Let’s Get Lost

It's amazing how you can say the dumbest things in a moment of pure panic.

By David Hopkins

My ex-girlfriend shot herself in the head three times and survived. Now she has a major book deal with some publisher and appearing on Oprah next week to talk about the experience. I should be jealous. After all, I'm the one who found her. Not that Rebecca remembers anything from those quick moments after she pulled the trigger, pulled it again, and then again.

I remember.

If you've never heard a gunshot before, it's surprisingly louder than you might imagine. I was in the bathroom. The sound shook my stomach and my teeth. My ears were ringing. When I stepped into the living room, she was on the floor. Shaking in jerks and spasms. Her face looked like a soft pumpkin that some kid had kicked in and left on street.

“Stay calm,” I said. “Everything is going to be all right."

It's amazing how you can say the dumbest things in a moment of pure panic.

Rebecca was mumbling. I got on my hands and knees to hear. I bent closer to her mouth. The smell of attempted suicide, thick and complex, went into the back of my throat and instantly dried my mouth. An odd mix of musky vinegar, smoke, piss, and Rebecca's vanilla shampoo. I nearly threw up.

And I was embarrassed for having to turn away.

I leaned forward again to hear what she saying under her breath. After a couple seconds, I realized she was singing the Gilligan's Island theme song. She finished the last part, and was starting over from the beginning again.

This is something I never told the police. I never told the Action 11 News Team. I never told Rebecca when I saw her again in the hospital. I wouldn't even tell Oprah. It didn't fit with the rest of the story. If I were to include this oddity in my ex-boyfriend-saves-the-day anecdote, people would get distracted, filled questions of what it might mean. As if the secrets of the subconscious were somehow opened wide, once Rebecca shot herself in the head.

When talking with the 911 operator, I forgot my apartment address. I started giving her the kind of directions my mom usually offers to friends who come over to play Bridge. You're going to drive for two minutes and then turn right at the store with the orange roof and the cow painted on the side. Then after you drive past Stop'n'Go, my apartment is the big one, not the small one, on the left side of the road. As I continued giving aimless directions, I almost got sick again. What if Rebecca dies because I forgot where I live? The lady on the line assured me police and ambulance were on their way. They knew where I lived, to stay calm. Everything was going to be all right. But what about the security gate code? How would they get in without the code? I suggested waiting at the gate for them to arrive. The 911 lady told me to stay with my friend. So I did.

By the time I got the towels, I thought the medical people might need them and I wanted to be ready, the police burst into the room and restrained me against the floor. My face pressed into the beige carpet. I could see Rebecca's leg. She wasn't shaking as much, which I couldn't tell if this was a good thing or bad. The police officer who had his knee in my back shouted a question, but I couldn't hear him. I strained to see the front door, waiting for someone to come in and tend to Rebecca. Then, as if my thoughts could move heaven and earth, in rushed three people in blue jumpsuits with a duffle bag.

The police officer dragged me into the kitchen, and asked more questions I couldn't hear. I had the Gilligan's Island theme song stuck in my head.

As they moved Rebecca out of the apartment, I thought I saw her left eye, which had rolled back in its socket, blink back into consciousness and look straight at me. But before I could confirm, she was gone. I wished I could sit with her in the ambulance. I wished I could be in the emergency room for whenever her mother arrived with questions and tears. Instead, I had to give a report.

No, I was not in the room when it happened. I was in the bathroom. Yes, she is my ex-girlfriend. No, we were not having a fight. I do not own a gun. I do not know where she got the gun. I do not remember her being emotionally unstable or depressed. Within thirty minutes, they left. No arrest. No elaborate crime scene reenactment. I'm sure they had other matters, speeding tickets, managing mall traffic, catching underage smokers, and making the suburbs safe.

I looked out my window. A few tenants stood in the parking lot, talking with straggling officers. The fire truck drove off, giving a courtesy flash of the red and blue lights before turning left onto the street. Various news vans and reporters were stationed along the sidewalk, ready for the late night report.

The next day, I went to the bookstore. My wet shoes squish-squashed as I walked. I owned the one pair, which had Rebecca’s DNA on them. I had washed my shoes in the kitchen sink, and they were still damp.

My friend Trevor managed the bookstore.

“Holy hell!” Hi to you too Trevor. “Rebecca shot herself! I heard on the radio. The doctors say she's going live. Can you believe that?”

Still had that damn song in my head.

I grabbed a book off the front display, a Dash Bradley adventure novel, and sat behind the counter with Trevor as he explained to me that obviously she survived because of the type of gun she used. If she had opted for a larger caliber, it would be goodbye Rebecca or something to that effect.

I don’t know much about guns. What I know, I know from Rebecca’s botched suicide. Guns have an immediacy for the impulsive fatalist. I read somewhere that gun suicides are almost twice as common as homicides in America. Meaning, two-thirds of gun deaths are self-inflicted. If you have a gun, you’re more likely to use it on yourself than someone else.

Suicides aren’t as well plotted as you’d think. People can endure misery for a long, long time. But the gun feeds the dark urges of those who plan poorly. It’s too depressing to think about, and yet I can’t shake the thought.

Who attempts suicide at someone else’s place? It’s not very neighborly.

I put the book back on the shelf.

 
After the incident—that's what we called it, because referring to it as the time Rebecca shot herself three times in the head, seemed a little harsh—at any rate, afterwards, in the hospital, doctors were anxious to see what damage occurred. There were some interesting discoveries. Rebecca could hold something in her right hand and tell you what it was, but when she moved it to her left, she had difficulty naming the object. Rebecca could read fine, but when she closed her right eye, the words made no sense. She now stuttered, but only towards the end of the day. The memory of her Bat Mitzvah had disappeared, but high school Spanish class returned with frightening clarity. And one more thing.

I went to see Rebecca a week after the incident. Her mother was at the hospital. I knew this because, in the parking lot, I saw her Toyota Corolla with the bumper sticker: LIFE IS AWESOME. When I went into the room, it was only Rebecca, which was good. Her mother's purse, a diet coke, and a copy of Tuesdays with Morrie were on a table next to the efficient blue vinyl hospital love seat—which meant she was nearby.

“Mom is downstairs having lunch.” Rebecca said, noticing my concern. “She’s not mad at you. I don't think. Instead, today, she’s going on about Dad's travel miles, too many business trips, stuff like that. You're safe for now.”

Rebecca was still in her hospital gown, and there was an IV in her arm. The doctors shaved her head, but she didn't look bad without hair—about 5 percent of the girls in the world can pull it off. Rebecca was one of them. She had staples marking the scars of three gunshot wounds. Her face still had a lot swelling, yellow and blue and green bruising all over.

I sat next to her, and she didn't waste any time.

“I'm becoming a Christian fundamentalist.”

“Reb, you're Jewish. You've never been to church in your life.”

“The past few days, I've been discovering satanic messages in the Harry Potter books. When my family was gone for a few hours yesterday, I watched the 700 Club in the dark.” She stared out the nearby window. “When I get out, I want to start an abstinence-only program at the public schools. I've come to believe stem-cell research is an abomination, along with evolution and high taxes. Gloria Steinem is a hateful, misdirected bitch. PBS is the spearhead for America's liberal agenda, probably run by my people. Bert and Ernie are promoting homosexual civil unions. And this morning, I gave my nurse a tract.”

“A tract? Where did you get one?”

“I’ve been making my own, on napkins.”

With this, she opened the drawer to her bedside table, completely filled to the top with napkins, each with Bible verses and drawings of crosses and arrows over little chasms meant to represent Hell. Stick Figure Man on one side. Stick Figure God on the other.

I didn't know what to say. My grandparents were Presbyterians, maybe, but my parents never went to church. I never went to church. The closest I came to a religious experience was the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. In fact, I mostly make fun of Christians. I pick on them until they get angry and then I act hurt—oh look, another Bible-beater pushing me away. The tactic is flawless and cruel.

“Are you going to tell Oprah?”

“I don't know.”

Within days of the incident, Harpo Productions contacted the family, asking if Rebecca would want to appear on Oprah's show. Rebecca's mother immediately said yes.

Oprah had been hoping to have Rebecca in the studio, but the doctors pushed her release back a week. The most powerful woman in America was greatly disappointed. She talked with the doctors directly. They agreed to do a live video interview from the hospital room. This forced Oprah to find another in-studio guest, some kid who in 1993 listened to Metallica, shot himself in the face with a shotgun and survived. He had already been on numerous talk shows, and Oprah was desperate for an angle. Oprah's manager asked if Rebecca would be willing to go on a blind date with the Metallica kid and have the cameras follow them. These plans fell apart when Rebecca's mother found out his last name was “Kilpatrick.” As cliché as it sounds, Mom had been hoping for a Jewish boy. Rebecca, however, was pleased to discover Mr. Kilpatrick had also converted to the ranks of the right-wing faithful after his incident.

Rebecca and I continued to talk for a few more minutes, and then in mid-conversation, she said, “Mom should be coming back soon.” I took the hint, and got up to leave. Then I felt Rebecca's hand on mine. It was the first time she touched me since we broke up. She handed me a Gideon's Bible, along with a few tract napkins.

“I want you to read this book.” I had never seen her so serious. “I want you to read it, and tell me what you think.” She paused. “No, I want you to read it and tell me what you feel.” She put an embarrassing amount of emphasis on the word feel.

And with that, I left the room.