THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
I miss America. Let me start with that. There were a million different things that made it the most amazing country to live in, and my husband and I returned to the UK during the pandemic with heavy hearts. We'd moved to Southern California three years earlier full of the joys of adventure, expanding our business that already traded more with the US than any other territory. I'd first visited the States as a teenager and had fallen in love with San Francisco as I walked its hilly streets and stared out over the bay. Everything seemed bigger, my own potential included. Which is why, when opportunity beckoned, my husband and I seized the day, packed up our three children, and headed for San Diego.
We touched down in Los Angeles on the fourth of July. As we left the airport, the sky lit up with fireworks and we told the kids it was a sign that we were going to be welcomed with open arms. We were, for the most part. As I gleefully announced our arrival on social media, someone I knew in Massachusetts made a comment about us taking American jobs. I explained that my career involved me writing Scottish crime novels, so the US economy wasn't going to be jeopardised by my arrival. One odd neighbour in our road decided that all English women were radical feminists and refused to acknowledge me. Other than that, our experience of moving to California was textbook perfect. The backyard had a pool to the delight of our children, then aged 9, 11 and 14. I got to watch hummingbirds flit around the feeders hanging from our trees. My husband bought the American car he'd always longed for. We were living the dream.
There were things that took some getting used to. Nothing makes you appreciate the NHS quite like paying thousand of dollars per month for health care. The schools were unhappy with our inability to prove our children's chicken pox immunity. The American reliance on having a credit score to get anything financial done slowed us down a bit. But these were teething problems, and overcome with no more than a few raised eyebrows and some tenacity on our part.
By then our children were making firm friends, and with that came friendships for us. School events that turned into coffee mornings that turned into barbecues. Long, blissful walks on the beach early each morning for myself and my husband before we started work. No regrets. No looking back. Not the slightest hint of homesickness.
Then one morning when we were both at home, talking about something as dull as what to cook for dinner that night, the phones began to ring. That's not a typo. My mobile phone, my husband's mobile, our landline – all at the same time. Couple that with the pinging that indicated an email had landed on all our devices at exactly the same time, and we knew without a doubt that something was very wrong.
A recorded message explained that the elementary school our younger son and daughter attended had gone into an emergency lockdown. The school had been secured, the police were at the scene. Under no circumstances should anyone attend and intervene. Don't phone the school, we were instructed. The lines needed to remain open for outgoing emergency calls. My husband and I stared at one another, open-mouthed, each listening to the recording on our own mobiles.
I still don't have the words for what I felt during the thirty seconds I listened to that recording. The absolute horror. The knowledge there was a chance, however minuscule and remote, that I might not see my children again. The dreadfulness of them being scared – or worse, injured – without me there to hold and protect them.
My husband was already running out of the door, car keys in hand, shouting at me to stay home and wait by the phone. I was wiping away tears before I ended the call. I don't think I moved at all for the next few minutes until my phone rang again with another school mum calling to see if I knew anything. Her husband was at work and she couldn't get hold of him. She wasn't sure if she should drive to the school or not. Most other parents had the same idea. By the time my husband arrived there, almost every father and several mothers within fast driving distance had screeched into the area ready to do battle.
All in all, it took thirty minutes for my husband to call me and say the children were okay. I can categorically say it was the worst half hour of my life. A man had been acting strangely at the school gates, clearly disturbed, refusing to leave the area when asked, becoming aggressive. It turned out it was my son who'd reported the matter to his teacher. The school had called the police as the incident escalated, and when it looked dangerous they had gone into lockdown. They remained locked down, in fact, for a further two hours while police patrolled the grounds (it was a large school), checking everyone and everything, and securing the area properly. No one was hurt. Except that's not entirely true. That day took its toll.
The children – all of whom had gone through "shooter training" - had heard that alarm, the sound that meant they had thirty seconds to get to safety inside a classroom or be locked out to fend for themselves. Even inside the classrooms, blinds down, huddled at the back, children were crying. The teachers, and they are all excellent teachers at this school, did their best to reassure them. But these kids have seen these incidents on the news and social media. They've overheard their parents whispering about such things. They know precisely what's at stake.
Statistically, school shooters are rare, in spite of the appalling carnage they wreak when the events occur. There's a millions-to-one chance of your child being caught up in a shooting scenario. And for the record, the school and police response in this case was flawless. Immediate, professional, decisive, appropriate. I have nothing but praise for anyone involved.
But still, those thirty minutes gave me pause to wonder if our move to America was going to cost my children their lives that day. It brought home to us the reality of the United States' singular and most renowned issue – gun crime – in a way that left us all deeply shaken. We didn't leave. It would have be a gross over-reaction to have done so. Terrible things happen in every country in the world. But there wasn't a day after that as I dropped my children to school that I didn't think about the moment our phones all started ringing at the same time.
So yes, I miss America. I miss my wonderful, warm, caring friends. I long for those beaches and that spectacular countryside. But I don't miss that daily undercurrent of fear.
No child should go to school wondering if they'll make it home or not.
Helen Fields is an international #1 best-selling author of ten crime fiction novels, published in 22 countries, with a background as a criminal barrister working for both the prosecution and the defense. British-born, she moved to the United States but has decided to bring her family back to live in the UK.
Her latest book, The Last Girl to Die, set on the Isle of Mull, is published by Avon and is available from Waterstones and Amazon.
