The Worst Glitter.

About two weeks ago, I got home at 1 p.m. on Friday. We had a relaxed afternoon. I started reading The Book of Lost Things and was a little emo over the boy whose mother died and whose father took up with the hospital administrator. Later, I slept near the foot of the bed while Josh sat at the head of the bed, back to the window, Oliver beside him. A few nights before, our bedroom had been illuminated in blue. Three squad cars were at a house across the street. Policemen ran toward the house in their bulletproof vests, yelling. Later, I heard the loud speaker. I told Josh we should stay away from the windows until they left. I remember wondering if we ought to try to move.

This night, I had the vague sense of Josh grabbing me and of me protesting or maybe even shushing him. I woke up fully when I hit the wood floor at the foot of the bed. I immediately tried to sit up and figure out what had happened, but I heard Josh yelling, "Get down! Stay down! Don't move!" I couldn't see him. Then, I heard my son screaming. I tried to question Josh but he kept yelling to ensure I didn't move above the line of the bed.

I somehow assured him I wasn't moving and said, slowly and gently, "Do you have our baby?" I had no idea if Oliver was hurt or if he was in his bed and I needed to crawl to get him.

"Yes," Josh answered, and I heard him calling 911, shouting at the dispatcher who was being too slow and calm. "Do you understand? Someone has shot through my window."

Then, I understood why I was on the floor. I thought about how I had once been sitting, pregnant, with my back to that window and had the sudden vision of a drive-by shooting. I told Josh that if I were ever hurt, he needed to call an ambulance immediately and tell the paramedics that I was pregnant. "Even if they couldn't save me, I'm far enough along that they might be able to save him if they were fast." This had mortified Josh somewhat, but I'd said it more than once because I wanted to make sure he wouldn't waste Oliver's precious minutes on grieving me.

When Josh hung up (which I thought was odd--aren't the dispatchers supposed to keep the caller on the phone until the police arrive?), I said, "I think you need to come over here," having realized that he and Oliver were on the floor on the side of the bed, which was much closer to the window. He crawled to me and let me take Oliver. I crouched over him, holding him to my chest. He had fallen asleep again.

The police arrived in minutes, and I realized I was only were underwear and a pajama top unbuttoned over my nursing bra. The blankets had fallen to the floor with me, and I found my pajama pants and struggled to pull them on while holding my son and staying low. The pants were up to my knees when the policemen walked in, and the not caring leftover from the hospital kicked in.

Three of them came, one a young patrolman, one a big K-9 unit guy, and the other the lieutenant. They had their big boots and bullet proof vests. The K-9 guy started asking questions (Had we had words with anyone? Had anyone been begging us for money?) and touching the doors of my wardrobe opposite the window, feeling for a bullet hole. He opened the wardrobe doors and touched a hole in the plastic over one of my work jackets.

"Was this hole here before, ma'am?"
"I don't know," I answered, feeling a little desperate that I didn't remember every tear and worn place in my home and life.
He noticed Oliver and that I had begun to shake hard. "That's okay; that's fine," he said. He asked if I would mind going into the living room, so they could search. He must have noticed my half-dressed state because he gestured to the young patrolman and said, "We'll step outside for a minute." He closed the door behind him, and I felt strange about being alone in that room, standing when Josh had repeatedly shouted (desperate for my safety) for me to stay still, pulling up my blue snowflake pajama pants, and carrying my son into the living room.

Josh was rigid in the green recliner. I sat on the couch. Both of us were hyper aware of the windows in that room and everywhere in the house. Because the rooms were so small, even safe corners or closets big enough to huddle in together didn't exist.

The young patrolman stayed with us, asking occasional questions and saying he knew how shaken we must be, especially with a new baby. I could see him wanting to say, "You shouldn't be living here."

The K-9 guy came out with a small white rock. "Was this in your room before?"
"I don't think so," Josh said.
"Did you hear a gun shot?"
"I heard people arguing and then two popping sounds and the glass shattering."
"Okay. If you'll come outside with me, I'll show you what we think happened."

Josh pulled on his boots and went outside with the K-9 guy and lieutenant. I think the patrolman stayed with me. The two men showed Josh how the rock had probably gone through the window and how the hole was consistent with that. Josh asked how a rock of that size could have busted the screen, shattered the glass, and exploded the blinds. They said that the person must have thrown it extremely hard from the street or must have been standing in our yard. We've seen thought, with others' input, that the person must have fired the rock through a paintball gun, potato gun, or at the very least, a slingshot.

They assured us that they weren't trying to "belittle the rock" (which we later found a little funny) but that they were glad it wasn't a bullet. The report would be ready on Sunday if we wanted a copy.

We stayed in the living room. Josh paced. I called my mom. I was surprised she answered, and her voice was strained when she answered with "Becky?"
I immediately said, "We're okay," and told Josh he should do the same when he called his mom. I cried as I told my mom what had happened. Something about my mother's voice triggers the outpouring of pent up emotion even as I try to convey information.

I could see the adrenaline and fear pumping through Josh. I thought he would never be able to sit down again. I wished he would cry, either with me or while talking to his own mother. He hadn't cried since the hospital, and I knew that, even beyond his heart and mind, his body needed that relief. That white rock, which looked like it would have come from someone driveway or a border around a small, decorative tree, had seemed to bring with it all of the losses and near-losses in Josh's life, and maybe all the mistakes and guilt too, as it cracked the window of our bedroom just above our infant son.

Thinking about the glass fully took us a long time. We were still in the living room when I thought to look. Josh found glass on Oliver's pajamas. I found little glints on his face and later found a terrifying shard in the folds of his neck. I was so scared to try to move it, afraid I would only make it pierce him when it had, mercifully, not done so yet. I had the idea to use a piece of tape to pick it up. We did that too many times. Even the next day, after an hour of sleep in Oliver's room (which doesn't face the street), I continued finding little shiny bits on his face. I couldn't understand why until I looked down and saw that my chest was covered in tiny bits of glass. Josh and I put Oliver in his crib, stripped our clothes in the hall, and took turns showering. My hands stung as I washed my hair.

I went into our bedroom to get my phone charger. The blankets were still on the floor. The blinds were hanging, literally, by their threads, letting the sunshine pour it. My breath caught. Our room, the room in which we had slept, talked, fed our son, began to recover from skirting death, sparkled with glass in on every visible surface and in every corner. Our bed, Oliver's bassinet, the floor were we had crouched, all was glittering with cruel shards and sand-like bits. At that moment, I didn't think I could ever wear anything that sparkled (what if I saw traces of eyeshadow glitter on Oliver and thought I saw glass?) again.

That night and the next night, we slept at a hotel, using the points my dad offered. We spent the week of Thanksgiving at Josh's parents' house, and I commuted an hour and a half to work. We knew we could not sleep in that house again because of what had happened, what we thought had happened, what could have happened, and oh, just the new bitterness of that place. We washed Oliver in the bathroom sink at the Hampton, and Josh and I slept, completely satisfied with having nothing but Oliver's bed and diaper bag, an overnight bag, and my blanket (which I've had and slept with since I was a baby and grabbed on our way out the door, suddenly seized with a bizarre fear that I'd never see it again, as if I were grabbing my family and one treasure and fleeing a burning house). Whatever the reality and whatever the symbolism, we were going to take our baby and run.

Our bed, with an ad I had torn out of a magazine that night to show Josh because I thought the little girl looked like she could be our daughter, our Eirene.