Chapter Two

As someone repeatedly called my name, I floated on a cloud of soft, translucent white, feeling weightless and serene, without the strength to move. I didn’t have any desire to open my eyes but continue to float in this surreal womblike embrace without thoughts or memories invading my apathy. Emerging from the haze of unconsciousness, I became aware of my mother and father’s presence, their concerned figures leaning over me. Their faces were distraught, with tears escaping from their reddened eyes. I had never seen my mother so anxious. My father’s usual stoic face was absent, his eyes darkened with worry and apprehension.

The reason for their troubled expressions as they watched me was puzzling. This was so unlike them. My parents were always so strong and in command. My mother is a prominent doctor of psychiatry and my father, a Grammy award-winning songwriter and musician. I tried to move, but my left shoulder was immobile and the pounding in my heavily bandaged head was horrendous.

The intrusion of sounds and antiseptic smells was overwhelming my senses. Beeps and bings were loud to my ears and poles holding bags of fluid dripped through tubes into my veins. Why were the lights so bright? It was making my headache worse. My head felt twice its normal size. There was a lot of shouting. Strangers approached me, pestering me with nonsensical questions. Didn’t they know who the president was?

It was rough, but I finally found my voice and asked my questions. “Did I have an accident? What happened?”

My mother took my right hand in hers and brought it to her lips, gently kissing my fingers.

“Darling, there was a shooting. You have been in surgery for your injuries. You had wounds to your head and shoulder. There is some head trauma; the bullet didn’t enter the skull, but there was a minor skull fracture. The bullet traveled through your scalp damaging the frontalis and occipitalis muscles, then exited. Doctors will watch for cranial bleeding. Another bullet went through your body. While there are no fractures, there is evidence of damage to both muscles and ligaments. I’ve looked at your x-rays and talked with the surgeons, and everyone is cautiously optimistic. With time and physical therapy, you’re going to be okay, my darling.”

My mother was morphing into doctor mode. I didn’t understand half of the medical jargon she was spouting, but I understood the unrelenting pain. Flashes of memories emerged from the drug induced fog.

“Where are Adam and Trey and Jonas? Are they here? How badly were they hurt? I have to see them,” I cried with rising hysteria crushing my chest. I made an effort to get out of bed, attempting to free myself from the intravenous lines holding me hostage. As I struggled to sit up, the surrounding machines sounded with alarms. My father gently held me in place as my mother squeezed my hand.

“I am so very, very sorry darling, they di