There was a payout, a big one, to all the families who had lost children, or been affected, like Bonnie for mental trauma, or James Smith, who Doug shot in the leg. Her parents put the money in an account for her education. It was invested well, and it grew into a sizable nest egg by the time she graduated college.
But it didn’t matter. Because Doug had ruined her life that day.
And it was her fault that all those people had been killed.
Because that day when he told her about the gun in the library, she never said a word about it. In fact, she promptly forgot about the conversation and about Doug as soon as she climbed into Jessie’s mom’s SUV to head to their house for pizza, movie, and a sleepover. The truth was that she didn’t think about Doug at all, before, unless he was right in front of her, or unless she needed his help with something. And she was only nice to him because her mother had taught her that it was important to be nice to everyone.
And maybe it was. Maybe Doug would have killed her, too, if she hadn’t been. He only had one bullet left in his gun, and he used it on himself. Or maybe it was just because he couldn’t open the door. Maybe it was because he, too, heard the sirens.
But he killed a part of her. The part that believed that the world was a good and safe place, that people most of the time were helpful and friendly, that her future was bright with possibilities. And even though she went on to college, to grad school, to become a college English professor at the small private school not far from where her parents still lived, part of her never moved on from that day, from the moment. It was a weight she carried forward, a dark cloak that seemed perpetually wrapped around her. Her parents worried, she knew that, as her friends all partied their way through their twenties, met “the one,” got married, had babies. Not Bonnie. She stayed back there in the English classroom, watching Doug shoot himself in the head. Over and over.
Of course, there had been a battalion of therapists. Medication for a time. She’d even written into her favorite advice columnist once. It helped; it all did—a bit. She healed some, moved on, was productive enough. Still, she had trouble joining life, building friendships, dating. That was why Jessie, who was still her best friend, forced her to join Torch. And it was on Torch that she met Shawn.
“You know darkness,” he said to her that first night. They’d left the bar where they agreed to meet and found their way to a park bench, sat while the full moon glistened on the lake water and talked. “I see it in you.”
The statement startled her into telling the truth.
“I do,” she admitted. She told him, in broad strokes, about the school shooting.
“I do, too.” He’d had a violent childhood, he said. He’d lost a sister. He didn’t offer details and she didn’t press. “It’s part of life. You don’t have to fear it. To accept it is an embrace.”
He quoted Rilke. “‘You are not surprised at the force of the storm…’”
And something inside her relaxed and felt known for the first time since the day she watched Doug die. All this time, she’d wondered how she could live knowing what darkness awaited. With Shawn, she realized all of it, light and dark, life and death, was one terrible, beautiful mingle, and that the whole point was to just live well, while you could.
She disappeared into him. He was her first everything—her first love, her first real mature kiss, her first nongroping, nonawkward, and vaguely unpleasant sexual encounter.
Her parents had worried before that she was too lonely. But they didn’t like Shawn.
“He seems controlling, Bonnie, brooding,” said her mother gently. “Are you sure he’s for you? You’ve always been such a bright spirit.”
She loved her parents. But they smothered. She needed a break.
Now, she drove, hypnotized by the night and the winding of the road. It wasn’t much farther now, she didn’t think. She’d left her phone, cleared out her accounts, followed the map he’d left for her. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. It was like an adventure.
“There’s a place where we can go,” he told her. “Not forever. But for a time, where we can disconnect from the madness of the modern world. You can write. I can do my work from anywhere. Think of it as a retreat. When you return to the world, you’ll be stronger, more able to face the madness and not be swallowed by it.”
It made sense. The world had gone mad—social media had turned people into narcissists, there were more school shootings than ever, the planet, long abused by corporate greed, was angrily unleashing fires and horrific storms. Maybe it was time to retreat for a while. Once upon a time she’d dreamed of writing—poetry, maybe a novel.