Seconds Away

CHAPTER 4

It began with a hard knock on the door.

I had been dreaming about my mother and father. We were somewhere I’d never been in real life-my mother, the legendary Kitty Bolitar, was playing tennis.

Before she got pregnant, my seventeen-year-old mother was the top-ranked amateur female tennis player in the world. She quit tennis to have me. And she never played again.

Weird, right?

In the dream, Mom is on center court playing in some big-time match. The crowd is huge. I sit in the stands next to my dad, but he doesn’t see me. Dad just gazes lovingly at my mother on the court. They had been so happy, my parents. Most adult couples with kids, well, they aren’t like that. Sure, they eat together and go to the movies and all that, but they seem to rarely make eye contact. They just occupy the same space, but maybe there’s a comfort in that, I don’t know.

But it was different with my parents. They never took their eyes off each other, as though no one else existed, as though they’d just fallen in love that very morning, as though they were ready to sprint across a field of daisies and embrace with some corny music playing in the background.

Yes, as their son, I can tell you that it was mortifying.

I always assumed I’d find love like that. But now I don’t want it. It isn’t healthy. It makes you too dependent. You smile when they smile. You laugh when they laugh. But when they stop laughing, so do you.

And when they die, a part of you dies too.

That’s what happened to my mother.

In my dream, my mother hits a cross-court winner with a whiplike forehand.

The crowd screams.

A voice says, “Game, set, match… Kitty Bolitar!”

My mom flings her racket in the air. The crowd rises to its feet. My dad stands and claps and has tears in his eyes. I try to stand and clap too, but I can’t. It’s as though I’m glued to the chair. I look up at my father. He smiles down at me, but suddenly he starts floating away.

“Dad?”

I struggle, but I still can’t get up. He’s floating toward the sky. My mom joins him. They both wave for me to follow them. Mom calls out to me.

“Hurry, Mickey!”

But I still can’t move.

“Wait!” I shout.

But they keep floating away. I put both hands on the armrests and try to will myself up. But I’m trapped. My parents are still in sight, but they are so far away now.

I will never reach them. I take a deep breath and try one more time to stand.

That is when I realize that I’m being held down.

There is a hand on my shoulder. The hand is strong. It locks me in place.

“Let me go!”

But the hand’s grip tightens. I spin all the way around and there, standing over me, with that same hope-crushing expression on his face, is the green-eyed, sandy-blond paramedic.

More knocks on the door.

The paramedic vanished. So did my parents.

I was back in my basement bedroom. My heart pounded. I sucked down air and tried to calm myself. The knocking grew louder.

Why hadn’t Myron answered?

I rolled out of bed and climbed the steps.

More impatient knocks.

“I’m coming,” I shouted.

Where was Myron?

I reached the front door. I knew I should have asked who it was, but I just opened it. Two policemen in full uniform stood there.

I took a step back.

“Mickey Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Officer McDonald. This is Officer Ball.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“There’s been a shooting. We need you to come with us.”