Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

She took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on what the handsome cop was saying. But all the while she wondered how much Angela’s investigator had uncovered about Roland Charles Wright, who shot seven people in a cafeteria at Central Evanston Township Community College — before a security guard put a bullet in his throat. Of the seven people shot on that winter day, two died, one of them his teacher, Nick Sorenson. The other was a twenty-year-old student from the Philippines named Tina Gargullo, who worked parttime in the cafeteria. According to some news reports, Roland Charles Wright had been pestering her for a date, but Tina had refused his advances. He’d also alienated some of his classmates in the creative writing class in which he was enrolled. Five other people were wounded in the shooting spree: a cashier in the cafeteria and four students. All of them were treated and released within a day or two — except for one. Janette Wilder, a divorced thirty-two-year-old mother of two, had been taking a Spanish class at the community college. She was shot twice in her right leg, and then confined to a wheelchair for the next three months. Even after she endured extensive physical therapy sessions, the doctors said Janette would probably walk with a limp for the rest of her life.

Molly sent letters of apology to every one of the wounded — and to Tina Gargullo’s parents in the Philippines. After some research, she found the address of Nick Sorenson’s widowed mother — on Gunnison Street in Chicago — so she could visit her in person. Mrs. Sorenson was the woman who spit in Molly’s face.

Molly had wanted to tell her that she’d read Nick’s book, a coming-of-age story that was sweet and funny and sad. She wanted to impress upon Mrs. Sorenson how sorry she was. But it was a futile gesture. She didn’t blame Nick’s mother for hating her.

But Molly had expected some support from her own mother, who refused to come to Chicago for Charlie’s meager, furtive funeral. “I’m so disappointed in you,” she’d told Molly over the phone. “How could you let this happen? He was your responsibility. How did he get his hands on a gun? For God’s sake, you should have been watching him more closely. . ”

Her mother claimed that if Molly had let her put Charlie in the state-run halfway house, they could have avoided this tragedy.

After that conversation, Molly didn’t talk to her mother for four months.

But she talked to several doctors and psychologists, who assured her there was no way she could have anticipated what Charlie was about to do. They tried to counsel her in grief and guilt, but nothing they said really helped.

Her mother broke the silence when she phoned Molly, needing money. They were polite to each other and kept it brief. From then on, Molly phoned her once a month to ask if she needed funds. Molly always sent the check inside an artsy greeting card, scribbling Hope you’re well — Molly on the inside.

Sixteen months ago, Molly had written inside the card bearing the check: Met a very nice man a while back & was married last week. Please note the new home phone number and address. Hope you’re well — Molly.

Part of her felt horrible for being so impersonal about it. Yet another part of her got a strange satisfaction letting her mother know she wasn’t part of this milestone in her life. Mostly, she was fishing, hoping her mom would care enough to phone and ask about her new son-in-law. But her mother didn’t phone. When Molly called her a month later to inquire if she needed more money, she had to ask, “Did you get the last check — and my note?”

“Yes, thank you, Mary Louise,” she replied coolly. “Congratulations.”

Tears filled Molly’s eyes, and the hand holding the cell phone began to shake. “His name is Jeff Dennehy, and he was married before — and divorced. He has two children — Chris, he just turned seventeen, and Erin, she’s six. They’re really nice kids. And Jeff’s wonderful.” She paused, and then sighed. “Not that you give a damn. Am I right?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“I’ll call you next month, Mother,” Molly murmured. Then she clicked off the phone.

Her mom hadn’t always been like that. She used to have a wicked sense of humor. She’d start telling stories at dinner, and soon the whole family would be laughing hysterically — to the point at which whatever Charlie was drinking started coming out of his nose. She was a good artist, too. Molly remembered her designing their family Christmas cards every year. And it was her mother who taught her how to paint and draw. She’d made it so fun.

After her dad had died, when her mother was moving to Florida, Molly had helped clean out her parents’ old house. She’d found dozens of homemade cards her dad had saved that her mother had drawn. They were cute, clever, and very endearing. I’m Crazy About You! she’d written on one of them, under a cartoon of a woman with birds and stars swirling around her head — while she admired a muscle man on the beach. The cartoon characters even had a passing resemblance to Molly’s parents in their younger days.

Her mom’s sense of humor and fun seemed to have died along with her dad. Whatever was left must have died with Charlie.

That was something Angela’s hired snoop couldn’t know about her family.

Molly tried to pay attention as Chet Blazevich talked about what they should do to better protect their homes against intruders. But she was still fighting the nausea and light-headedness. She felt even sicker as she imagined Angela sharing the detective’s findings with her gal pal, Lynette, and the new girl on the block, Jill.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, unsteadily getting to her feet.

Chet Blavevich stopped talking for a moment. But Molly didn’t look up at him — or anyone for that matter. Eyes downcast, she retreated toward Lynette’s powder room, through a hallway off the kitchen. Her legs were wobbly, and once Molly closed the bathroom door, she dropped down to the tiled floor and sat by the toilet. She took a few deep breaths and managed to hold back. She didn’t want to throw up in Lynette’s fancy powder room with its gold fixtures, pedestal sink, and shell-shaped mini-soaps. She rode it out, splashed some cold water on her face, and then sucked on a peppermint Altoid from her purse. She started to feel halfway human again.

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, the detective had finished his talk. Lynette and Jill had migrated to the kitchen, Courtney had disappeared completely, and Chet Blazevich was standing by the buffet table.

“Are you feeling all right?” Lynette asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“Just a headache,” Molly lied. “I hope you don’t mind if I cut out early.”

Lynette frowned a bit. “Of course, if you’re not feeling well.”

Molly brushed past her and worked up a smile for Chet Blazevich in the dining room. She signed his Neighborhood Watch attendance form. “I’m sorry I missed the end of your talk,” she said.

“It’s okay, you didn’t miss much.” He smiled at her. “I was hoping you’d baked cookies again. Those were really good last time.” He turned toward the spread of food on the table. “Which dish is yours? Is it the pasta salad?”

“How did you guess?” Molly asked.

“It’s the one thing on the table that appears untouched. I remember the last time, they didn’t eat your chocolate chip cookies, either.”

“Good memory,” Molly told him.

“So — still not part of the clique?” he said in a quiet voice.

She just shrugged and shook her head.

“Well, it’s their loss.”

Molly smiled. “Can I interest you in taking home some delicious pasta salad?”