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“No, no, I’m okay, I’m okay. Where’s Andrew? Where’s your brother?”
“He’s outside.”
“Go to Andrew.”
“But Mom—”
“Shh. It’s okay, baby. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re—”
“Shhhhhh. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. Go to your brother. Your brother needs you.”
The doctors kept working, and there was nothing I could do to help her. I went back
outside to be with Andrew. We sat down together, and he told me the story.
They were coming home from church, a big group, my mom and Andrew and Isaac, her
new husband and his children and a whole bunch of his extended family, aunts and uncles,
nieces and nephews. They had just pulled into the driveway when Abel pulled up and got out
of his car. He had his gun. He looked right at my mother.
“You’ve stolen my life,” he said. “You’ve taken everything away from me. Now I’m going
to kill all of you.”
Andrew stepped in front of his father. He stepped right in front of the gun.
“Don’t do this, Dad, please. You’re drunk. Just put the gun away.”
Abel looked down at his son.
“No,” he said. “I’m killing everybody, and if you don’t walk away I will shoot you first.”
Andrew stepped aside.
“His eyes were not lying,” he told me. “He had the eyes of the Devil. In that moment I
could tell my father was gone.”
For all the pain I felt that day, in hindsight, I have to imagine that Andrew’s pain was far
greater than mine. My mom had been shot by a man I despised. If anything, I felt vindicated;
I’d been right about Abel all along. I could direct my anger and hatred toward him with no
shame or guilt whatsoever. But Andrew’s mother had been shot by Andrew’s father, a father
he loved. How does he reconcile his love with that situation? How does he carry on loving
both sides? Both sides of himself?
Isaac was only four years old. He didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, and as
Andrew stepped aside, Isaac started crying.
“Daddy, what are you doing? Daddy, what are you doing?”
“Isaac, go to your brother,” Abel said.
Isaac ran over to Andrew, and Andrew held him. Then Abel raised his gun and he started
shooting. My mother jumped in front of the gun to protect everyone, and that’s when she
took the first bullet, not in her leg but in her butt cheek. She collapsed, and as she fell to the
ground she screamed.
“Run!”
Abel kept shooting and everyone ran. They scattered. My mom was struggling to get back
to her feet when Abel walked up and stood over her. He pointed the gun at her head pointblank,
execution-style. Then he pulled the trigger. Nothing. The gun misfired. Click! He
pulled the trigger again, same thing. Then again and again. Click! Click! Click! Click! Four