how to make our very different dreams come true.”
Both Dena and Mary Ann broke into huge grins and our glasses came together in one clear clink.
We spent the next hour listening to exactly how Monty had popped the question. We marveled that he had taken the trouble of flying to Palm Springs in order to get her father’s blessing. We laughed at how Mary Ann’s blue-collar, pragmatic father must have reacted to Monty, who had undoubtedly described his love for Mary Ann with all the flourish of a sommelier describing the floral notes of a wine. A few days later, when Mary Ann had been at a hotel dusting color on the pale face of a bride, Monty used the key she’d given him to slip inside her apartment and place a gift in almost every room. When she got home he acted as her guide, leading her to one whimsical treasure after another. The last present had been placed in her bedroom. Mary Ann recalled sitting on the edge of her bed, unwrapping the Tinker Bell figurine, her shoulders hunched over as she carefully peeled the tape away from the metallic silver paper. She had been totally mindless of Monty, who had knelt on the floor beside her…until she found the ruby of course. It was then that she realized that Monty wasn’t just kneeling; he was on bended knee.
Eventually I excused myself to the bathroom and Mary Ann went to her room where she was going to retrieve the bridal magazines she had already begun to collect. Dena stayed in the living room hoping that another glass of champagne would help make the pages of flouncy white gowns and ruffled bridesmaid dresses more tolerable.
I was washing my hands when I heard…something. A high-pitched pinging sound followed by something falling. It was heavier than the thud of a dropped book and much more substantial than the sound of a broken glass. I couldn’t even begin to think of what it was that had hit the floor, but for reasons I couldn’t begin to explain the sound of its fall had frightened me…and not just a little bit.
I opened the bathroom door at the same time Mary Ann stepped into the hall, balancing what looked to be twenty or so magazines in her arms. She looked at me questioningly. “Did you hear that?”
I nodded and looked toward the living room. “Dena?” I called out. “Everything okay?”
Mary Ann and I both waited for a response. The only sound was the rush of the heater coming on.
And all of a sudden something shifted. It wasn’t tangible and I couldn’t put a name to it but somehow the consistency of the air changed. It took on weight and it rushed down my throat and pressed anxiety into my lungs. Something was wrong.
Mary Ann dropped the magazines and I was at her heels as we raced out into the living room.
Dena was on the floor. One hand was grasping the corner of Mary Ann’s basket weave rug.
Both of us lunged to Dena’s side.
“Dena?” Mary Ann cried. “Dena, what happened to your back?”
My eyes immediately zeroed in on the small but growing circle of blood underneath her shoulder blade.
“What?” Dena managed, her eyes moving back and forth between us. “What?”
I had seen that kind of wound before. Not there, not in the back…but I had seen the wound. I had seen it in the chest of an attacker…right after I shot him. My eyes jerked up toward the front door. It was open.
“Don’t move!” I demanded in a hoarse whisper as I carefully scanned the room. There were no heavy curtains to hide behind. But the kitchen…could he still be in the kitchen?
“I can’t,” Dena whispered back. “I can’t move…my legs are cold! Sophie, why can’t I move my legs!”
And with those words the air grew even heavier. I heard myself make some kind of strangled cry but that was all I could manage. It hurt to breathe. I choked back my rising panic as my eyes darted around the room in search of something that would work as a weapon. There was a heavy vase, a letter opener, perhaps the poker by the fireplace…
But what good would any of those things be against a gun?
Our best bet was a quick response from 9-1-1. Mary Ann didn’t have a landline, only a cell.
“Dena, where’s your BlackBerry?” I forced myself to ask.
“In…my bag.”
“And yours?” I said, glancing at Mary Ann.
Her eyes went over to her own purse. All of our cell phones were in our handbags and our handbags were on the chair nearest the kitchen.
From my place on the floor I raised myself to a low crouch and went for the poker.
“Dena, please tell me what happened!” I heard Mary Ann say.
“Apply pressure to the wound,” I said urgently as I moved toward the kitchen. “And stay down.”
Mary Ann asked a question…or maybe she just whimpered, I couldn’t tell. My ears were clogged with the ringing sound of my own fear.
In one move I grabbed my handbag, threw it in Mary Ann’s direction and jumped around the corner swinging the poker wildly in hopes of knocking someone over before they had a chance to pull a trigger.
But the room was empty. We were alone after all.
And the shooter had gotten away.
I turned to see Mary Ann pressing buttons on my cell. Her fair skin was even whiter than normal.
And the circle of blood continued to grow.
CHAPTER 2
Too frequently grief is nothing more than a pathway to anger.
–Fatally Yours
Sunday, May 6th, 9:00 p.m.
I have never hated the police as much as I did that night. Yes, there were questions to answer but they should have been asked in the ambulance. They shouldn’t have kept me away from my best friend. And Mary Ann…her screams had started less than a minute after she had gotten through to 9-1-1. And they kept coming. Mary Ann’s screams became a continuous soundtrack to the horror movie I was living in.
But what really scared me was Dena’s silence. She had to feel pain. The blood coming from under her shoulder blade was proof of that. But after her first few panicked whispers she had become deadly quiet, only opening her mouth long enough to answer the urgent questions of the paramedics.
And then they took her away and I was left with police questions that I had no answer to and Mary Ann’s ceaseless screams.
I needed to get to Dena. But it was Anatoly who got to her first. When he called to smooth over our latest quarrel I told him what had happened. He wanted to come to Mary Ann’s apartment and stand by my side while I answered the impossible questions, but I didn’t let him. I told him to go to the hospital and to tell the doctors that they had to fix her.
That they had to make her talk again.
That they had to bring the warmth back to her legs.
When Anatoly told me that he didn’t have any control over those things, I started screaming, too. He stopped
