Sons of Abraham.
I wrote about it. I learned their pain. I saw the horror.
About a week ago I received a phone call from Marissa asking if I would travel with her to small town Wisconsin to investigate a shooting at the Sons of Abraham synagogue in Salem. I had two hours to get ready.
Sure, I said.
What else could I say?
So, I packed my bags with jeans, sweaters and a nice pants suit in case I would need it, and then made way for America's Dairyland. I wasn't sure what to expect as a Chicago native. Wisconsin was always a border away, so close, yet so foreign. We shared the Midwest ninety-degree summers and subzero winters thanks to Lake Michigan, but what else did we have in common?
Marissa drove most of the way even though I told her how I take I-80 every time I go to visit family back home. She teased me about if I even knew how to drive since she only ever sees me on the bike.
That was about the only conversation we shared the whole way there. Marissa seemed tired and tense, but she wasn't one to share her personal problems. That I knew of. Sometimes I wondered if people were more open to talking to others, they just didn't feel like to talking to me, or at least because they weren't patient enough for my response.
After we crossed the Illinois border and stopped at an oasis for a bathroom break, I took over the wheel for the last hour and half. I was surprised to find that Wisconsin reminded me of Iowa by the way the rolling hills and sour smell of cows take over your senses. It was shockingly familiar.
When we pulled into Salem Wisconsin I knew.
The town was small and quiet and large all at the same time.
The houses were spread across a yellowed-over landscape, divided by a main highway that separated one side of town with the surrounding shallow lake from the other.
Marissa told me the population was nine-thousand. Though it didn't feel like it.
Our first destination was the town's only motel, which greeted us with the need for a little renovating. Marissa and I brought in our bags and started plotting where to begin our investigations.
That led us to the synagogue. It was a tall rectangular building, possessing sharp angles and two large pillars running down the front steps. There were two banners waving in the wind on the pole out front; an American flag, and the other, the flag of Israel. It reminded me more of a government building than a place for religious gatherings.
Police cars trailed the parking lot and side streets and I remembered thinking that I had no idea what Marissa was about to bring me into, but a part of me felt like I was supposed to know.
We talked to some of the cops out front to see what they had to say about the story. We knew they wouldn't let us inside, but we thought it would be a good starting point to gather information.
When we left I felt like something changed inside of me. It sounds dramatic, and it is. But for as much death as I could feel running down my spine, I also felt a powerful lifeforce that wanted their story heard.
Seven sons lost. Seven injured. On Shabbat.
It was a miracle. The ratio, I mean. A few hours ago, we heard news circulate the hospital that one of the seven injured victims lost their life. Eight sons now gone. No longer a miracle.
The hospital was difficult to deal with. There were journalists flooding the halls trying to get whatever little information they could. Marissa and I had already started putting the pieces together and my stomach was in knots as she handed her cell-phone displaying the inside state of the synagogue.
Nothings ever made my stomach twist and then sink the way it did when I saw the image of yellow tape covering almost every inch of the scene, securing every section splattered in blood.
I imagined the scene taking place before me.
Clayton Getty and Evan Binnie were finalizing their plans and readying their weapons, a mac-10 and a G19. This was at five in the morning. They headed toward the Sons of Abraham at around nine and busted through the synagogue's doors, guns blazing, at approximately nine thirty. They began to open fire. People started screaming and running across the room, ducking behind the rows of chairs. In the first two minutes, it was believed they shot the first five victims.
In a frantic haze, they made their way throughout the silver-embellished gathering hall, shooting shots with their eyes closed. It was reported that a fifty-year old man named Nelson Gillinsky tried to stop one of the masked shooters and got hit straight through the stomach while trying to steal their weapon. He was then fighting for his life at the Kenosha hospital.
Seven people shot bled out on the scene. The other seven were taken to hospitals.
The whole incident lasted seventeen minutes. It was at around nine-forty-six that Evan Binnie shot Clayton Getty in the head.
"It's not the facts we are trying to uncover, but the feeling," Marissa told me later that night in the motel room. "What's the feeling Bryn?"
"Sad.ness," I said.
"Anything better than that?" The only other feeling I knew was confusion. I didn't know how to feel.
"You.'re right. We should be tell.ing the stor.y of the people, not the stor.y of what hap.pened. That's when we began speaking to all the victims we could.
Cage Rabkin, Ellen Webber, Sutton Mendlowitz, Graham Reindal, Madison Bleck, Robert Geffner, Wendy Hindes, Nelson Gillinsky, Ryan Cohn, Tolbert Schaul, Maia Gitlin, Sterling Karmen, Jackson Fischbein and Paula Chasen. Mothers, children, fathers, grandparents, cousins, guardians, angels. All names that will forever leave a mark on history just as history will forever leave its mark on them.
The next morning, we started with tiny, beautiful Wendy Hindes. Marissa and I found her mother outside the hospital, screaming at some people in the rally. "My daughter is fucking traumatized," she cried as we pulled her away.
"There's no use arguing with them," Marissa told her.
"Get off of me," she hollered as she shoved Marissa off.
"You need help. Please let us help you," my boss told her calmly.
"Can you save my baby?" Marissa shook her head. "Then you can't help me," the woman
snapped. Then she began pulling at her crazy hair, trying to smooth it back into place. She cried in our arms. We held onto her.
"We can't save her but we can give her a voice and shoot for justice," said Marissa. That caught her attention.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea..."
"I write for The Pacific, a news outlet in Iowa. We traveled a really long way to try and help-"
"We're not going to talk to any media." The woman began to pull away.
"I'm Marissa O'Hara," she said, shoving her hand out to the mother before she could walk away. "I spoke to people in Hurricane Maria last year and it was a pretty big story."
"I don't need a big story right now miss O'Hara. What I need is healing."
"Well, maybe talking about it and getting it out into the world can give you some peace of mind." Marissa reached into her Coach bag and pulled out her card. "Look me up. We'll be here if you change your mind." I smiled at the woman and then hugged her one more time before walking away.
Later that Saturday afternoon I snuck outside the State Line motel to have cigarette and overheard Marissa having an aggressive conversation over the phone. I couldn't make out the words but I could sense the hurt in her voice. Before she could spot me, I went back into the room to sort out our next move. I was hoping we would get a call back from the lady who we came to find out was the mother of Wendy Hindes. Wendy was six years old and shot twice in the leg. I couldn't imagine what it was like to be her or her mother. It must have hurt. Must have hurt the most to learn there are people in this world that don't like you and want to hurt you. That must be the most uncomfortable feeling of all.
If they called I didn't know what we were going to do or say. Just like I didn't have a clue what to do when Marissa came bursting through the motel door in tears, so un-Marissa-like. She through her phone onto the dresser and stormed straight into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. It's always been strict business between us, but I could see us walking a fine line now that I'd seen the most powerful woman I knew in tears.
I knocked on the bathroom door.
I can't keep doing this anymore
It appeared on Marissa's phone.
I'm sorry Mar
"You wan.na' talk abo.ut it?"
I never meant to hurt you
I felt like I was invading a private moment. But I couldn't avoid the bright flashing screen.
"You le.ft your ph.one out he.re."
Marissa began to sob harder. I didn't know if I could take anymore sadness, take anymore tears. I didn't tell her I would be here if she wanted to talk. I hoped she already knew that I would. I laid down in the bed and closed my eyes.
"Bryn!" Marissa was shaking me awake. "We gotta' go down to the hospital."
"What ti.me-"
"It's four-thirty but visiting hours close at six so we have to hurry."
We hurried.
I watched a composed Marissa speed through the tiny town. The only proof she'd been crying were the dark spots under her eyes. I always admired how well she had her shit together for thirty-two. She seemed to know what she wanted in life and she dove after it. She never complained, never missed a deadline, never cried, never wavered until today.
I met her in a communications class a year ago and she shortly became a mentor after helping me with my writing. I remembered hearing her name. She's a popular professor on campus but she's also an award-winning journalist. The first big article I ever read was from 2008 when she interviewed Lindsey Cobb for a violent rape case. Marissa O'Hara gave the girl a voice and even encouraged a feminist movement. I didn't just admire her as a person but I admired her work as an artist.
When she asked me if I could help her by fact checking and editing, and in return, she promised to look over my writing in return, I didn't hesitate to accept the offer.
We met Brenda Hindes at the front desk of the Kenosha hospital. She was wearing a grey warmup suit, her hair was in a bun and this time it actually looked like she had some time to shower. Brenda Hindes looked nervous. I could tell because she wouldn't look up at us as we approached her and she began shifting her feet.
"How do I know I can trust you," she asked, never looking up from her tangled laces.
"Brenda, I'll approve everything through you," Marissa promised. One thing miss O'Hara did was never break a promise.
After we checked in, Brenda Hindes led us up to the third floor where Wendy was resting in an elevated hospital bed. She had a tube running through her small nose to support her breathing.
"Wendy, some ladies are here to see you and talk to you," her mother said as she stoked the little girl's curly hair. The girl opened her big brown eyes and smiled.
"For me," she asked.
"Hi Wendy, you're a hero, you know that? My names Marissa. And this is my assistant Bryn. We just came to ask you some questions about what happened. Do you feel like talking about it?" The little girl looked to her mother who nodded her head in approval.
"I can talk bout' it."
Marissa asked Wendy what she did that morning and she told us about her favorite show on Disney channel. Wendy talked about how her mom dressed her in her favorite blue velvet skirt and black turtle neck top. She told us she was saying a prayer about happiness when the first shot went off. Then she was on the ground and blacked out. Wendy told us about how her leg hurts and how she's getting it amputated off tomorrow.
"You're so brave," Marissa told her.
"How come she doesn't talk," Wendy asked, pointing her mini finger at me.
"She does. Bryn just doesn't talk a lot."
"Hi Wen.dy." I smiled and waved at the girl that still had big, open eyes. I pulled myself closer. Thought if I managed to distance myself it all wouldn't feel so real.
"What's wrong with her voice?"
"Bryn just takes her time, that's all."
"Oh," said the little girl. "Are you going to ask me anymore questions?"
"Do you know who did this to you?"
"A scary mans. A bad mans."
"Do you know anything about them?" The girl shook her head.
"Just scary black masks, that's all."
"Do you know why they did it?"
"Mommy said they were jealous of me."
The worst part of all was knowing that little Wendy Hinde had been robbed of a normal life, a normal childhood. That she will carry a permanent scar for the rest of her life, and that every time she looks down, she'll be missing a leg, and never be able to understand how or why these evil people could ever do this to someone. To her.