And Then We Were Girls, Again
by Margaret A. Frey
My sister bought a gun after her husband's heart attack, a myocardial infarction that snuffed him out like a fragile candle. There was nothing Kat could have done though she'd been an EMT trainee, had worked ambulance runs and routinely responded to ghastly injury, suffering and death.
"You win some, you lose some," she'd often said. "But when you win, the payback is huge."
It was a job that fulfilled her need for service, challenge and controlling difficult situations. It was a job she loved. But the morning George fell dead on the kitchen floor, Kat froze momentarily then dialed 911. Nothing she'd witnessed, no textbook example offered a practical or life-sustaining action. The man she'd loved for eighteen years was dead within seconds. She would never work emergency medicine again.
On the phone, Kat talked casually about the gun, as if firearms were a standard remedy for loss and grief. She'd bought a semiautomatic, decided against the lighted sight [something she regretted later, she said] and mentioned she was taking shooting lessons.
"I'm good, too."
She was smiling, I knew, flushed with jittery excitement from too much coffee and nicotine. I didn't want an argument to match an earlier gun "discussion." I kept my voice level and calm.
"Lessons. Wise idea."
"I like shooting," she said. "I like how a gun feels in my hand."
I know there are countless gun lovers and sportsmen throughout the country. Still, this enthusiasm sounded odd.
Kat had always been the fearless one when we were kids. On hot, sticky nights, we often scrambled through a back window and leapt onto the flat roof of our father's garage. Kat was the first one out, her lanky frame suited to broad jumps and cat burglary. She teased me about my fear of heights, but once she'd secured a footing, she would lean back and offer me a steady hand. The air outside was cool, the sky a starlit, velvety dome. Worth the risk. Those nights seemed eons ago.
"Why the gun play?" I asked.
A breathy pause.
"Excuse me. This is not play. They've had house invasions in Daytona. I won't be a victim. Anyone breaking in will be sorry and dead."
No room for joking.
Our first gun dispute had followed another medical emergency. We lived in the same state then, two townships apart. Our father had been slipping away in agonizing inches, but in the ER, he appeared acutely aware. He couldn't talk; Alzheimer's had cruelly robbed him of coherent speech. But we saw his terrified expression, a look so nakedly vulnerable that words were unnecessary.
After he was stabilized and sleeping comfortably, we left the hospital and went to a bar. Kat placed her new acquisition on the table. The gun was small, dainty. I thought it a toy. Or perhaps, a clever lighter.
"Pick it up," she said. "Has a nice balance."
I shrugged and examined the mother-of-pearl inlays, then stupidly peered down the slender barrel.
"Are you crazy?" She grabbed the pistol. She shook her head with disgust. "It's loaded."
"And I'm crazy?"
The conversation had quickly deteriorated — my insistence that she could easily shoot herself, her teenage daughters or me for that matter, and her argument that the world was a dangerous, sinister place.
But that was then. I didn't want another argument. I didn't want to pretend I had an answer to why we lose things — fathers, beloved husbands or the way we once were.
All I had was memory.
"Remember that back window when we were kids?" I asked. Phone tucked beneath my chin, I reached out and retold the story with my hands.
She laughed, softly. "You were afraid of jumping. And getting caught."
"Still am."
And then, she talked about George, how she'd only just acknowledged he wasn't coming home. "Can't pretend forever, I guess." Her voice quavered on the word, forever.
We continued talking about children and aging and how hard living alone can be. The more we talked, the more we laughed and remembered. And for a moment, we were girls again, the very ones who'd scrambled through windows and leapt together into the cool, night air.