At that Imani tips her head and her hand circles forward in a spiraling flourish.
“So now I’m heading to the home of the black president who lives in the White House, near the happiest place on Earth, and I think we both know I am knowing nothing real about living in America.”
Without breaking stride or the conversation, her shoulder-push signals turn right at the corner.
“But growing up, no matter what country I was in, there was one constant, one very specific show I remember. Sesame Street. And of all the American things I didn’t know, and therefore was afraid of, I actually knew that long before the Cookie Monster discovered cookies, thereby becoming Cookie Monster, his name was Sid.”
Imani stops walking and spins me toward her. “So, I mean, come on, short of maybe having a new friend named Bert or Ernie, what could be a better sign than that?”
I grab her, and wrap her up in a hug.
She whispers in my ear, “tu me manques.”
It’s not soft and gentle. It’s low, and it’s fierce. In English we’d say I miss you. But in French, the words literally translated become “you are missing from me.”
I tighten my arms around her until they cannot be more.
We break apart, and I’m crying because apparently that’s all I do these days, and she takes her gloved hand and wipes the tear. And then her tears began welling up, her face growing blotchy. I know she doesn’t want to cry, even if I’m the one who started it. Crying is intimate. And I know our relationship hasn’t been good enough for that to happen right now, but it might anyway. Can I trust you now? The silent question passes between us as though it is being screamed across the street.
“And so here I come, chubby, overbite me, completely clueless about American race. Your politics weren’t mine. I was born in Kenya, raised all over the world, sheltered by culture, class, education, and money. Slavery was a terrible thing, but it wasn’t really my problem. It was history. And it wasn’t my history. It was something in books, something on TV. Only now I realize I was wrong. Slavery is my history.”
Imani’s fist rises up to her mouth. Her body twists. I watch her struggle to fight back the still-threatening tears and find the clarity she wants.
“You know, Sid, it’s like when you talk about the concentration camps. It doesn’t matter if those people were your actual grandparents. You only care that they were somebody’s grandparents, and they lived and they died and they must be remembered.” Her fingers dance in the air, a silent castanet, looking for something, “What’s that word you use?”
I don’t have to ask which one she means. “Zachor.” To remember. To never forget.
“Exactly. No one I see on the subway or in the store says to me, “Oh, you’re black, but that’s okay because you aren’t from here.” No one says, “Oh, you’re black but not African American.” And now I get it. I realize it doesn’t matter because to them I am black. That’s what they see. That’s all they see. So, like you, I’m who is here. I have to remember.”
For a moment, it’s like she’s done. Her body sags slightly, as though the weight of her words has caught up and they are too much, too heavy. I move, but her hand comes up quickly to stop me.
“So, no.” Imani straightens. “I’m not from here. The irony is that the real truth is so much worse. I’m from Africa.” Imani’s short laugh is harsh, painful. “I’m literally from where she’s from. Our dead body? She could be my great aunt, or my cousin, or my cousin’s cousin. She could be me. And I, I could be her. And I found her. Or maybe, you know, maybe she found me.”
“But either way, now she’s my responsibility. I need to know her. And I need us all to know her. I need someone—no, I need me—to say her name. To say she was Liza or Sue or K’teesha or whatever, and that she lived and she died and she wasn’t left in some hole somewhere, covered up with dirt, and just forgotten.”
“And,” Imani gets as close to me as she can. There is no longer anything but she and I.
“I can’t do this alone. I need, as you would say, my posse. I need Jimmy and Ari and Vik and . . .” Imani’s eyes are boring into mine. “I need you. I need my best friend to help me find her name.”
“And once I know her name, I’m going to whisper it, speak it, and scream it out loud. She is not going be left lying there, some Jane Doe with an iron neck shackle and a toe tag number on a slab in the morgue.”
Imani’s intensity is palpable, waiting, pulsing. She is all soul on bone. Whatever tears had once threatened to fall are gone, eaten by the righteousness of her fury. And it is righteous. And noble.
And it is not a schoolgirl’s fantasy.
She is not going to be Jane Doe with an iron neck shackle and a toe tag number on a slab in the morgue.
I look up to the sky, making a silent promise. One I don’t know how we will keep. One I don’t know if we can keep. But I promise Imani and I promise her, whoever she is, we will find her. Somehow.
SIXTEEN
Soooo, you’re probably thinking I bolted out of bed the next morning, ready to take on the world, to go forth and tackle my mission. Not quite. After ’Mani and I didn’t so much as regain our footing, but kind of found new footing, we used it to climb our mountain. Then we went over to Platitudes, where Jimmy had gone ahead to wait.
I’m just gonna say it was a very late night.
Ergo—I did tell you I am loving that word—when the alarm rings, it is way too early because I am still emotionally exhausted. A cranial sinkhole of feeling. A true brain drain. And it’s getting worse, not better.
It begins so weirdly it’s almost like a “big brother is watching” moment. Here I am, forcing my eyelids to lift, then my body to sit, and here it is, a text waiting for me. It reads: “There’s a proud history of solving crimes before we had DNA. You have clues. Follow them.”
Tsarnowsky. I toss the phone back down. Exhausted exhale. Someone should tell him no one texts in full sentences. I pick the phone back up and read it again. You have clues. It’s like he’s taunting me, daring me to do this. Which, of course, we all know I am totally planning to do. Even before his text. So why the dare? Weird.
I feel a little exposed, like I’ve just been, I don’t know . . . search-engined. There are reasons I keep my computer camera covered and my privacy options turned on.
However, there is no time to dwell. I have places to go, promises to keep. Must get to school early so we can organize. I look in the mirror and hair’s not great, but it will pass. I grab jeans, and as I’m hopping to pull them up and close, there’s a knock on the door.
“Sid?”
I stop hopping and stand there, fly unzipped. Oh no. That is not Mom. This is way worse. It’s Dad. “Yes, Dad?”
“May I come in?”
Bad. This is bad. I need to be getting out of Dodge, now. I have no time for this. “Sure.”
“Hey! Dad!” I go for light, cheery.
He takes a minute, saying nothing. I’m guessing he’s overcome by the vision that my well-appointed outfit of jeans, bare-feet, and slept-in T-shirt creates.
“We missed you at dinner last night, everything okay?”
Oh no. It’s a case of the Daditudes. They come in two specific bundles. Bundle A—we’re not happy with those grades. Bundle B—we’re worried about you.
“Yeah.” My hands splay apart, moving back and forth, perhaps just a little bit rapidly. “Fine, actually. I mean it wasn’t, but it is. The Ava thing, you know, it was hard, like really hard, but it’s okay. Now. I mean it’s okay now. Really.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I mean Mom was great. And it sucks, but it’s all good.”
“Okay then.” But he’s still’s not moving; he’s still watching me. I give him a hands-wide, double thumbs up.
“You know I love you, Sid.”
“I know. I love you, too, Dad.”
And that is finally that. He’s turning, leaving, and . . . never mind. He turns back, his face serious.
Warning. Danger Sid Rubin.
“And Sid, one more thing. We don’t get to come and go as we please in this house. We have courtesies, we have cell phones, and we have curfews. Understood?”
Dad-nabbit. It’s the Dad Double Bundle. And he’s requiring me to sign for it. He is not simply turning and going. No, he’s standing here, waiting.
“Yes, Dad.” Might have been a little meeker than I would like.
But I can’t complain. It could have been much worse. As I turn, I spot myself in the mirror above the dresser, which also happens to have a handy dandy clock. And fluck me, time to step it up. Slept-in T-shirt off, new clean T-shirt on, flannel shirt on, hoodie on, coat in hand, and I am outta here.
I try calling our pal Ze on my way, but ze isn’t answering. Maybe out to dinner? Of course, I’m assuming Ze is still in Shanghai. I still can’t believe Ze went back, but I guess now that they are famous for their role in our game of Contagion hostage rescue, zir family is way more chill about what ze says they call their “other gendered” child. I miss Ze, but I am truly happy they are having a happy ending, too.
Anyway, I will text Ze after our meeting.
To which I am first. And that, my friends, is by design. As we know, I have been too neglectful for too long. Today I am going to be front and center. Well, from the sideline. This is not my show. It’s Imani’s. Not my show. I’m hoping if I say it enough, I will absorb it, and my actions will reflect it instinctively.
Phone buzz interruptus my chant. And I’m looking at the smiling face of Ze. I give a quick glance around, but as far as I can tell the library’s still empty.
“Sid! So cool, I was just thinking about you. Last night I go to dinner and a friend uses the expression 直男癌, which in the United States is what is called toxic masculinity. But if you actually translate words from Chinese to English, it is “straight male cancer.” So, I am laughing and thinking who do I know who would need to know this? And as I say, but only when I am in Paris, voilà! The phone rings. Here you are!”
Wow. There’s a lot to unpack here. One, I’m not sure I do need to know this toxic masculinity thing, and two, I’m not even sure it’s funny, but whatever? Time is not on my side.
Before I say anything, Ze turns the phone camera and I see Qi grinning away and waving hi. Just as quickly, the phone turns back.
“Hey, Ze, that’s great.” I turn, smack-dab, right into the waiting-for-me-to-notice-her librarian. Who is actually holding the front desk sign that says no talking on cell phones. I give her a two-minute beg sign with a best plead face. I mean, c’mon, there is nobody else here right now.
Ze, of course, is still talking. “So cobots are the future. Makes it more . . .”
“Two minutes.”
I nod and just cut Ze’s collaborative robot chat off, literally pulling the phone back and waving so they will see the interruption.
“Look, I know I owe you a call and I really do want to hear all about the cobots, but now is not a good time. So, here’s the thing. I need you to help me build an app. I’m not sure exactly all it will need, other than it’s gotta be done fast. You up for it?”
Confirmed. I hang up.
And cue squeal, which makes me turn around. And almost before I register her, I am wrapped up and nearly suffocated by Ari and her bosom smush. Yes, I am face planted. Wow. I am never copping to having missed that, but I have. Hey, her “girls” are def special. And her hugs are just the best.
“Oh, thank god you’re back.” And released. “We are so over her I can’t begin to tell you.”
And fortunately for me, she can’t. Because Jimmy and Imani show up, and just as we are snaking our way to a table in the back of the library, Vik catches up.
For a moment we all just sit here, nobody saying anything. Imani finally looks at me with eye-popping exasperation. It’s her “god Sid, you are such a moron” look.
“All right. Look, Sid.” Imani breaks the silence.
Me? I’m honestly not sure what I have done this time to merit being called out.
“You are definitely not sitting here and out-politing me. Not only doesn’t it really suit you. Actually, it’s kind of laughable.”
I must look as stricken as I feel because Imani softens her blow, “Although your politeness is appreciated and somewhat endearing. But we just have no time for it. We have one object, which is to find out who she, our skeleton, is, was, and I’m perfectly happy to say I don’t have those kinds of skills. I, I am a total English Theater person, who also happens to be, ahem, the star of the senior musical.” Pause to flip hair, run hands down body emphasizing her mini-finale move, strike a pose.
Continuing on, “You, however, are a math, science, annoying need-to-know brainiac of the highest order. Ergo . . .”
I smile even as she pauses to shoot me a smug face. It’s her playful smug.
“You need to lead this. But,” Imani’s left hand raises, index finger extended, “to quote you, ‘never leave your wingman.’”
Yes, I know. She’s really quoting me quoting Jimmy, quoting Top Gun, but it’s all good. Her point is made, and taken.
“Hey,” Vik moves us on. “What do we think was in the folder Lolo brought? I mean she obviously had it with her for some reason?”
“Photos.” I answer. “I’m thinking Lolo brought either autopsy photos or maybe crime scene photos. I don’t think she wanted to lay them out in front of us.”
His question triggers something else. “You know what I don’t know?” Correction. “What we don’t know?” Rhetorical. No need to wait. “How old are the bones? She never gave us an age or a range. Nothing.”
“And,” Ari jumps in, “here’s another question. If there is mitochondrial DNA, would that let us know if the three women are related, if all the people are related, at least on the mother’s side?”
That stops the conversation in its tracks. To say no one was expecting that particular question to be in Ari’s wheelhouse would be another rung on the never-ending ladder of understatement. A ladder, for those of you who may not know, is often found leaning on the wall of bitter irony.
“Hey,” Ari looks at all of us looking at her and laughs. “My mom is the queen of the murder-of-the-week shows. I will have you know I can speak ‘evidence’ with the best of them.”
Good to know.
I pick up my phone, google the number for the Office of the Medical Examiner, call, put it on speaker, and set it down in the middle of the table. As it rings, I realize I am missing key information. Damn it. I lean over, disconnect.
“Anyone actually remember Lolo’s name?”
Everyone laughs, Vik signals he wrote it down. I dial again while he digs his notes out of his bag, finds the page, and turns it around so I can read it. This way, if we ever get through the menu and actually get a live person on the line, I will be ready with a name.
OMG, there’s even a prompt for law enforcement if they’re calling to report a death. I find that kind of surprising. I just figured they would somehow have a direct dial.
Of course maybe they do. Maybe it’s just in case they forgot it.
And success, a live person, “Office of the Medical Examiner, how can I direct your call?”
“Hi. We’re trying to reach Dr. Lena Lolita Renata de la Cortez.”
“Hold the line while I put you through.”
And it’s ringing. And we’re all waiting. And it’s not ringing.
“Hello? Hello?”
We’ve been cut off.
Which is how Ari and I, after we all sat through this painful phone-go-round another three times, eventually wind up going to find Lolo after school. She is in and agrees to come down to talk to us, although as she steps off the elevator she doesn’t seem very happy to see us.
“Okay.” She turns from Ari to me, a frown on her face. “I’ll tell you what. Ask me your questions, and I will answer them if I think I can without breaching confidences, but only this once. When the DNA results come back, they w
ill belong to the police. That’s who will control the flow of information. You will need to go through them.”
Once Ari and I nod our understanding, she continues.
“So, we did not run a radiocarbon dating test,” her head shakes, but at least she is smiling sympathetically. “If these bones were some type of archeological discovery, going back in history millions of years, along with radiocarbon there are incredible amounts of tests available to run, such as biostratigraphy or paleomagnetism . . .”
Ari has been typing frantically into her phone and looks up helplessly as Lolo finishes her thought, “. . . that help us compare or find order to establish timelines.”
Lolo looks at us both and laughs. “The names of the tests don’t matter. We’re not running those. They won’t help us. I can assure you the bones you found don’t go back even half a million years.”
Ari drops her phone into her bag as Lolo continues.
“So that’s one side. Let’s call it the million-plus range. For the other side, if you go back just a couple of years, we’ve got various ways to get pretty accurate readings, many of which have to do with things we might know directly about the victim and the condition of the body. Which leaves us with the particular challenge this case presents—the midrange years. Dating these years gets tough. But, fortunately for us, this is one problem where our . . .”
Here Lolo hesitates, scrunching her nose, motioning her hand, searching for a word.
“. . .our expertise weighs in. Once we saw these bones, we knew this grave was well over a hundred years old. Without getting lost in detail, if you view skeletons for a living, the coloration of the bones pretty much tells us that right off the bat. So now we have to look for clues, maybe an artifact, maybe something in the iron content, maybe something in the teeth chemistry.”
Lolo pauses again, assessing. I’m beginning to realize this is what she does when she is debating how much to tell, and I try to look reassuring, even though I’m not sure how exactly that looks.
Say Her Name Page 10
