I am Ashley Clarke’s Mother (Chapter 1)

The kitchen was quiet, eerily quiet compared to the night before. I tiptoed toward the coffee maker as if on eggshells, even though A.J. was still in his room upstairs. Picking up a stray piece of broken picture glass from under a bar stool, I remembered the sound it made as A.J. smashed the picture frame of the three of us against the granite counter. It was supposed to be my night. The best night I’d had in years, and it was, until I got home.

“A.J., time to go!” I yelled.

I miss my happy, sweet little boy, I thought as I picked up what was left of the photo of us: a two-year-old A.J., with idyllic curls, between me and his father Dustin, dressed in his army fatigues. I wish it wasn’t like this too.

“Come on!” I yelled. “You’ll be late.”

“I’m ready,” he said standing in the hallway, dressed entirely in black, with his guitar case strung over his shoulder.

I still love you, even if I hate this rebellious phase you’re in.

“Oh, there you are. Okay. Don’t forget that I have a PTO meeting tonight after work. There’s a meatloaf in the fridge for dinner. Help yourself when you get home.”

“Sure.”

“What are you doing with your guitar? You know I don’t want you going over to John’s house after school anymore.”

“He’s in the band and we have nowhere else to go to practice.”

“It’s a band now? Who else is playing with you guys?”

“No one.”

“Can it really be called a band if it’s only two people?”

He followed me into the garage.

“Local H, I Set My Friends on Fire, Middle Class Rut?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bands with two guys.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“That’s because you’re old and lame. How about Simon and Garfunkel?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Uh huh. But we’re not a band, right?”

“Get in the car,” I said. “Please.”

We drove towards the high school in silence.

“Stop here! I told you to stop here!” he yelled as we approached the corner of Oakwood and 3rd.

I pulled over quickly. I can’t handle another fight right now.

“Love you. Don’t forget about the meatloaf,” I yelled as he jumped out of the car to catch up with John, who was halfway down the block, walking toward the high school.

I don’t like that kid but I guess I’d rather he have a friend than no friends at all. I had encouraged A.J. to join a sports team when we first moved to the neighborhood, but he’d never been very coordinated and was still scrawny, even for a sixteen year old.

I drove the mile across town to work, clutching my coffee mug. My new job at the insurance company already felt old, although it had been only a year since we’d moved to the large suburb outside of Kansas City. I had read that it was one of the best places to raise a family, and we had to get away from that girl. He’s such a good kid. Why does he always seems to attract bad apples? At least he hasn’t talked about enlisting to follow in his dad’s footsteps yet. I can’t bear losing him too.

“Tammy!” I said on my way to my desk. “You’re not gonna believe what happened last night!”

“Morning Sweetie! What happened?”

“This!” I said, holding out my left hand proudly.

“Oh my God! He did it!” she squealed.

I nodded and grinned as she admired my engagement ring.

“Oh my God, congratulations!”

“Thank you.”

“Oh Sweetie, I’m so happy for you!”

She hugged me and I held on tight.

“Tell me all about it,” she said, settling back into her chair.

“He took me to Magnolia for dinner and then we walked over to the carousel as the sun was setting. They were closing up but he begged for one ride and the guy let us on. He helped me up onto the most beautiful horse and then got down on one knee in front of a glorious pink sky. It was really beautiful.”

“Wow! I knew it was only a matter of time!”

“I guess so.”

“And?” she asked.

“And what?”

“Did you tell A.J.?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Not good.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Morning,” our boss offered sternly from across the room.

“Yeah, morning.” I said and powered on my computer.

I finished off my cup of coffee and settled in, trying to find motivation to dig into the pile of receipts on my desk from our President’s last business trip.

“Oh my God, Dee!” Tammy yelled. “There’s been a shooting. At the high school.”

What?

She was in front of my desk, cell phone in hand, reading out loud, “Reports of shots fired at Fairview High. Emergency services arrived on the scene at 10:35am.”

“Are you sure it’s Fairview?”

“It says ‘Fairview High’. Says it’s ongoing.”

Oh my God. A.J.!

“Go!” she urged. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s fine,” I said and grabbed my purse.

Speeding toward the high school, I hit traffic on Front Street. A uniformed police officer was directing the line of cars into an overflow parking lot about two blocks from the high school. I parked behind another s.u.v. and realized that my hand was shaking as I popped the car into park. This can’t be happening. Not here. We came here because it was safe.

Parents emerged from their cars with looks of shock, stubborn disbelief, and confusion. I watched from my car as they formed little groups, huddling close together and nodding as they exchanged intelligence and reassurances. News crews descended on the faded parking lot and began to approach the groups of parents.

I hesitated to join them, fearing what they may or may not know, but as I sat alone my thoughts ran wild: A.J. alone in the school somewhere; A.J. injured; or worse yet, A.J. dead. I can’t bear it. I got out and floated tentatively between groups of parents that I recognized, but none of whom I knew personally.

A younger woman was in the center of one group, reading social media posts and messages from students inside the high school, the parents around her frozen listening: “I can hear them shooting down the hall. I don’t want to die.” “I love you Mom and Dad. I love you Teeny.” One of the moms broke down in tears and was comforted by her husband. A woman screamed across the parking lot, letting out a howl that sounded animalistic. Panic engulfed the anxious crowd. Parents comforted other parents as they got word of their children’s fate.

A woman pulled out her cell phone. “Oh my God! It’s a text from Nicole! She’s okay.” Tears of joy overwhelmed her and provided a momentary calm for those around her.

I pulled out my smart phone and pretended to pull up A.J.’s profile. He’d given up on social media years ago as a preteen, when online bullying had reduced him to tears for the third or fourth time. Instead I pulled up the local news stations feed: First responders on the scene, reports of two shooters, students at the high school. Multiple casualties. At least ten reported dead on the scene. Jesus Christ! The shooters go to school here. I looked up at the high school and saw a few young people running toward the parking lot. A.J.? but he wasn’t in the crowd.

I watched as more students streamed from the school toward the parking lot. As they got closer I could see their tear stained cheeks. They began to locate their parents in the now full parking lot. The camera crews invaded their euphoric reunions with microphones and spotlights.

The reunions were more than hugs and kisses, they were a sort of rebirth of children into the safety of their parents’ arms. They had survived, and as the realization of how lucky they were washed over them, they entered the world anew, although they would never be the same. They shook with the shock of knowing.

Where is A.J.? Is he hurt? Or worse? I remembered yelling ‘I love you’ to him as he got out of the car less than three hours earlier. At least I said ‘I love you’ this morning. Oh God. Stop it. I don’t know that he’s hurt.

My fatalistic train of thought was interrupted by a girl a few feet away, in her mother’s arms saying, “It was them. You know. It was the two of them. I can’t believe they did it, but I guess if anyone would, it would be them. I hope they’re dead now.”

Them? Who?

“Dee! Oh my God! Dee!” Krystal Jenkins yelled from across the parking lot, as she made her way toward me. Krystal was on my PTO committee. She was the kind of mom that thinks she can solve every problem, no matter how large or whose privacy may need to be invaded in the process. Overbearing would be polite.

God, not now!

I forced a smile and nodded.

“What about A.J.?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh my God. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Are you? Why are you so sure? Innocent children are dead. Mine might be one of them.

“What about Eliza?” I asked.

“She texted a little while ago that she was okay but we haven’t seen her yet,” she said, clearly worried.

“She’s probably on her way out now,” I said, as I looked toward a line of high schoolers walking toward us.

“Yes.”

As the students made their way across the fields that separated the parking lot from the school I thought about A.J. I know I haven’t always been a perfect mom, but you’re all I have. Please be okay. I need you.

Emotional reunions played out again and again around me. As I watched the tears of joy, fear, and relief, I thought about my husband, Dustin, and the tears of sorrow and fear that I had shed on that cool autumn day when the news came that he’d died honorably, serving in a vast, lonely desert half a world away. A.J. was too young to understand what had happened, so I lied at first. His dad had been away on one tour after another since he was born, so for my innocent five-year-old son it was just another day, but it broke my heart every time he asked when his daddy was coming home. As he got older I would find him staring at a framed photo of his dad in the desert in his army fatigues and camo helmet, with a rifle perched against his chest.