Hannah Has Issues

An autumn gust whipped her dark hair across her face as she squinted into the sun over the Philadelphia skyline. Emotionally exhausted, she wondered if the strangers walking past knew what she’d endured. She gathered herself as best she could, stepped in the direction of the parking lot, and staggered. Somewhere, somehow, from her office, on the fourteen floor ride down in the elevator, through the lobby, and onto the sidewalk, Hannah had broken a heel.

A heel.

Her shoes had been a gift from Monica. Donny had gone on about how proud their little girl had been. She had bought grown-up shoes with four-inch heels for mommy. Hannah never let on how the shoes ruined her feet. The heel of which Hannah had just broken. Monica’s heel. Tears welled in Hanna’s eyes.

There was nothing mommy could have done.

Hannah hobbled up the four flights of stairs to the top floor of the parking garage where she’d parked the minivan. By then, her tears flowed like water from a broken faucet. She hurried inside the minivan and washed down two Xanax with a bottle of cough syrup. The pills did little to subdue the ache in her skull and her throbbing ankle. She swallowed a handful more, lost count, swallowed two, guessed nine or ten, and choked down another. Hannah laughed aloud. Then, she felt. . .

Nothing.

Shadows covered the hood of her car when she opened her eyes. The dash clock read 6:15 p.m. Donny would be home from work. He’d have Monica with him because it was his turn to stop at the daycare. Hannah checked her lipstick and hair, shifted the minivan into drive, and accelerated until she heard a crash. The box of office items she’d placed on the minivan’s roof lay in a broken, busted heap on the lot behind her. Hannah stared at the pile through the rear view mirror for a moment then sped away.

She turned west on Market Street and fell into the flow of traffic heading toward the suburbs when the odor of rotten Cilantro overwhelmed her. She placed a hand to her nose, and looked in the rearview mirror. The kissing bugs were inside of the minivan. Their wings made a dull locomotion sound.

Phut, phut, phut, phut, phut.

“You can’t be real!” she screamed into the mirror.

The bugs swirled around her head until they reached her ear canal. There, they stopped, and one-by-one, crawled inside, their barbed legs scraping fleshy walls on their way to feed on her synapses and slurped sticky cranial fluid — sucking, slurping, scraping. The maddening sound conjured an image of a pack of mangy dogs lapping at their balls until an explosion colors blinded her.

She slammed her head against the steering wheel. The blow dizzied her and her foot depressed the gas pedal to the floor. She blew through an intersection oblivious of the blaring car horns, barreled through a telephone pole, and sideswiped a trolley before regaining control.

“This isn’t real,” she repeated over and over until the taste of metal filled her mouth. She checked the rearview mirror once again. Her face was unchanged except for the purple lump blooming on her forehead — and the revolver jammed into her mouth. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips from the tooth she’d knocked out. Bulging black eyes stared from behind her eyes. Kissing bug eyes. Tears dragged mascara down her pallid cheeks. Her eyelids followed the black trail until her eyelashes locked.

She heard their voices in unison. “Let’s ride. We have things to do.”

Phut, phut, phut, phut, phut.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw a scowling moon reflected in the plate glass window of the Wine and Spirits Store. The minivan’s engine idled, although poorly, and sounded like a choking chain smoker. She checked her cell phone. Nine missed calls. Hannah tucked the phone into her pocket. The scent of grilled onions floated on the cool, night air when she stepped out of the vehicle. A cheesesteak sandwich with a grape Slurpee — big enough to freeze the balls off kissing bugs — sounded excellent.

Monica loves grape slurpee.

Wait. Wine and Spirits doesn’t make Slurpee.

She giggled at her mistake as she walked in behind a man who barely registered on her radar. The bell at the top of the door jingled.

The smile on the dark-skinned woman behind the counter melted as she entered. Hannah felt the woman’s eyes on her as she passed the counter. Hannah realized she’d been there before, but couldn’t remember when. She abandoned the Slurpee jones and beelined it for the Vodka section.

Along the way, she walked by fifteen varieties of Mad Dog 20/20 lined on a shelf. Mad Dog seemed more like her mood: cheap, gets the job done, and discarded when empty. She grabbed a bottle, checked the twist top to make certain it was secure, and headed to the counter. The clerk, with Britney stitched over her left breast, wasn’t dark at all but ghostly white now that Hannah stood closer.

“Please, I don’t want no trouble,” Britney said.

“Fine by me,” Hannah said as she reached into her bag for her wallet and realized she still had the revolver in her hand. She looked down at her body. The black dress she’d been wearing everyday for the past six months had been replaced with a black leather duster, a black leather bra, leather pants, matching boots, and dark shades. Hannah eyed her reflection on the security camera above the counter.

I look so friggin’ hot!

The kissing bugs dispersed from her ear canal and hovered behind her like her personal air force.

Phut, phut, phut, phut, phut.

“Please, I don’t want no trouble,” Britney repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “I pressed the silent alarm. The cops will be here any minute.”

Hannah held up the revolver. “This isn’t for you.” She slipped it into her duster pocket. “See.”

A little red-headed girl in a yellow dress, Little Mermaid flip-flops exposing tiny painted toenails, rushed through the front door and triggered the bell again. The bugs broke formation and scattered throughout the store. The girl stopped and gawked.

She can’t see us. Hannah heard the stink bugs say with uncertainty.

Phut, phut, phut, phut, phut.

Hannah thought she recognized the child, but couldn’t remember from where.

Where is my mind today?

Before she could make the connection, a bug-eyed woman ran from the hallway at the back of the store. The neon restroom sign above her head glowed bright and cast her in a neon red halo. A puckering kissing bug sat on the woman’s head, purple against neon red. She was bra-less in a flimsy yellow sundress. Hannah thought the woman’s clothing was a serious faux pas, totally inappropriate for a woman her age, made tits looked like golf balls in tube socks. The woman screamed.

“Don’t shoot my baby!”

Movement in the security camera distracted Hannah. A man wearing a black ski mask and ragged Army fatigues stood behind her pointing a sawed-off shotgun at the little girl.

Not her!

The woman sprinted for the girl. The hooded man jerked in her direction and the shotgun boomed behind Hannah. The woman went down, sliding sideways like a base runner stealing second. The kissing bug on the woman’s head hopped to her back and rode her like a surfer catching a bitchin’ blood wave. Hannah watched it all in slow motion.

Britney screamed.

The child shrieked.

“Shit!” said the masked man.

Sirens whooped and wailed outside.

The girl, teary-eyed, snot bubbling from her nose, lurched toward her mother. Hannah grabbed the girl by the arm, careful to avoid the snot, and felt bone snap in her grip. The girl howled, and her forearm formed a slanted L shape in Hannah’s hand. She shoved the girl back toward Britney, who had hunkered down behind the counter.

“I only wanted the goddamned money.” The masked man fell to his knees sobbing.

A hulking armored personnel vehicle lumbered onto the property and parked broadside of the front entrance. Policemen in assault gear that conjured images of Bin Laden’s killers Hannah had seen on tv hustled out the back and took up firing positions behind the cars in the lot. The cell phone in Hanna’s pocket buzzed. She answered.

“Thank God, Hannah, I’ve been calling all afternoon,” Donny said.

“My phone was — ”

“Where are you? The police are looking for you.”

“I got fired.”

“Jesus. What’d you do?”

Spotlights, like ten suns, blinked on outside and turned the Wine and Spirits Store from night to day.

“Oh-my-God, Hannah, your picture is on the television.”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Is it the good one from our tenth-anniversary party or the ugly driver’s license mugshot?”

Her phone beeped. “Hold on, Donny, I got another call.” She switched lines.

“Hannah Patterson, this is Lieutenant Brenda with the Hostage Rescue Team.”

“Okay,” she said, unsure how else to respond to his declaration.

“You’ve had a rough day, Hannah. How you doin’?”

A picture of Joey Tribianni from “Friends” popped into her head.

“I’m all right.”

“Well, Hannah, I don’t think you are. Things have gotten out of control.”

She looked at the masked man pacing back and forth, the barrel of the shotgun smoking, muttering something incomprehensible. The thump of helicopter blades vibrated through the ceiling. The building seemed to pulsate.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“First things first, Hannah, does anyone inside need medical assistance?”

Hannah looked over at the girl’s mother on the floor. No movement. She liked the woman still, rested. Then she glanced at the little girl holding her arm.

“No.”

“We can end this before anyone gets — ”

Hannah’s phoned vibrated.

“Hold on. I got Donny on the other line.” She clicked back over.

“Hannah, you’re on FOX News. I can see you through the window. The police have the store surrounded.” She could tell he’d been crying. “My Lord, Hannah, what are you wearing?”

Hannah’s phone beeps again.

“Hullo, that you, Joey?”

“Lieutenant Brenda. Who’s Joey?”

“He was on “Friends” until it went off the air. You know, ‘how YOU doin’. That guy.”

“You lied to me. I see what looks like a dead woman lying in a pool of blood on the floor.”

Hannah glanced at the masked gunman who was banging himself in the head with the barrel of his shotgun as he paced and sobbed. The kissing bugs took flight and smashed into each other as though they had lost their sight. Thousands fell to the floor and shelves and crawled away.

Hanna looked over at Britney sitting in the fetal position. “There’s a little girl is in here. I think she has a broken arm. There’s a man in here with — ”

“How old is the girl?”

“I don’t know. I’d guess about four or five.”

“I’m seven!” the girl shouted.

“What’s the girl’s name?” Lieutenant Brenda asked.

“Her name is Monica.”

“It’s Jasmine!” the girl shouted.

“Is anyone else hurt?”

“Hey, can you hold on a minute, thanks.” She switched back to Donny.

“Jesus.” Donny hadn’t stopped talking. “They have it all on the security camera. Armed robbery, they said. When did you get a gun?”

“I don’t remember any of it.”

“Oh, God. The reporter just said you killed a woman in the Wine and Spirits.”

“Calm down, Donny. You know you get hiccups when you cry. It’s all a mistake. I’ll see you when I get home.” She hung up before Donny’s hiccups started.

The kissing bugs had gone quiet, lurking. Her phone vibrated in her hand.

“Hullo.”

“You hung up on me.” It was Joey.

“Sorry. I forgot. Donny was about to hiccup, and I was looking for the kissing bugs — ”

“None of this makes sense, Hannah.”

“Things stopped making sense for me six months ago,” she said. “Hey, Donny said I robbed a bank. That true?”

“It was the Chase Bank up in Rockledge. Lucky for you no one was hurt.”

“I used to work at that branch years ago. How much money did I get?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Not really. Not even sure how I got here, or what I’m doing now. It’s like I’m here, but I’m not. Thinking used to be easier, know what I mean?”

“A homeless shelter said you dropped off twenty grand and drove away.”

“Yeah?”

“This will end badly for you if you don’t let me help.”

“But, it will end.”

“You’re wrong — ”

“Hold one, it’s my phone. Hullo.”

“This about us, isn’t it?” Donny said. “It’s what happened to us.”

“Let’s discuss it when I get home.”

“Monica is gone. You have to accept it. It wasn’t your fault. I know I blamed you. I was wrong. I see that now.”

On the lower shelf behind the counter, a television with an eight-inch screen silently displayed two photos. One was of Hannah’s Monica, her red hair in big, fluffy curls like a Raggedy Ann doll. The other was of Jasmine dressed in yellow, her red hair cascading down to her shoulders. The caption beneath the photos showed their names in bold letters.

“Goodbye, Donny.”

“Hannah — ”

Hannah clicked over to the other line. “Hey, Joey, you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I got fired this morning.”

“My job is to get all of you out alive. Will you help me?”

“It isn’t up to me — ”

“You’re the only one who can stop this. What happened was terrible, beyond your control.”

“I’ve been trying to convince myself of that for a long time. Hey, Joey, you know what Triatomines are? I’ve been reading up about them. Their bite is like a kiss, then they crap on you, and you die. Triatomines are sometimes called kissing bugs. Did you know that? They kiss you before they kill you.”

Hannah had taken the day off for mommy-daughter time the morning it happened. Donny had been traveling on business. Girl time Monica had called it. Hannah had been promising for weeks. They had appointments for hair and nails, some shopping, and then a meal at Monica’s favorite restaurant. Hannah had been excited about spending alone time with Monica. Her job had demanded so much of her, it seemed she was missing so much of Monica’s best years. So when Hannah got a call from Lilith saying she needed her at the office for a few hours, Hannah had almost refused. They needed her, Lilith insisted. An unannounced audit had been sprung on the bank, and she needed her best people. All hands on deck, Lilith had said, but just for a couple of hours max. Reluctantly, Hannah conceded and dropped Monica off at the daycare with a promise to return before noon.

There isn’t anything I can do, she remembered saying, They need me.

Hannah had no idea about the gunman until she had driven back to the daycare at noon, and saw twenty covered bodies in a row on the parking lot. She stumbled from her minivan and spotted one with a lock of fiery red hair sticking out from beneath a Dora the Explorer blanket. Monica’s favorite sleepy-time blanket.

A female police officer blocked Hannah from rushing to the body, but she knew, in her heart, she knew. Hannah stared over the officer’s shoulders at the tiny body covered in red. Where the face should have been, the blanket was soaked red and sunken. Then, the blanket moved, a barely noticeable pulsation beneath the blanket.

“My baby’s alive,” Hannah shouted.

The blanket moved again. It was very small near Monica’s knee, a ripple that traveled until it reached the edge of the blanket over Monica’s face. Brown wings, protruding eyes, and a cone nose poked out from the blanket, and then the body cleared the rest of the covering until it sat on Dora’s Dora’s bloodstained face — rubbing its legs together. It sat, staring at Hannah, looking like it was blowing kisses. Hannah struggled to push past the officer.

Later, the detective, a man with tired, pained eyes, told her and Donny the gunman had walked into the daycare center with an AR15. The killer emptied one magazine, reloaded, shot, reloaded again, and then shot all the children twice more before he ate a bullet from a handgun.

“He had no police record, no history of violence, no note to explain his actions. No reason.” The detective handed them a photo. “He got the guns from his parents. A Christmas gift. I’m reluctant to tell you this, but . . .”

“What is it?” Donny said.

“I don’t want you to hear it in the news.”

“For God’s sake, tell us!”

“The classroom had a video camera. Before he shot the children, he kissed each one on the head.”

“I want my mommy,” Jasmine repeated.

“Come here.” The masked man wrapped his free arm around her. “I’m gettin’ outta here. Either of you bitches tries to stop me. I kill the girl.”

“You hurt my mommy,” Jasmine said as tears welled in her eyes.

“That was her fault,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Detective Brenda’s voice boomed through his bullhorn, “HANNAH, END THIS. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.”

“Who’s Hannah?” the masked gunman said.

“I have these things in my head,” she said. “Bugs, and I need help to get them out.”

“You some kinda wack job, lady?” the gunman asked.

“Give me the girl. They don’t want you.”

The gunman glanced at the dead woman. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Hannah held out her arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I give you the girl and I walk outta here?”

Hannah lifted her arm slightly higher as she opened and closed her fists.

The gunman gently nudged Jasmine toward Hannah, who lifted her up in a hug. Jasmine blinked, and her long eyelashes brushed across Hannah’s cheek.

“Okay, now, get me outta this,” the gunman said.

“You have to put down your gun.”

“No way,” he pointed the shotgun at her and Jasmine.

Hannah slid her hand into her duster pocket.

“Close your eyes,” Hanna whispered in Jasmine’s ear. “In the morning, you’ll be famous.”

“Like Beyoncé,” Jasmine said, and squeezed her eyelids shut.

“Hey, I know what you’re doin’” the gunman said. “You’re gonna use her to walk outta here, and leave me behind.” He walked forward until the shotgun barrel was pressed against Hannah’s head.

Hannah closed her eyes. Sweat on her finger caused it to slide off the trigger. She corrected it. She opened her eyes.

“You shouldn’t have kissed her.”

Hannah drew the pistol from her pocket and jabbed it beneath the gunman’s chin. She stared into his bulging eyes through the cutouts of his mask. She squeezed and watched his eyes roll back to white, and his body flop as though he were a punctured hot air balloon. A tiny hole appeared in the glass window behind him. A bug flew down and crawled into his opened mouth.

Jasmine slid from Hannah’s arms and ran screaming to Britney.