Erased From Memory by Diana O'Hehir Page B

knees.
    Now I’m on the floor on my knees and holding on to someone who is standing. This person is saying, “Okay, okay.” He says, “Carla, listen, let go of me for a minute, I have to try something here.” He bends over Rita, who is stretched out, half on her side, her face resting in a big dark patch.
    I look at the person who says this and he turns out to be Scott. There are a lot of other people here, too. The lights come on, very bright, and I say, “She’s hurt.”
    He doesn’t pay attention. He’s bent over Rita. I think he’s saying, “Reet, honey.” And “Baby, no.”
    When I focus on him again, he’s on his knees, doing something.
    “She’s hurt,” I say.
    He’s saying stuff that doesn’t make sense, like, “Rita, don’t,” and, “You can. Try. Try really hard.”
    “She needs a doctor ,” I say.
    He starts to straighten up. “Oh, Christ.” He has to sit down again. “God.”
    After a minute he adds, “A doctor is coming.
    “Now try to move over. Sit with your back against the wall.”
    I move over, sliding along. I notice the pattern on the rug, which is orange and tan diamonds. When I am lined up with my back against the wall, I see that Scott is sitting beside me. He has his knees up and his face on his knees.
    “Oh, yes, that would feel better,” I say about Scott’s posture. I think he’s crying, but I don’t want to cry. I raise my knees and put my head on them.
    More people (I see them as legs) have pushed in, and I remember that there’s something I have to do. I pull at Scott. “My father. I’m worried about my father.”
    I think he says, “Okay, okay.”
    “And she needs a doctor.” I wonder if I’ve said this before.
    Scott says, “Yeah.”
    “Soon?” I ask, and Scott says, I think, “Yeah.”
    The racket around us increases. Someone tries to help me onto my feet, but I resist.
    “She’s gone,” Scott, beside me, says.
    This doesn’t make sense. I think about it for a minute. Then I hear myself tell him he can’t be sure and he says, “Oh, yes, I can. She’s gone.”
    I stare down at my knees and at my right hand, with the blood still running down it.
     
 
I can only sort of see. But I think about my father and lift my head and squint, and yes, there, off at a table in a corner, is my dad. He has a glass.
    I’m halfway up onto my feet. What should I do? Get him, bring him along into this scene of chaos? Go sit with him? Somehow that doesn’t seem right. Shouldn’t I be here? I can’t leave Rita; she needs me.
    She has a set of small holes in her back. But she must have a very big hole in her front, because she has gushed blood all down her front and into the orange-and-tan carpet. An awful lot of blood.
    Now I am coming out of it. I can hear what some people who have just arrived are saying to each other. These people have black shoes and dark blue pants and have laid a canvas stretcher on the floor. They say things like, “Put a mask on her,” and “Easy now,” and “May not matter, that mask.” One of them says to the other, “Hey, reach in my back pocket, will you? I got a clean handkerchief there.” Now Scott is talking to somebody; he has his face raised and is talking up; he says, “Try anything. Everything.” And the person answers, “Sure, guy, sure.”
    I scramble to my feet, holding on to the wall for support.
    My father appears by my side. He has settled the question of who goes where by doing the moving around himself. He’s holding his glass. He has managed, in his Edward Day way, to squeeze through the mob of people.
    “Come with me,” he says.
    “Can I?” I have the feeling that I’m supposed to stay right here.
    He doesn’t bother to answer, but grabs me by the elbow and leads me out of the corridor, and then slowly, between tables. There is a chair.
    “Well, my dear.” He pats my shoulder. “Are you scared?” He leans and tries to put his arms around me. “Darling, it’s going to be all right.”
    After a