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times he pulled the trigger, and four times the gun misfired. Bullets were popping out of the
ejection port, falling out of the gun, falling down on my mom and clattering to the ground.
Abel stopped to see what was wrong with the gun. My mother jumped up in a panic. She
shoved him aside, ran for the car, jumped into the driver’s seat.
Andrew ran behind and jumped into the passenger seat next to her. Just as she turned
the ignition, Andrew heard one last gunshot, and the windshield went red. Abel had fired
from behind the car. The bullet went into the back of her head and exited through the front of
her face, and blood sprayed everywhere. Her body slumped over the steering wheel. Andrew,
reacting without thinking, pulled my mom to the passenger side, flipped over her, jumped
into the driver’s seat, slammed the car into gear, and raced to the hospital in Linksfield.
I asked Andrew what happened to Abel. He didn’t know. I was filled with rage, but there
was nothing I could do. I felt completely impotent, but I still felt I had to do something. So I
took out my phone and I called him—I called the man who’d just shot my mom, and he
actually picked up.
“Trevor.”
“You killed my mom.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You killed my mom!”
“Yes. And if I could find you, I would kill you as well.”
Then he hung up. It was the most chilling moment. It was terrifying. Whatever nerve I’d
worked up to call him I immediately lost. To this day I don’t know what I was thinking. I
don’t know what I expected to happen. I was just enraged.
I kept asking Andrew questions, trying to get more details. Then, as we were talking, a
nurse came outside looking for me.
“Are you the family?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Sir, there’s a problem. Your mother was speaking a bit at first. She’s stopped now, but
from what we’ve gathered she doesn’t have health insurance.”
“What? No, no. That can’t be true. I know my mom has health insurance.”
She didn’t. As it turned out, a few months prior, she’d decided, “This health insurance is
a scam. I never get sick. I’m going to cancel it.” So now she had no health insurance.
“We can’t treat your mother here,” the nurse said. “If she doesn’t have insurance we have
to send her to a state hospital.”
“State hospital?! What—no! You can’t. My mom’s been shot in the head. You’re going to
put her back on a gurney? Send her out in an ambulance? She’ll die. You need to treat her
right now.”
“Sir, we can’t. We need a form of payment.”
“I’m your form of payment. I’ll pay.”
“Yes, people say that, but without a guarantee—”
I pulled out my credit card.
“Here,” I said. “Take this. I’ll pay. I’ll pay for everything.”