Abel Keogh - Room for Two

Room for Two: A Memoir

Copyright 2013 by Abel Keogh

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

Published by Ben Lomond Press, Ogden, Utah
www.benlomondpress.com
ISBN-10: 0692385606
ISBN-13: 978-0692385609

Cover design 2013 by Abel Keogh
Cover design by damonza.com
Interior design by damonza.com

To protect their privacy, some of the names in this book have been changed.

For Brent

One

I DONT REMEMBER the last thing I said to Krista, but I know it was not "I love you." Even when I think long and hard about our final conversation, our last words to each other elude me, which is probably for the best.

The last time we spoke was on the phone. There was shouting. A lot of shouting. Though in hindsight it seems like it was all on my end; I dont remember Krista sounding angry or frustrated. Our conversation ended when I threw the phone down in disgust. When I arrived at our apartment twenty minutes later, I was furious. I slammed the door to the car, feeling the muscles in my arm clench.

In the pale light of the November afternoon, the fourplex had a dreary, mournful look. Brown leaves, having long lost their cheery autumn reds and yellows, were scattered over the matted grass. I looked up at the apartment window, hoping to see some sign of Krista. The blinds were closed and the lights were off. The place looked deserted. My anger began to morph into fear.

I took the concrete steps two at a time to our apartment. I paused and took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm down before opening the door. I didnt want to come into the apartment yelling. Maybe the whole day had been some kind of misunderstanding.

I inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. The apartment was in the same condition I left it. A pile of cardboard boxes lay flattened and stacked neatly in one corner of the living room. Other boxes, half full of computer games and books, were stacked against the far wall. Yesterdays newspaper was scattered on the floor; a color photograph of a police standoff was displayed prominently on the front page. The apartment itself was ghostly quiet, as if no one had lived there for years.

"Sweetie, Im home." I tried to put as much kindness into my voice as possible. I didnt want to have another argument at least not right away.

Silence.

"Sweetheart?"

A gunshot echoed from our bedroom, followed by the sound of a bullet casing skipping along a wall.

Everything slowed down.

I screamed Kristas name and started toward our bedroom. My legs felt heavy, like I was running through waist-deep water. As I entered the room, the acrid smell of gun smoke filled my nostrils. Krista lay slumped against unpacked boxes of clothing along the far wall.

I screamed and moved to Kristas side. This couldnt be real, could it?

Kristas blue eyes stared straight ahead. Her body trembled as if she was suffering from a mild seizure. My Ruger 9mm handgun laid next to her body on the corner of a white packing box. A wisp of blue smoke floated from the barrel.

I grabbed the cordless phone from the nightstand and dialed 911.

Kristas body shuddered violently. Blood began flowing from the back of her head, down the boxes, to the floor. The sound of the blood as it hit the boxes reminded me of water coming out of a squirt gun.

"Krista!"

I kept expecting to hear a ringing sound on the other end of the phone but there was only silence. I pulled the receiver away from my ear. Had I dialed 911? What was taking them so long to answer?

I was about to hang up and dial again when a faint female voice broke through the silence. "911. What is your emergency?"

"Send help!" I screamed into the phone. "My wife just shot herself!" My voice shook as the words tumbled out of my mouth. I pressed my hand against Kristas seven-month pregnant belly, hoping for some indication that our unborn daughter was still alive. I couldnt feel any movement.

"What is your address?" the operator asked.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. We had moved into the apartment a week earlier, and I hadnt memorized our address. Then, amid all the chaos, there was a moment of clarity. I remembered the landlord had written our address on the back of his business card when I signed the lease. I pulled the card out of my wallet and relayed the information to the operator, my voice sounding calm, as if I were giving her directions to a party. Then the moment was gone and panic returned.

"Shes pregnant," I sobbed into the phone. "Shes pregnant."

The 911 operator asked if I knew CPR. I did. I knew what to do breathe into the mouth, push on the chest but instead I did nothing. I just sat there horrified.

Kristas eyes now had a dull look to them, as if the blue had suddenly turned gray. Then her body stopped shaking. The pool of blood continued to grow. The operators words faded into white noise. I knelt at Kristas side for what felt like hours, waiting, hoping to feel the baby move.

At some point I became vaguely aware of the distant wail of a police siren. It grew louder until it sounded like it was right outside the door. Then everything was quiet. I stood, frantic that the police had driven past. I took several steps toward the living room when I heard a quick knock followed by the sound of someone opening the front door. A moment later a police officer entered the bedroom. His eyes went from me to Krista to the gun lying near Kristas head. He stood in the middle of the room, as if he wasnt sure what to do.

"Help her!" I screamed.

The officer moved to Kristas side and put his fingertips on her neck to check her pulse. I took a step toward him, wanting to help. His eyes darted to the gun.

"Get out of the room," he said firmly. He said something into the radio that was attached to his shoulder, then brought his ear to Kristas mouth to see if she was breathing. He pulled her legs, as if moving a piece of delicate china, so she was lying flat on the floor. The box where Kristas head had rested was soaked with blood.

"Get out," he repeated. This time he looked right at me and pointed to the door. I took one step back.

"Go!" he said.

I took another step back. It was like I was in a dream, running toward a cliff. Even though jumping off was the last thing I wanted to do, my legs kept moving until I toppled over the edge.

I took a third step when I heard a noise just outside the bedroom door. I turned and nearly bumped into another police officer. He rushed past me as if I didnt exist. The two officers talked quickly, quietly. I could not understand what they said. All I could hear was that one gunshot over and over. Its echo blasted the walls inside my head.

The first officer started chest compressions while the second breathed into Kristas mouth. I stepped back into the living room. A third officer brushed past me on his way to the bedroom. He returned a moment later and told me to sit on the couch.

I sat down. The third police officer stood between me and the bedroom. He was young with blond hair. Most of his attention was focused on whatever was happening in the other room. Occasionally he glanced back at me.

It was then that I realized I was still holding the phone to my ear. The 911 operator was talking, asking me questions. Her voice was still calm and collected. It pulled me away from the chaos inside the apartment.