hand from beneath Sam’s as we all stand. I look at Sam in confusion. Why has Emma singled us out for this auspicious introduction? He just smiles and shoos me along. The entire teachers’ lounge swoons and beams at the happy couple.

  Jamie is wearing a striped shirt under a heavy blazer that hangs on his tiny frame. The weather is cool, but certainly not cool enough to warrant so heavy a coat. I imagine it’s because he has zero fat on his bones. Probably gets cold a lot. Or it’s just his demeanor incarnate. Jamie’s dark hair is “accidentally” tousled to perfection. His pale skin is delicate and transparent. He resembles a brittle dauphin from somewhere back in the annals of French history. He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers and a little pink gift bag that probably contains the Hope Diamond. Jamie approaches the table as Emma, Sam and I stand. Emma smiles at me and Sam and then back over at Jamie. She’s glowing and animated. We return Emma’s smile and I extend my hand to Jamie, fake smile in full effect. I hate that I have to shake this weirdo’s hand and smile. It’s one night. Fine. Sam stands just behind me, waiting for his turn to meet the petit dauphin.

  Jamie ignores me completely and brings up the little pink gift bag. I lower my hand and will myself not to look around at my colleagues who’ve just witnessed Little King Jamie completely disregarding me. Great. So, we’re going to keep up with the whole pissed-because-of-the-snooping-through-the-bathroom thing. I take a tiny step back just in time to see a black handgun emerge from the little pink bag. And before it registers—crack. Blood. On me. On the wall. Emma is lifted off her feet and lands like a sack of potatoes a few feet back. My ears are ringing. I can’t stop saying Emma’s name over and over again.
My voice is far away and muffled in the aftermath of the deafening gunshot.

  Chaos.

  Slow-motion chaos. Teachers running out of the lounge, out onto the balcony, diving under the tables. Barely audible screams and gasps of horror seem far away as the bouquet of flowers drops to the ground. Ryan sits frozen in his chair. I can see Jill reaching out for me, reaching and being pulled under the table by Martin. She’s crying. Sobbing. Someone’s grabbing me from behind, pulling me back and tugging my arm. Sam. He’s saying something, telling me to do something. He’s covered in blood. All over his face, his shirt. It’s everywhere. I pull away from him and kneel down next to Emma. Her beautiful blond hair is matted and bloody in my hands. Her blue eyes are glassy. Her lips, lined and glossed, are still curled into a haunting smile. A red oozing hole in her forehead. Lifeless. Dead. Sam’s hands are around me again, pulling me away.

  Jamie points the gun at us. I turn away from Emma to look straight down the barrel of Jamie’s gun. Recognition. I’m the Girl from the Bathroom. The one who stood over him and asked him what he was doing. Jamie narrows his eyes at me. Aiming. I can’t . . . I try to cover Emma with my body. I’ll be damned if he puts another bullet into her. Grady charges Jamie like a lineman blitzing a quarterback. Crack. Grady is whirled around and slams into the ground. Blood. I see Lisa clutching Grady and howling primally. His eyes are alert. She drags Grady under the table.

  “Emma? Emma?! Please . . . please . . . please wake up. Emma!” I scream, my bloodied hands cradling her face. I try to find somewhere to stop the bleeding. She’ll be okay. Stop the bleeding. The back of Emma’s head is slick and sticky . . . there’s nothing to . . . there’s nothing back here. More muffled screams and turned-over tables and chairs.

  “You want to ask me what I’m doing now?” Jamie growls, stepping toward me. Time stops. I hear the click of the gun. The creak of the floor beneath Jamie’s feet. And then, I’m being scooped up. Sam. He turns his back toward Jamie and that big, black gun and blocks me from any further gunfire. Lisa lunges at Jamie from under the table. Knocking him off balance. The gun skitters toward us. I look up. Jamie knocks Lisa away and her own fierce momentum crashes her forward into a bank of cupboards in the lounge. She is dazed as Jamie pulls another gun from that heavy blazer pocket. His pockets are loaded down. There are more? How many guns does he have?

  Crack.

  Another shot. The coffeemaker inches from Lisa’s head shatters and broken glass is everywhere. Lisa covers her head with her arms, tucking her entire body into the fetal position. Through the shrieks and sobs I can hear her muttering, “I just want to go home . . . I just want to go home.” More shrieks. People are sobbing. Calling for help, their mothers, anyone. I reach for Lisa. One hand on the back of what was once Emma’s head and another lunging for Lisa.

  “Stay down. She’s gone. I’ll go. I’ll go,” Sam growls, his arms tight around me, his full weight on top of me. She’s gone.

  “No! No! Sam!” It’s all in slow motion. Sam’s eyes are focused. Fixed. On me. Calm yourself, he nods. Calm yourself. Wait. Wait for me. Here. I nod, even though no words were spoken. I understand. I understand.

  Sam stands. Another crack. Another group of sobbing teachers shield themselves.

  Jamie’s first gun lies inches from Sam. Jamie focuses in on us. Emma—what was once Emma—me and now Sam. And then the gun. The gun. Jamie tries to act fast. He aims. He aims. His face is monstrous, not even human. Empty. With flashes of anger. Flashes of annoyance.

  Sam dives for the loose gun, his lanky frame stretching out, his fingers curling around the gun. Crack. Into the wall behind Sam. Sam ducks. Refocuses. Jamie can’t aim at a moving target. So, he turns. To me.

  Jamie. The gun. The barrel. I’m next.

  I close my eyes. And wait.

  So, this is how it ends.

  When I was little, my parents took me horseback riding in the beautiful lush mountains surrounding Mill Valley. My parents. No. No. I feel the tears stream down my cheeks. And as we trotted down this dirt path, I began to fall. Off the saddle. Off the horse. And I thought, Well, this isn’t that bad. I’m going to fall. It’s not as bad as I thought.

  It’s not as bad as I thought.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Chapter 10

  I Didn’t Consider Him a Threat

  Nothing. All I can feel are my eyes tight . . . so tightly shut that my entire face closes around them like a black hole. My hands are uncontrollably shaking as I try to steady them: one on Emma’s heart, the other behind her head. But it’s as if my entire being stands on those three points like a barstool. The rest of me is vapor. I find myself unable to connect to the ground. I will myself, with whatever I have that remains, to just . . . be brave. Wake up. Look.

  I open my eyes. Just as Jamie falls. His tiny body falling like a crackling autumn leaf just as the seasons change. He’s even insignificant in death. I blink. And turn.

  Sam. Lying on his side, his face steely and focused, his arm outstretched and the gun—Jamie’s gun—smoking, aimed and ready for another round if need be. Jamie. Unmoving as the pool of blood spreads from his lifeless body.

  ALL SHE WANTED TO do was start painting again.

  “Ms. Reid? Do you want me to repeat the question?” the detective asks. His name is Detective Samuelson and he looks about nineteen years old. It’s been almost an hour since Emma was murdered and I’m sitting on a bench outside the school with a blanket around my shoulders. My clothes will be evidence. When I finally had the chance to go to the ladies’ room, what I saw in the mirror was horrifying. Even after the techs had been all over me, blood and other more gruesome bits of Emma were still splattered across my face, crimson droplets glistening eerily in my dark hair, my pale skin a road map of Jamie’s crime. My dark eyes were as haunted and glassy as Emma’s.

  I have yet to really fuse the two identities back together—the person I knew myself to be and that specter looking back at me in the mirror. I would like nothing better than to forget what happened this afternoon. But whoever that is in the mirror won’t forget it. Can’t forget it. Can’t stop hearing those gunshots. Can’t unhear the sobs of my colleagues who thought they’d never see their loved ones again. Can’t unfeel the weight of Emma’s lifeless body in my arms.

  The red, blue and white police lights flash and swirl against the outside of the school. Every emergency vehicle in Pasadena is in this parking lot. The Markham staff and administrators dart around the school and parking lot with two agendas: make sure everyone’s safe and see that this is handled in the most delicate way possible. The human resources department has already issued a press release to the gathering media: This was an after-hours shooting due to a preexisting domestic abuse issue. There were two fatalities and one minor injury. No students were on campus at the time of the shooting. The Markham School will take tomorrow off in remembrance but will resume classes on Friday. They will also be offering grief counseling to those who need it. Pamela Jackson, the acting headmistress and former school psychologist, has already been called in and all staff will be expected to conduct an exit interview with her before we leave the crime scene.

  “Yes, please,” I say, shivering. Jill and Martin were under a table during the shooting. Ryan slipped away before emergency services arrived. The rumor was that he had wet himself. Grady was taken to the hospital with a gunshot wound to his right shoulder. Lisa went with him in the ambulance after physically threatening the EMT who told her, “You can follow the ambulance in your car if you want.” That’s not what Lisa wanted and instead she told the EMT that she was either getting in that ambulance or snatching the EMT’s hair from her head. The EMT wisely chose the former. From Lisa’s updates, we know that Grady is still in surgery. He should be fine, the doctors are telling her. He’ll have some muscle trauma, but the bullet didn’t hit any bone, which is apparently very lucky. Jill and Martin are there with them now. From what I’ve gleaned, the guns (all four of them) that Jamie used were .4
5s. I don’t know a whole lot about them, but I can tell you exactly what a gun like that will do to a person. I’m not comfortable knowing any of this new information.

  “Here you go,” Sam says, giving me a Styrofoam cup filled with tea and settling in next to me. The steam from the hot tea wafts up and into the cold night air. We were supposed to be at Jill’s by now. We were looking forward to just another Wednesday night. I don’t understand what happened. I have to know why. I have to know why a room filled with people became extras in Jamie and Emma’s tragic and bloody demise. How Grady Davis is in the hospital, Emma is dead and Sam was made to shoot someone because . . . what? Because Jamie didn’t want Emma to start painting again? Because she had the audacity to call her sister? Why? So senseless. How did this happen?

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the cup in one hand and holding on to Sam with the other. I’m still shaking. I can’t stop shaking. Sam spent most of the last hour being questioned about the shooting. Everyone is assuring him that he did what he had to do. That Jamie had been planning this and had every intention of killing everyone in that room had Sam not stepped in. Sam did what he had to do, they keep saying.

  He’s a hero.

  “How many shots were there?” Detective Samuelson asks, his notepad out, his eyes eager. I close my eyes. The deafening sounds of the gunshots. The slide show of images that will be forever burned in my brain. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack . . . Crack.

  “Nine,” I say, reliving each shot.

  “Nine,” Detective Samuelson repeats.

  “One at Emma, one at Grady, one at Lisa, one at the other teachers, one at Sam and then . . . ,” I say, my voice robotic.

  “Then?”

  “My four,” Sam says. I look at him. Take him in. His jaw is tense, the muscles tightening, his teeth clenched. This is what I look at. Not his focused eyes or his mouth that keeps telling everyone he’s fine. Yes, you’re welcome. Thank you, he doesn’t feel like a hero. Yes, it was terrible. It’s his jaw. His jaw is telling the truth.