We Are Not Like Them(9)
“What? What happened?”
“I have to go.” She’s in motion, gathering her bag, her coat, knocking over her purse, picking it up by one strap. A tube of ChapStick falls and rolls across the floor.
“Wait. Jen. You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“Something happened… to Kevin.”
It is these four words that will haunt me, how she phrased it: Something happened. To Kevin.
“My Uber’s pulling up,” she says. “Look, I’m sorry, I just need to find out what’s going on. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” She’s already standing, buttoning her coat. She moves in for a quick hug.
I’m worried, but also a little pissed at being inexplicably shut out like this.
“Okay, then.” I probably sound bitchy but she’s not listening anyway. She’s halfway out the door.
When the bartender appears, I order a second drink, which is noticeably stronger than the last one, practically a shot. Maybe he saw Jenny rush out. Maybe he thinks I was dumped by my pretty, white, pregnant girlfriend, which makes me laugh a little. The liquid singes the back of my throat as I drain the glass and then search for my phone, calculating that it’s been at least an hour since I’ve checked it, a record these days.
Adrenaline pricks at my skin when I see I’ve missed three texts from Scotty.
We need you tonight.
Where are you?
Get here, now.
He also sent two emails. As I open them, my whole body buzzes, the tingles. A Black teenager shot by a Philadelphia police officer, in critical condition. I make the sickening connection. I know exactly why Jenny had to rush home.
Chapter Two JEN
In my dreams I never see it happen: never see Kevin get shot, never see my husband splayed out on the pavement, bleeding out. The nightmares always begin in the morgue, a scene straight out of Law & Order, a freezing room with puke-green walls. He’s lying on a metal table when I arrive. No matter how hard I try, I can never touch him. My arms are glued to my sides, and I can only stare at his dead body. I’ve had that dream once a week since he started at the academy.
The truth is, I never wanted to be a cop’s wife. When I met Kevin, he sold Internet ads for a living—good, safe, stable, boring. Thinking back on it now, I should have known better. The way Kevin had told me, so proudly, on our very first date that he came from a long line of police officers. Even Kevin’s younger brother, Matt, had recently joined the force. But in the next breath Kevin insisted he liked it at Comcast, and that if he left it would be to become an entrepreneur, maybe design an app or something, the type of vague grandiose shit you can get away with saying when you’re in your twenties and have bright blue eyes and a headful of floppy curls that I kept wanting to run my hands through.
I wanted to be something bigger back then too, whatever that meant. My number one goal was to get the hell out of waitressing ASAP. I was so sick of working at Fat Tuesday, slinging watered-down margaritas to drunk sports fans who grabbed at my ass. I wanted to get a degree or start some sort of business, or maybe get my real estate license so I could flip houses. The details didn’t matter so much. My single goal in life could be summed up pretty simply: whatever you do, do not turn into Lou. And then there was Kevin, banner-ad-selling Kevin, who had his own apartment with framed pictures on the walls and a real couch (not some stained futon), a good salary, health insurance, and all I could think was: This. I want this. I’d always had this feeling that the life I wanted was out there and I was just waiting for it to arrive, like a bus. Or waiting for someone like Kevin to arrive. A year later we got married, and life was going to be stable and safe and maybe even a little boring, just like I wanted.
Safe and boring went out the window a year after our wedding when Kevin turned to me out of the blue and said, “I wanna be a police officer, Jen. I’m joining the academy. I don’t want to look back on my life and say the best thing I ever did was convince more chumps to sign up for Xfinity.” His dad had recently retired from the force after suffering from a severe stroke, and my brand-new husband was suddenly all about carrying on his legacy. Being a cop became Kevin’s “dream,” and once he said that, used that word, what could I do or say? I wasn’t going to stand in the way of my husband’s dream.
And now, here were are in this nightmare. As far as I know, Kevin has only ever even pulled his gun once. And now this. Not that I know any details yet, beyond Kevin’s text: I shot someone. But there’s nothing to do now except wait. I’d raced home from the bar so fast, leaving Riley there all worried and maybe even pissed at me, but Kevin still isn’t home yet. He’s probably being grilled in some dark room at the station.
I pace the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to beep, while terrifying thoughts tumble round and round like socks in a dryer. Administrative leave. Investigations. Lawsuits. Hell.
When I grab the mug of hot water, my hands shake so badly that steaming droplets splash onto my bare feet, burning tiny sparks. I yelp and so does our dog, Fred. I scratch the wiry fur behind her ear to hush her. Then I return to my cup, bobbing the tea bag, willing it to release all the magical “calming” ingredients promised on the box. It hasn’t even had time to steep, but I take a sip anyway, and the liquid scalds the tip of my tongue, making it go numb. If only the same thing could happen with my mind. I carry my steaming tea to the living room and am settling back on the couch when Fred yelps again. This time it’s a happy sound, the one she makes when Kevin’s key turns in the lock. The door slams, and my husband’s voice carries through the foyer. I think he’s talking to me until I realize he’s on the phone with his brother.