“Go on, it’s okay,” she encourages me.
I tell her that the man points the gun at us and holds it steady. Of course the murderer has a gun. How could we be so stupid?
“I can’t let you leave now, can I?” the man asks, eyes narrow and dark.
He takes another step, gun still pointed, and Luke must know what’s coming, because at that moment, he does something heroic. Or stupid.
Luke drops my hand, shoves me away toward the mouth of the alley, and shouts, “London, run!” at the top of his lungs.
And I try.
But the bullets stop me.
My mom’s hands are covering her mouth now as I tell her the rest: the world going silent after the shots stop; the rhythmic footfalls of the man fleeing the scene; the minutes when I believe I’m dying, lying faceup staring at a starless city sky. The guttural groans that pull me from my trance and drag me toward my dying boyfriend.
I pause to take a few deep breaths and then tell my mom about Luke’s final moments. No last words. No sentiments. Just Luke, gasping for air, raw terror in his eyes.
42
I blubber my way through the end of the story, nose running, eyes overflowing, shoulders heaving. It’s contagious, and my mom and I cry together for the past and the future.
When there are no more tears, my mom startles me by standing and slapping her thighs as she rises.
“Get up,” she commands me. I am now so buried in the cushions someone might mistake me for furniture.
“Get up, London,” she says again.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Yes, you can,” she says, leaning over to help me. When she finds one of my hands, she grabs tight and tugs. I can’t help but stand.
“You were right, we need to go to the police,” she says, drying my cheeks with her hands. “You were right. We need help. We’re going to fix this.”
>I unbuckle my belt. As I climb over the seat to the front, I see my dad over there with the carts. It’s fine. He’s nearby. He’ll be happy to see my mommy’s friend, too.
Like I do when I pretend to drive in the garage, I hit the locks. They all click.
Before I see the man, I hear Jonas scream. He doesn’t like strangers. I turn around to see the man taking him out of his car seat. Jonas doesn’t like it; he’s crying and kicking.
Then his cries are getting quieter because he’s going away.
“Daddy!” I scream as I watch my mommy’s friend and the man put Jonas in a van. I’m never supposed to get out in a parking lot but I do anyway. “Daddy!” I scream and scream until he hears me and runs.
Daddy listens to what happened and drives fast and chases the van, but we hit a car and that’s all I remember.
Tears are running down my cheeks when Luke rejoins me in the car.
“Take me home,” I say quietly, and he does.
41
“Are you all right?” Mom says as she rushes toward me. When she reaches the chair where I’m curled in a ball, wrapped in a woven blanket and otherwise attempting to shield myself from the world, the back of her hand instinctively flits to my forehead.
“I don’t have a fever,” I say, shaking her off. “I’m fine, I just need your help.”
She takes a step back in her business suit and heels and looks at me warily.
“Okay…” she says.