The Year We Disappeared

“Somehow I knew it was parts of me lying there, and I thought quite calmly, Shit, now I’m going to have to go to the dentist.”

Immediately after being shot, John recounts an odd, dispassionate memory: seeing his own blood, bone, and flesh splattered on the passenger seat and worrying about a dentist visit. John’s account of his own shooting and recovery is calm and clinical throughout, but even beyond that, his brain seems to remove itself from the trauma by focusing on something mundane: a trip to the dentist. This coping mechanism keeps him lucid long enough to escape the assassination attempt and seek refuge; it most likely saves his life. 

“‘Scared’ isn’t the right word for it. There is no word for it. It’s a gut feeling when you know you’re about to die, and it’s horrible.” 

In a rare moment of emotional confession, John admits to the terror of being hunted like prey and having to flee for his life. Once he gets over the shock, and the reality sets in—someone is trying to kill him now, in this moment—a fear unlike anything he has ever experienced grips him. He contrasts this feeling to the artificial fear experienced while watching a horror movie, but the two are nothing alike. The fear one feels in a movie theater is frivolous by comparison—a temporary adrenaline rush versus the dreadful certainty of one’s own mortality. 

“Last I wrote, ‘Polly and the kids—not safe.’” 

Even while bleeding from a near mortal wound, John has the presence of mind to write a note to the attending officer, warning him that Raymond Meyer might also try to kill his family while the police are rendering aid and investigating the crime scene. It’s uncertain if Meyer ever has his sights set on Polly and the kids, but John’s quick thinking prevents Meyer from making the attempt. John seems hardwired to remain calm in the face of events that would send most people into a panic.

“I was swiftly loaded onto a gurney sitting up—the way I as bleeding, I’d drown in my own blood if I laid down.”

John’s attention to detail, even in the face of life-threatening injuries, is meticulous (granted, those details are rendered in hindsight), and they provide important context to understand the severity of his condition. John describes the moments after the shooting—from his escape to his seeking shelter in a stranger’s house to the first responders arriving—as time slowing down. Perhaps this protracted lapse of time brings the details into sharper focus and helps him recall them so vividly years later.

“They used a shotgun loaded with double-O buckshot. Inside the casing for each shot are nine 32-caliber copper-plated lead pellets.” 

John’s detached, objective tone emerges clearly in his description of the weapon used to try to kill him. The details are not necessarily relevant to anyone outside of law enforcement (or a gun enthusiast). The purpose of these details goes beyond a simple illustration of ballistics. By describing the ammunition with obvious knowledge, John establishes his credibility as an authoritative source as well as providing details to any reader for whom the information might matter. 

“I wondered when she would wash the dishes, when we would come back home.”

As the kids prepare for an extended stay with their Uncle Joe and Aunt Kate, Cylin observes the unwashed dishes sitting in the sink. Naïve as to why they are being rushed out of their house, Cylin’s priorities betray her youth. She worries about unwashed dishes and anticipates spending time with her older cousin who gives her fashionable hand-me-downs. It never occurs to her that this evacuation—which is undeniably what it is—is for her own safety.

“‘Maybe one of your guys already took care of him, if you know what I mean,’ the other cop chimed in, and gave Don a knowing look. Cops looked out for cops.”

As John and his fellow officers try to piece together the truth of what happened, one officer notes that no one has seen Meyer since the shooting. One of the other officers cavalierly suggests that maybe someone on the force has bypassed the justice system and killed Meyer himself. This notion doesn’t give anyone in the room ethical concerns. The unspoken rule among the fraternity of cops seems to be that revenge equals justice.

“The oral surgeon crew came in to see me, including Dr. Keith. ‘I want that eye patch off,’ he told the other doctor. ‘It makes us look bad, like we missed the glass.’” 

The subtle (or not so subtle) competition between John’s various doctors provides a glimpse into the politics of the medical profession. While the primary concern of any doctor should be the welfare of their patients, Dr. Keith’s remark shows a less altruistic side: a concern for appearance, for public relations, and for his own reputation. Rather than considering the value of the eye patch to his patient, he worries about how its presence will affect him.

“Don said, ‘Some hornet’s nests are better left undisturbed, but you do what you want,’ and left it like that.” 

As a rookie cop riding with Don Price, John learns the gritty reality of policing in Falmouth—give the “untouchables” a pass. This confuses (and rankles) John who, perhaps naively, assumes the law applies equally to everyone. Price’s comment proves prescient years later when John disturbs the hornet’s nest known as Raymond Meyer and almost pays the ultimate price.

“He had a nice face, but he wasn’t so handsome that you were scared of him.” 

Cylin recalls a priest at their church—young, vibrant, engaged—who made Mass seem relevant for a change. He speaks of Jesus and community in a way that makes Cylin care about them. Her odd description (equating “handsome” with fear) speaks perhaps to her own budding sexuality and the inherent conflict between attraction and faith that many Catholics feel. As a nine-year-old, she might be too young to understand the dynamics of puberty but not too young to experience it. That confusion might result in a feeling of fear, not of the priest but of her own emotions. 

“The way she said it, it sounded like she knew we would go home eventually—to our old lives where everything would be normal.” 

When Cylin’s cousin, Lauren, gives her a fashionable, hand-me-down dress, she instructs her younger cousin on the proper occasion for it. For Cylin, this triggers her pent-up hope that, indeed, there will be normalcy in her future, parties and other opportunities to wear the dress that makes her feel like a “princess.” The passing down of clothes is also a bonding ritual between Cylin and Lauren, and, after weeks of Lauren’s doomsday predictions, the dress serves as a reminder to Cylin that Lauren can sometimes be kind to her.

“‘I don’t think it’s his recovery they’re worried about,’ Uncle Joe said.

‘It’s his safety—and yours.’” 

As Polly and Joe discuss John’s recovery at home, Joe interjects a note of hard reality. The doctors’ reservations about releasing John from the hospital might have nothing to do with Polly’s ability to care for him and everything to do with keeping the family safe. Cylin’s presence at the table doesn’t deter Joe from articulating his concerns, and she is forced to confront a hard truth: Someone wants to kill her father, and they might not discriminate when it comes to his family. 

If you didn’t know better, it might sound like I went from a life of crime on the streets of Boston to a life of crime in the service. But there are two sides to every story.”

After run-ins with the law in his youth, John enlists in the Air Force to turn his life around. Old habits die hard, however, and John spends time in the brig for “inciting a riot” (121) over a chess game. Personal experience teaches him a lesson that, ideally, will serve him well in his law enforcement career—regardless of first impressions, both sides must be heard to effectively resolve any argument.

“It’s amazing what you can do, I wanted to tell her, when you get angry enough.” 

As John endures rigorous physical therapy, his nurse marvels at his progress. His motivation, however, is not some indefinable inner strength but rather anger at Meyer, anger at the dead-end investigation, and fear for his family. His rage, while it motivates him to work hard and build up his strength, also nearly pushes him into a dark place of bitterness, hate, and vengeance. 

“I was either too dumb to feel fear or too proud show any.”

John has occasional moments of self-awareness, and, when reflecting on his career as a police officer (particularly his interactions with Meyer), he notes the character flaws that have led him to this moment. Although what John considers “dumb” might simply be idealism, or the notion that no one deserves special treatment, his pride adheres him to that idealism to the point that he becomes blind to the threat he faces.

“I wanted him to just be the Bear again and not be standing in my class talking to my new teacher. Everything was wrong.”

When Cylin experiences the disconnect between Arthur “the Bear” Pina as family friend and as professional cop, she finds it unsettling. She is accustomed to his presence in her home and at family gatherings but not at her school, and definitely not as a serious and solemn authority figure. Her life is filled with such disparities, but the sight of her friend “the Bear” in an unfamiliar context only reinforces the instability of her life.

“If I could hold my breath that long, something good was going to happen.” 

As Cylin’s new normal sets in—the humiliation of constant attention, the abandonment of her friends—she finds solace in the company of Amelia, the one friend who remains loyal and unafraid. On the bus one day, realizing that her friend Meg is nowhere in sight, she decides to hold her breath until the bus reaches Amelia’s house. An arbitrary and superstitious decision on her part, it nonetheless illustrates the lengths to which a young, confused mind will go to cope with uncertainty. In this moment, superstition is all she has left.

“There were only two choices now: live like this or don’t live at all.”

After Eric sneaks out to a friend’s house without informing the officer on duty, the repercussions are immediate and serious. The officer scolds him, telling him, “You must always remain in my eyesight!” (151). When Cylin sees the frantic reactions from both the officer and Polly, she suddenly realizes the severity of their situation. Her father wasn’t in an “accident.” Someone intentionally tried to kill him, and they might try to kill Eric, Shawn, and her as well. For the first time, she understands in a tangible way that this is their life now, and she must accept it.

“We were both quiet for a second, then Amelia added, ‘My mom said that it’s really sad that they shot him in the face because he used to be so handsome.’” 

In many ways, the story is about Cylin’s gradual acceptance of their frightening new reality. That acceptance comes slowly, marked by small, sporadic epiphanies. One of those moments occurs during a casual conversation with her friend Amelia. When Amelia’s mother refers to John’s physical appearance in the past tense, she must face that reality once again, not only in the privacy of her own thoughts, but in a face-to-face encounter. While Cylin has always thought of her father as handsome, that illusion is shattered with a few ill-chosen words. Cylin might have privately acknowledged the damage to her father’s face, but to have a third party confirm her worst fears is a sudden emotional blow.

“I wished I could make her feel better, but the truth was that I was angry and planned to stay angry until I got back at the bastards who did this to me.” 

After Polly reprimands John for an angry tirade against Cylin’s principal, John reflects on his emotional state. He recognizes the truth of Polly’s words: His anger is out of control and harming both him and his family, but he can’t let it go. In fact, he makes a conscious decision to hold on to it until he sees justice done. Implicit in his words is the fear that, if he moves beyond the anger, the desire for revenge will fade; at this point, the possibility of revenge is the only thing holding him together.

“Eric got a black eye from fighting some guys in gym class. ‘I’ll kill that dick if he ever comes near me again,’ he told Shawn after school.” 

Eric and Shawn’s physical altercations at school are one of the clearest illustrations of how John’s anger is affecting his children. Normally well-behaved students, the boys now react based on the example John has modeled for them, with anger and physical violence. Shawn gets a concussion, Eric is on the verge of being moved to a “special” class, and both boys are now seen as trouble. The change is profound, and Cylin admits she almost doesn’t recognize them.

“I also quickly realized that the guys protecting me from Meyer were also protecting Meyer from me.” 

John’s anger, fueled by insinuations about Polly and invasive questions by the news media, becomes apparent to his friends on the force as well as to his family. He begins to feel that their scrutiny works two ways: They are protecting him from another attempt on his life, and they seem to be protecting him from his own irrationality. He is denied access to additional guns, and he can’t go anywhere without a bodyguard: “Confined and accompanied wherever I went” (187). His colleagues probably understand his anger better than anyone, but they are also objective enough to see what that anger is doing to him, and their close scrutiny prevents him from making a tragic mistake. 

“Call it fate, call it synchronicity: you never know what your actions are going to lead to, or the possibilities they can cause.” 

When John’s therapist confesses that he’s seen John jogging past his house prior to the shooting, and that has inspired him to start running himself, it triggers a rare moment of introspection. John is, for the most part, pragmatic and not given to metaphysical musings, but the coincidence of seeing the one therapist in the area with whom he has a previous connection gives him pause. Life-changing events can elicit such reactions in people, and his shooting changes him in profound and unexpected ways.