Newtown

                                            For the children.

editors’ note: Newtown is commissioned by American Revolutions: The United States History Cycle at Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and the Public Theater. This excerpt consists of the play’s first act. Punctuation and capitalization choices indicate rhythm and pacing.

Characters:
Nancy (52)
Adam (20)

Place & Time:
I: A house. December 14, 2012. 
II: The White House.

	i: Adam’s mother

	 Nancy: Adam. Why won’t you speak? You’re dwindling
away to nothing. You don’t eat. You sleep 
half the day. At least I think you’re sleeping 
in your room. What else could you be doing 
in there? You tell me. On your computer,
I suppose. Playing games that teach you things 
like how to insert a new magazine
before the first magazine is empty
by ejecting with the hand that’s holding 
the Glock 20 G3 or what have you, 
while simultaneously preparing
with your free hand the fully loaded mag 
before insertion. Click, click. Now that skill, 
which you may or may not know is known as
the Tactical Reload, is exactly
the sort of thing a Green Beret or cop 
knows how to do. My brother, your uncle, 
he could teach you. And I approve of that 
skill, learning it. But I cannot condone 
violence. As you know. All this easy talk
of death. How you exclaim, I died! I’m dead! 
and then just press a button and begin 
again. It’s a fantasy. Remember
how you used to like theatre? Rehearsing 
your expressions in front of the mirror 
for hours on end. You were sociable once,
in your way. What happened? I know you hate 
sunlight on your skin. It burns and itches
and makes your eyes ache. So I tape trash bags 
all over your windows. I am nothing
if not accommodating, submitting
to your every whim. I try not to touch 
doorknobs, don’t wear high heels, and never lean 
against anything because you’ve told me
you find it improper. For some reason. 
There’s something of the Puritan in you, 
isn’t there, Adam? Ha ha ha! Even
me homeschooling you was in order to 
protect you, your mind. But you act as if 
you don’t need any help. You like to claim 
you taught yourself chemistry, but I know 
your father did. And you have to admit 
you learned a few things from me. History 
is my métier, as you know. Why life 
happens as it does. What circumstances
bring us to this time and place. How to change 
circumstances in order to avoid
their repetition. If we can. Now, when 
I was your age, I wanted to grow up
to be Joan Didion or somebody
equally thin, this kind of chain-smoking 
intellectual. But circumstances
changed. And here we are. Can you tell me how 
this has occurred? What has brought us to this 
time and place? Because you used to go out 
when you were young. You used to like hiking 
with your father through the mountain forests 
of New England. Used to enjoy going
to Red Sox games with me. Now most children 
would be overjoyed to have a mother
who’s a rabid baseball fan, but not you 
anymore. Apparently. We could go
shooting. How about that. You love shooting 
with me at the gun range. Just say the word 
and we’ll go this morning! We can dust off 
the old .45. Or your .22
-caliber Savage Mark II rifle or
my Glock 20, or your Sig Sauer, or
we could chew through some ammo with our new 
AR-15 semiautomatic
.223-caliber Bushmaster
XM-15. I mean you’re certified,
aren’t you? Why go through the rigmarole 
of those NRA classes if you won’t
go shooting anymore? Remember how 
good it feels holding a gun? so heavy 
and cold. Till you tickle the trigger and
pop like a pulse. Wouldn’t you like to feel 
alive again? Not cooped up inside here
with your sick mother.—Now I won’t tell you 
what’s wrong with me, I won’t do that to you.
But as you know, it is a disorder 
affecting my movements. I won’t tell you 
the gory details, but it’s genetic,
I carry in my blood the DNA
of our family disease. It’s a matter
of time, they tell me. I’m sorry. I hope
you’ll be spared, Adam. We should test your blood 
when you’re ready. And still I go outside
when I am able. And do you know why?
I need to survive, I need to stay here 
in the world of the living. In order
to teach you how to live when I am gone.
And every teacher knows that in order 
to thrive, a student must discover what
they love. And from an early age you loved 
guns. Ha ha ha. The first gun I bought you 
was an aluminum-alloy Ruger
10/22. You are four and your face 
lights up. Miraculously a presence 
arrives in your eyes as you’re focusing 
on the target at the end of the range
underground or across a field. Your aim 
is impeccable. You feel confident
—don’t you?—when you shoot. Take our guns and go 
there yourself today! You’re old enough now
to go there by yourself. You’re twenty-one
soon. That’s old enough. You’re old enough, too, 
to answer me when I ask you something, 
wouldn’t you say? Blink your eyes once for yes 
and twice for buzz off. Ha ha ha. How long
has it been? I’ve lost track. It’s fine with me 
if this not-talking is like a protest
or something, but I don’t know what it is
you think you’re protesting! You are here now 
and I appreciate that. You could stand
right up and walk right out of this room and 
back into your room and shut the door, so 
thanks. For listening. Because those emails
we send back and forth—they’re fine, they tell us 
what we think we need to know, what you want 
differently for dinner, which food texture
you can’t stomach anymore. You’re upset 
about the suffering of animals,
and you write me an email asking if 
you can become a vegan, and I type, 
Absolutely! I’ll be a vegan too 
because of you. Many famous people 
have been vegan or vegetarian 
throughout history like Adolf Hitler, 
for example. Where was I. Oh emails
are not enough, though. Because computers 
are by definition inhuman and
I need to know what’s happening inside
your mind. Your brain. Because there are a lot
of mysteries in there, aren’t there, like
why must you always wear black? You’ll tell me 
I’m superstitious but the color black
reflects something. An interior sadness 
like hopelessness if it is hopelessness
you’re feeling and not something worse. Let’s go 
shopping you and I and I’ll cut the tags
out of your new clothes, or we’ll have them made 
downtown like we used to in cotton greens
and blues. What do you say? Think about it 
and get back to me. Shoot me an email,
ha ha ha. The battery in your car
is dead, by the way. I checked. It’s a shame 
we bought you that car, considering how 
you never drive it. You can borrow mine 
in the meanwhile. The keys are over there
by the door, where they always are. You’re free 
to go wherever whenever. You’re not
a prisoner here, you know. The divorce 
could be the reason that you’re protesting
something with your silence. Because divorce 
is painful. But you were what, seventeen
at the time? Of course, you are younger when
the disruption of the separation 
begins. You are twelve and discovering
how to become a man when your father
leaves me. Leaves us. And heaven knows how much 
that upsets you. Upsets your mind, your brain 
development. Like skills having to do
with socialization, for example, 
like dating girls. And I apologize
for what you’ve had to go through, for my part 
in what you’ve gone through. But it’s not easy 
growing up in a family with parents
who stay together when they ought to be 
divorced—believe me! I mean my father 
had secrets. He was an airline pilot
who was keeping a whole other family 
in Cincinnati! Where my half-sister
still lives, and she seems like a nice person 
I’d like to meet one day. We connected
via the computer. I have questions,
of course. Many questions. I’d like to know 
what my mother knew and when she knew it, 
for example. But who knows. Nobody’s
talking now. And there were other things wrong 
in my family. You’ll never know how bad
it was for me. But you’ve heard all of this 
before. The point is your brother grew up 
normal in spite of the divorce. I know
you don’t check in with your brother these days 
and that’s a shame. Because you used to be
such good friends! —You were! You wanted to be 
him. Copied his haircut. You planned to go
to college like him and have friends also 
and girlfriends. Why don’t you go visit him 
in the city? I’ll give you some money
and you can take my car. Or we’ll fix yours
—just say the word! And you should know, Adam, 
how long we waited, your father and I,
before we divorced. How we pretended 
we were happy. Normal. All the acting 
we had to do in front of you. A child
is like a mirror though, especially
a child like you. We argued in whispers 
till we simply stopped talking and started
waiting. For what? Death, I suppose. And that’s 
a real shame. And of course we argued more 
because of you. Your challenges. You know
I cannot lie to you: It’s true a child 
strains a marriage, especially a child 
like you. But you and I have got to learn
how to live. And how to forgive. Because 
you don’t ever forget things. Things happen
and you cling to them. You dwell. You believe 
you’re punishing others when you’re really 
hurting yourself. For example, you hate 
talking to your father, but I like to
talk to him. Still. I have to talk to him
from time to time because of you. Planning 
for your future. We are younger than you 
when we fall in love, a few years later
we marry: Beanie and Mousey. Beanie 
owing to my trademark hat. And Mousey 
because your father is shy. Those first years 
in the house we build on my father’s land
up north, where your brother’s born and you’re born: 
We’re happy. We’re normal. But I’m young and
I want more. I want lacrosse and cars with 
Ivy League stickers and commuter trains 
to the city. Essentially I want 
Connecticut. So we pack up and move
to this town. Newtown. Where Main Street crosses 
Church Hill Road. With American flags flapping
in the graveyard. But circumstances change 
and we must learn how to survive. Without 
your father we’d be homeless. Or God knows
where we’d be. Because of him I can stay 
home with you. Because you need me to. True, 
your father has found himself a new wife
and that’s a challenge. A librarian.
He’s always liked the brainy types which is 
to his credit.—And I’m happy for them
—I am! At my age it’s impossible
to find a man. Who’s got time? But who knows, 
maybe one day. You should really answer
your father’s emails though. Or visit him, 
he’s hardly an hour away. You could walk 
right up to his door and knock and just say,
Surprise! I know he can be difficult
to talk to. Your brother’s mostly like me 
with his sociability and his drive,
but your father and you are overly 
shy. Sensitive. His sensitivity
was one of our many challenges, that 
and his workaholism. He complains
I’m too tightly wound and a drama queen 
and tend to run my mouth and I reply,
If you ever opened your mouth, maybe
I could shut mine! Ha ha ha! —I’m talking 
because I have to! Because somebody
has to! Now of course we mustn’t confuse 
the ability to impersonate
a person with being an actual
human being. Your father can chitchat 
at a party when he has to, but once 
you get home he’s saying some of the
coldest, nastiest, most judgmental things 
about people! You’d be surprised. Even 
about family. I remember one time
I challenged him: Can you say something nice 
about anybody? and somebody
you know well, not a colleague or client. 
And he thinks about this for a minute


before saying, Well, President Reagan 
was good at his job. —Ha ha ha! I mean 
can you imagine? He’s never had friends 
or hobbies. He’s the single loneliest 
person I know. But he has succeeded
in his career. He’s moved on in his life 
and so should you if your father is why
you’re so mad. And I know you are. Because 
I feel what you feel. Even when you can’t
feel what you feel. There’s nothing you can say 
that would scare me away. Like those mothers 
of heinous criminals like murderers
or worse, and how they still love their children 
no matter what—I used to wonder how
can they say such a thing? After their child 
has murdered somebody or done something
worse. And while you know how much I detest 
violence of any kind—I’d forgive you,
Adam. I would. Somehow. Is there something 
you need to tell me? I know you’re a man 
now, as I’ve said. It’s only natural
you’d feel desire. Now maybe you don’t know 
what to do with that desire. Or don’t know 
what your desire is. I went to college,
and I think we make too big a deal of 
whether or not you’re whatever from birth 
or because of a bad experience
when you ought to be able to just choose 
what you are. I don’t care! I have desires 
like everybody else and I see you 
squirming there mister but even I have 
wants and needs that are inappropriate 
to share with you. And yet I must ask and 
it’s hard for me to do this but do you
like children? Adam? I can imagine 
how you’d want to conceal such a desire
from me. And the world. How you’d want to starve
it right out of your body. I have read
on your computer now hold on, sit down 
please I’ve been going into your bedroom
each night you’ve been sneaking out of the house 
and I’m not asking where you’ve been going 
yet—I was in your room not long ago
with the black trash bags on all the windows 
and everything clean and sanitized like
you don’t live there, like nobody lives there 
and your computer had been left on and 
call me crazy but it’s almost as if
you were hoping I’d find what I found. Well? 
Were you hoping I would find what I found,
Adam? Because you’re talking to a girl 
or typing to a girl or so she claims 
she’s a female—I detest pedophiles,
you say. You write.—Which I am glad to hear!
And yet there are certain circumstances 
in which a sexual relationship
between an adult and a young person 
could be—how do you put it?—mutually 
beneficial. You say. You write. Tell me
what in the world could you possibly mean?
Adults are gods. Adults control children 
but children make choices. Children desire,
you say. You write. Have you ever been touched, 
Adam? as a boy? By whom? a teacher?
An older boy? Your brother? Your father? 
Don’t answer that. You have to answer if 
the answer’s yes. I’m afraid to ask this,
but have you ever touched a child? Because 
we need to know what we’re dealing with here 
if we’re going to figure out what to do
about it. We could learn to live with it 
or without it. Because there are people 
who are attracted only to people
who are dead. For example. There are men
who fall in love with goats. You don’t believe 
in therapy, and I have my doubts too
—I think it’s mainly a scam and a way
for people to blame things on their mothers
—but there has to be something we can do 
if we have to, Adam. Do we have to, 
Adam? You tell me. You open your mouth 
and answer me. You know that it is wrong, 
don’t you? It’s something you can never do 
as long as you’re alive. Touching a child
in the manner in which you have described 
or alluded to, alluded to in
your own words on your own computer—well 
these children grow into adults who spend 
the rest of their lives trying to forget
what has happened to them by using drugs 
and alcohol and having challenges
with intimacy till their marriages
fall apart. Or they end up committing 
suicide. Which is why I said some things
are worse than murder. What happened to them 
turns them against themselves and it can take
a lifetime. We have to deny ourselves 
the pleasure of feeling sorry about 
ourselves. For example, I will not talk
about what happened to me. On that day 
on the Boston Common. You know all this 
already but you don’t know everything 
because I haven’t told you. I’d shot guns 
with my brother, your uncle, out hunting
through the mountain forests of New England 
with my .22. I could dress a deer
before I’d kissed a boy. I was not armed
that morning on the Boston Common when 
people were walking on by. Broad daylight 
and people can see what is happening
and they do nothing. For years I’m afraid
to go outside. To date boys. My schoolwork 
suffers. My brother teaches me some moves 
from his Green Beret and cop training days 
that even somebody my size could use
and though I’ve never had cause to use them, 
I’m sure they’re effective. Oh how I miss 
having my brother, your uncle, near me.
Nobody messes with you when they know 
your brother’s police. Ha ha ha. Maybe
what happened to me would help explain why 
I own eleven knives, a bayonet,
and three samurai swords. Not to mention 
the guns. Ha ha ha. If I’d had a gun
that morning on the Boston Common then 
things would be different today. The reason 
I don’t like talking about certain things
is because talking about faraway 
things in time and place, the historical
incidents, if you will—makes them happen 
again. In a way. Adam—do you see
what I’m saying? We owe it to ourselves 
to repress certain things—if I’m correct 
about what I read on your computer 
and the photographs and the video
on your what do you call it, your hard drive 
though I didn’t look. I don’t need to know 
everything. Now maybe I’m wrong. Maybe 
you’re mad I’m even asking and that’s why 
you won’t answer. Are you? Are you angry 
at me? And what for? I’ve done everything 
I can. Because you know parental bonds 
form so early in life. They’re either there
or they’re not. A child learns to sink or swim 
in direct proportion to how much work
and passion his parents have put into 
helping him. You’re in kindergarten when 
you are first diagnosed. You ask me then,
But why do we need friends? You are thirteen 
when they diagnose you again. A new 
diagnosis because apparently
they’d been mistaken. And this time around
it’s good news! We know what’s wrong! Again! Well 
not wrong per se but practically speaking
we can learn to live in spite of what’s wrong 
with you. Or because of it. Remember
how I said throughout history many 
famous people were vegetarian
or vegan? Well the same is doubly true 
of people like you. Who aren’t normal.
Who don’t see their lives and circumstances 
normally, and that is exactly why,
with the right education, these people 
often end up in the most rewarding
careers. With like-minded friends. Beautiful 
wives. Now I know it has not been easy
for you. For us. We have had to accept
some things. You have had to give up your dream 
of becoming a Green Beret or cop
like my brother, your uncle. And that’s fine.
Life’s got something else planned for you. I mean, 
how can you be a Green Beret or cop
if you can’t let anybody touch you? 
Ha ha ha. And I have had to let go 
of my dream of a family, a normal 
family I mean. I’ve never given up
on you though, obviously. Which is why 
after that second diagnosis I
give you the medication they prescribe 
even though it’s making you feel dizzy 
and disoriented till you’re speaking
in tongues! Sweat down your face. Your brain’s dying, 
you tell me. You look it too. Not unlike
how you’re looking at me now. So we stop 
with the drugs. And maybe that’s a mistake,
in retrospect. Do you remember those 
pictures you drew? You never knew I knew 
about them. Did you? Of an old woman 
clutching her rosary beads as bullets
rip through her spine. And a mountain meadow 
littered with children. And a self-portrait
of yourself with a hole in your forehead
gushing blood and your arms outstretched toward 
the sky—for what? God? And some photographs 
from the internet. Of a man in black
pointing his rifle at a man kneeling 
in a mountain forest clearing. Circled
by bodies. But the one that haunts me most 
is a naked woman wrapped in plastic
like a cocoon. Her hands are tied behind
her back, and there’s lipstick smeared all over 
her face like she’s laughing. Makes me shiver 
to remember it now. But at the time
I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why. Why 
didn’t I ask you? I’ll tell you. Because
I respect your privacy but also
I’m afraid. Afraid you’ll shut me out like 
you shut your father and brother out. You 
would stop even listening. You’d be lost 
forever. But I have to ask because
last night when you sneaked out I slipped into 
your room again and found your—what is it
—spreadsheet? Of what should we call them—shooters?
This long list of I don’t know how many 
incidents. In tiny font. On paper
seven feet long and four feet wide, the size 
of a man. A monstrous man. I mean how 
did you even find paper that size? Where 
did you print it out? Never mind. Because 
last night I find it in your wardrobe and 
pull it out and unfold it and sit down
and just start reading. Every mass shooting


 



in American history, and a few 
elsewhere. Like Norway. A historian
would be impressed. With the names of killers 
and the numbers killed. Like you’re keeping score 
for one of your games. The make and model
of the guns used. It must’ve taken you 
months. Or longer. And I know why, Adam. 
It’s okay. I know why you would compile 
this disgusting document: You’re afraid
you’re turning into them. These men. Against 
your will like when you’re seven and you’re scared 
of the Devil, of becoming possessed
by the Devil. Which was hilarious 
because it’s not like we ever even
went to church! But you’ve always been afraid 
of infestation. As with germs. Afraid
of becoming something and somebody 
you’re not. Which is where the pedophilia 
comes in. It’s circular—the more we fear, 
the more our fear becomes real. But it’s not 
real, Adam. Believe me. You are nothing 
like those killers. Look me in the eye: This 
is not you. Like what was our most recent
mass shooting? because there’ve been so many 
these last few years it’s hard to keep track of 
time and place. We have grown accustomed to 
shootings that are really just a symptom
of the disease anyway, this disease 
of indolence and resentment, a lack
of something like self-sufficiency and 
ultimately love. Ours is an illness
of absence. That is taking our children 
from us. One by one. Like that murderer
in the one-room schoolhouse. He was afraid 
he was turning into a pedophile,
he says. He writes. In a note. He’s angry
at God because his newborn daughter dies
as soon as she’s been born. —Well shoot yourself 
then! in my opinion. If you’re so mad
and for good reason, why not be a man
and shoot yourself? Well he does shoot himself, 
but first he storms that one-room schoolhouse with 
his Springfield XD 9mm
and orders the boys to bring in some tools 
from his truck. A piece of wood with metal
eye hooks. Some chains. A shotgun and stun gun.
Apparently he brings a lubricant
for God knows what. He sets the teachers free 
with the boys, who scatter into the wheat
and tobacco fields exploding with crows.
He ties up all the girls. He barricades
the windows and doors with lumber but then 
the police start breaking in. So he shoots 
eight girls, one by one, execution style
before blowing his brains out. Afterward 
an old Amish farmer says, Do not judge 
this man! He has a wife and a mother.
He stands before God now. I don’t know how 
he could say such a thing. But the families
of the murdered girls forgave the gunman 
and they forgave his family too. Because 
the families of the gunmen are shattered
as well. Blamed and ostracized. They have to 
change their names and disappear. Denying 
who they are. Their blood. Can you imagine 
living with such a secret? These gunmen 
might as well murder their own families too 
because essentially they’ll all be dead 
afterward, but worse because they’re living 
with the guilt. Wondering, Am I to blame
somehow? How could I have stopped this? Take that 
college student in Virginia who kills
I think thirty-three? The largest number 
in US history. If you include
himself because of course he shoots himself 
when he’s done. And this kid isn’t even 
American! for the record. He grows up 
somewhere in Korea. And this college 
should’ve known better. They failed to protect 
the children. I mean why do we protect
banks and airports and senators but not 
our own children? Out of some nostalgia 
for schools as utopias unsullied
by the presence of firearms. Ha ha ha!
Who are we kidding? I live in a world
where our children matter. And this sick boy 
was doing sick things like writing stories 
about gunmen, circulating selfies
of himself with handguns like he’s starring 
in an action movie—I want to smack
his shiny fat face! Because nobody
was disciplining him, which is shocking 
in an Asian family. They were in shock
afterward, that’s for sure. They’ve had to go 
into hiding. Every one of his guns,
by the way, his Walther P22
and his Glock 19, were bought legally
with background checks. Which only proves gun laws 
are a fantasy. Of course we mustn’t
worship guns, that’s true. Romanticizing
their power. Guns don’t cure violence, the cure 
is the cause. Where it comes from. This desire 
to kill innocents. What circumstances
must coalesce to create not only 
the commission but the repetition
of an atrocity? Take those young men 
in Columbine. Everybody’s aware
of Columbine, which is why I prefer 
we remember the flower. Nobody 
remembers the columbine wild flower 
anymore, cerulean shimmering
in mountain meadows. That die in the fall
and come back in the spring. Like most flowers, 
ha ha ha. The name columbine derives
from the Latin columba, meaning dove,
because of the shape of the delicate 
petals. Which is ironic. Those sick boys 
obliterated those flowers. Because
they were abused themselves. They understood 
the value of violence. Because gunmen
—and I haven’t done the research myself 
but I’m willing to bet that the killers
in almost every unspeakable act
in your neverending spreadsheet of death 
were beaten. Shunned. Scorned. Emasculated 
if they’re a man and let’s be frank, they are 
almost always men. Boys. Who live alone
with their shame. Who want to make others feel 
what they’re feeling. And in this way violence
is not unlike love. You were bullied too 
like these boys. Before I decided to
keep you home with me. Because you are shy 
and don’t fight back. You’re an easy target.
And washing your body one day I see 
bruises and I get angry. But that school
does nothing. Schools are like the government 
in my opinion, in that they pursue
and maintain at all costs their own corrupt 
power. And when I’m feeling powerless
when there’s tension at work, when I worked or 
when I’m interacting with neighbors or
lawyers or your father, I remember 
the feeling of a gun in my hand. Cold 
and heavy in my mind. I let my breath
escape slowly. And know within myself 
I am safe. Unlike at least one of those
Columbine shooters. Who was bullied by
his classmates and the other shooter too, 
who was psychotic, in my opinion 
pulling the weaker mind deeper into
his orbit. Many people will tell you 
this other one, the psychotic one was
evil. But I don’t know. What do you think 
about evil, Adam? I don’t know what
evil rightly is. But I do believe
in history. Now you’ll also notice
I won’t name the shooters. They want their fame 
or infamy. Why can’t we remember
the dead instead? Their names like the flowers 
in a mountain meadow. Dead in the fall
and back in the spring. Maybe it’s something 
in the blood, after all. Our ancestors
were Puritans. It’s 1740
when my childhood home’s built. The Champions 
from Cornwall in England. I’m a Daughter
of the American Revolution so
that makes you a Grandson. Ha ha ha. Now 
not everybody on the Mayflower
is a Puritan. They’re known as Strangers
and they come to the New World not for God 
but for business. Pelts. Can you imagine
the boundless terror of abandoning
the home where you’ve been born and enduring 
the almost unendurable passage
down in the depths, swinging in your hammock 
and wherever you can contort yourself
around furniture and barrels and crates 
with the odd lamb or goat or pig for warmth
all pressed together and stowed in the stench 
of piss and shit and vomit and the wail
of suffocating babies—can’t you feel
the plop from the boat down into the waves 
at low tide, half a mile out, now two steps
toward shore in the sucking mud, one step 
back again in the undertow—toward
and away, toward and away, alive 
and rejoicing before a wilderness
howling and hostile. Free from oppression, 
redeemed by solitude. An absolute
church unto ourselves. Ha ha ha. Because 
a couple of years later this Stranger 
named John Billington loses his temper 
with a Puritan and blows him away
with a blunderbuss. One of those old guns 
that look ridiculous. An argument
over grazing rights. —Why are you smiling, 
Adam? Is it something I’ve said? Tell me 
what I’m not seeing. Because I have looked 
everywhere at everything like causes
and circumstances and still I cannot 
understand you.—Let me take this feeling 
from you. Like that time when you were a boy 
and you had a fever and you refused
to let me sleep beside you. So I sleep 
outside your door on the floor. You call out 
for me in the night, Are you still out there,
Mom? Mom? I’m still here, Adam. I’m still here 
but I won’t be here forever. Because
I’m tired. I’ve been up all night. Rehearsing 
what I would say to you. I would like to 
place my hands on either side of your face 
and shake it. Shake you. I’d like to force you 
to speak. I want to kiss you. To hold you 
like I did long ago. I long to feel
your body in my bed. Like you used to
sleep with me. Your breath. Your small feet. What else 
can I do? I’ve disappeared. I’m a ghost
like you. I know you walked by your old school 
last night. You’ve been walking by your old school
many nights, haven’t you? I know. Because 
a few nights ago I followed you and
I watched you walking around the playground 
staring in through the glass. As if trying
to figure something out. What is your plan, 
Adam? Do you want to hurt them because 
you love them too much? Give me an answer 
or we’ll have to go to the hospital
this morning. Not a hospital, a home
is what it’s called. I’ve picked one out. I’ll go 
there with you. I’ll take you and stay with you 
at first. But I’d rather not, I’d rather
not give up on you, Adam. On us. So 
tell me. Tell me. This is like a nightmare 
I had—or was it a premonition?
—months ago. You and I had gone outside 
into this mountain meadow. You’re laughing 
and talking to me like you used to till
clouds come rolling in, then a gust of wind 
lifts you off the ground, just an inch or two 
then higher—I reach out for your sneakers 
to pull you back, but the harder I pull
the harder the wind knocks me around till 
my eyes are stinging and I can barely
see you. I’m losing you. The wind’s tearing 
you away from me and I’m watching you 
disappear into the lightning and rain
and you’re not crying. I know you can’t bear
to be touched. But I’m going to touch you now, 
okay? Every mother would give her life
to save her child’s life. Here is mine for you.
If that’s what you need. If you’re so angry
at me. Because I’ve failed you. Take my life,
Adam. I’m not afraid. I’ll be sleeping
in my room. And when I wake up we’ll know 
what to do.

(She climbs 
the stairs.

He gets up, goes 
downstairs.

He returns 
moments later 
with a rifle,

and climbs 
the stairs
to her room.)

Read more from Issue 16.1.