At first, she thought she was having a bad reaction to the plate of spit-roasted goat meat and the cup of bitter-tasting kadi Alex had brought her an hour ago, when Alex had complained that Jessica was being too antisocial. But as Jessica blinked and steadied herself against the windowsill, she suddenly realized she didn’t feel sick. Not at all! She felt . . .
Ecstatic.
That was the only word to describe it, the way she’d felt the only time she’d truly caught the Holy Spirit at church. When she was eight years old, two months after her father had died, she’d found herself shrieking and trembling in her pew, clapping in a frenzy as a visiting choir from Mississippi sang a rollicking gospel version of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Later, her mother had hugged her and explained she’d felt the hand of God, that was all. You’ve been washed in the blood of the lamb, baby-girl, her mother had said, using her father’s nickname for her.
Jessica had never felt such stark joy since then, not at church or anywhere else—even her wedding day to David or Kira’s birth hadn’t brought out the same wellspring of emotion—but she’d carried the memory of God’s touch with her for the rest of her life. She hadn’t felt anything like it again . . . until now.
Jessica hugged herself and began to whirl in a frenzied circle in her bedroom, only vaguely aware of the muffled sound of the music outside. Yes, oh yes, oh yes. Her body twitched and shimmied, as if it had taken control of itself. She spun around until she was gasping for air. Dance, her mind commanded her. Alex had been right to nag her, she thought; she should be outside celebrating with her neighbors, surrendering herself to dancing and happiness. Why shouldn’t she be happy, too? Dance!
Jessica caught her breath, her thoughts racing. She needed to sit down, she realized. Light-headed, she lurched to her desk and sat in the wicker chair, her chest heaving and face glowing. As the dizziness returned, Jessica realized she felt manic, and a bothersome tickling sensation fluttered across her psyche.
What was happening to her? Had the kadi been brewed too strong?
Wondering if she had somehow slipped into a dream, Jessica glanced around her room for anything out of place, any hint that something was not right, that—
Her desk caught her eye. Jessica scanned her desktop, realizing that something that should have been right in front of her was missing. Her maroon-colored St. James Bible, the one her mother had given her when she’d graduated from high school, was in its place at the center of the desk. Behind that was a coffee mug reading Deadlines Amuse Me that she’d swiped from somebody at her newspaper job, so long ago, converting it into a pencil-holder. An embroidered, multicolored head wrap one of the mothers had brought her as a gift dangled from her bookshelf.
Jessica’s heart pounded harder, but she knew it was no longer from joy. Something was missing, and she was close to it. Instinctively, she pulled out the single drawer at the center of the desk. She expected to see only a pile of receipts, but instead she found the underside of a photo frame, with the felt-covered support pushed securely against the back as if it had lain here for years. But it had not. She knew the framed photograph did not belong in this drawer. She had not put it there. Jessica couldn’t help hesitating before touching it. Then, with a resigned sigh, she lifted it and flipped the glass toward her so she could see the face on the other side.
It was a five-by-seven-inch photograph of . . .
Who?
A lovely little black girl wearing two neatly combed pigtails. Not Fana, though the girl’s lips and forehead bore a striking resemblance to her daughter’s; in a couple of years, by the time she was five, Fana might look something like this. Not quite, but close. And, yes, the smile was Fana’s, too, the delight. Or maybe all children shared that delight, Jessica thought. For a moment, Jessica was lost in the photograph, drawn into the little girl’s eyes, which were twinkling either because of the camera flash or because of something inside her, or probably both. Those eyes! She knew those eyes like she knew herself.
Maybe this is me, Jessica thought.
But it couldn’t be. She would recognize one of her own childhood photos, and she knew her mother had plaited her hair in tight cornrows, not pigtails. Pigtails were lazier, for unschooled fingers. Pigtails were just about all Jessica could manage, which was why she’d been so happy when Sarah had helped Fana twist her hair so she could have dreadlocks, the style Fana had admired since the first time she’d seen the poster of Bob Marley (or Lion Man, as she called him) Alex still kept on her wall, the poster that had traveled from Miami to Johannesburg to here.
This photograph, apparently, had traveled, too. This picture of someone’s little girl.
I should know this girl, Jessica thought, not musing, but knowing. The thought came calmly enough, but as Jessica repeated it in her mind, it grew until its weight made Jessica’s face sag and her blood slow in her veins. Lord Jesus, she was supposed to know the girl in this photograph and she didn’t. Yesterday, she had known her. Today, the photo was hidden in a drawer, and Jessica’s memories of the girl were hidden, too. What had happened to her?
Even in her deeply muddled state, Jessica knew that the best person to answer her questions was Fana.
• • •
“Mommy . . . it’s dark!”
Even without any lights on in the bedroom, Fana’s radiant yellow dungarees and sweater shone brightly as she walked through the bedroom doorway. Fana smelled of smoke, perspiration, and grass, her tokens from the braii.
Jessica hadn’t moved from her chair in more than an hour. Her mind was collapsing, folding in on itself layer after layer, and she hadn’t had the mental energy to flip on her desk lamp or stand up to open her window and call for her daughter. So, she had just sat and waited, afraid even to think. Thinking ignited panic. Either a piece of her mind was literally missing, or she’d descended into something very much like madness in a harrowing blink of an eye.
“Tell me what you’ve done to me,” Jessica said.
Fana’s barely visible smile withered. “Nothing, Mommy.”
Jessica felt a stab of sadness, staring at her daughter’s face, that distorted mirror image of the photograph in her trembling hand. Fana was lying.
Fana’s jaw slackened, the beginning of a sulk. She couldn’t meet Jessica’s eyes. “I’m not a liar, Mommy. Not to be bad.” Fana’s tears glistened in the dark.
Well, let her cry, Jessica thought. Tears wouldn’t work, not this time. With her sanity at stake, Jessica couldn’t afford to be gentle. “I don’t care why you’re lying. You tell me the truth. Right now. I mean it, Fana.”
“I told you,” Fana whispered.
“What?”
“You said I could make you happy. ’Member? You said so. An’ I thought you’d come dance with me an’ Aunt Alex and Sarah. I wanted you to dance. It’s fun!”
Jessica felt her breath clogging her throat. She had to pause to allow her words time enough to form. “How did you make me happy?”
Fana pointed accusingly at the photograph. “You’re never happy, all ’cause of her.”
“Who is she?”
Steadfastly, Fana bit her lip. Jessica felt so angry and scared that she had to muster all of her control not to fling the meaningless framed photograph to the floor and shatter it to pieces. But she could probably never have found the strength. Her body was shaking.
“Fana, tell me . . . who is she?” she said, nearly begging.
“Kira.”
“Who?”
“Her name’s Kira. You’re her mommy.”
No. No. No. It couldn’t be. Blinking hard, Jessica stared at the photograph again, searching for recognition, for love, for memory. There was nothing. Oh, Jesus. Oh, sweet, precious Jesus. How could she not remember she had another child?
“Where is she?”
Fana didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to. Fana’s eyes were now raised to Jessica’s, and suddenly Jessica’s head was flooded with Fana’s voice, as if Fana surrounded her, as if she were lit
erally inside her. As if her eyes, not her lips, were talking to her inside her head.
You know where she is, Mommy.
For an instant, Jessica was silent, jarred. What had Fana done? What in the name of God was happening to her?
“Where is she?” Jessica asked again, breathless. “Why can’t I remember her?”
“She hurts you. It’s more better with her gone, right?” Fana spoke slowly, trying to reason with Jessica in a measured voice that, suddenly, sounded nothing at all like a child’s.
Jessica pointed her index finger at Fana, wishing she could hold her finger steady just long enough to finish her sentence. But she could not. Her wrist barely felt attached, like an artificial limb coming loose, and her finger shook violently. “Bring her back. I want to remember her.”
“You won’ like it, Mommy.”
“Bring . . . her . . . back,” Jessica said more firmly. “Give her back to me.”
You really, really won’t like it. Fana’s voice in her head again, intruding, too loud, too close. Maybe Jessica could send her voice to Fana’s head, too. Maybe she could make Fana’s skull ring as she begged to have her memory of her child back. Could Fana hear her heart screaming?
Now, Jessica thought. I want to remember her now.
Fana sighed again, gazing into Jessica’s eyes with an audible sigh, then she turned and walked away with her toddler’s unsteady gait. As she left, the room literally seemed to grow darker. Could that be? Or had the bright moon outside merely been covered by a cloud?
“Don’t you walk away from me!” Jessica shouted after Fana, at the same time she felt a tug, something pulling her dress. When Jessica turned, her face came alive with returned joy.
Kira stood behind her in the identical pigtails and denim jumper from the photograph, smiling up at her with the very same smile, and those artificially shining eyes. She was much taller than Fana, nearly four feet, a giant. How could she have forgotten so quickly how tall Kira was?
“B-baby?” Jessica said, running her hands across Kira’s face as if she were sculpting her features from soft clay, feeling her forehead, her nose, that tiny chin, her ears. Jessica’s heart thudded with such power that she was convinced it would break free of her chest. She leaned close, inspecting Kira’s mouth, and she smelled toothpaste wafting from her breath. Crest. Yes, it was! Kira’s toothpaste.
“Kira? Baby? Is this really you?”
Yes, these were the same thin shoulders she remembered squeezing. And this was the very same oblong scar below Kira’s right eye that had been left over from her bout with chicken pox when she was four; she and David had told her not to scratch, and they put her to bed wearing gloves each night, because the doctor had said if she scratched away the scabs, she would be scarred for life. Kira had scratched, and the scar was still here; Jessica could feel its indentation as she ran her finger along Kira’s skin. Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, it was her.
Why wouldn’t she smile? Why wouldn’t Kira smile? Why these tears?
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jessica asked, by now on one knee, and she pulled her lost daughter close to her, enveloping her in her arms. She couldn’t bear to see her cry, not Kira. “It’s all right now, sweetheart. Everything’s all right. Thank you, Jesus.” A violent tremor passed through Jessica’s body as she uttered the words. “O Lord, thank you.”
Kira’s warm breath tickled her ear, a whisper. “Is Daddy going to hurt me?”
Jessica longed to stare into Kira’s eyes and smother her with reassurances, but she suddenly realized she could not bring herself to let go of her. She could not pull away from her daughter’s embrace, from her scent that was a combination of Jergens lotion and Lady Bergamot hair grease and her smooth, five-year-old skin.
“No, sweetheart,” she said, very nearly choking on her words because her tears were so thick in her throat. “No. I promise you. I won’t let anybody hurt you. Not this time. Oh, I promise you, precious. I won’t. Never. Never. Never.”
“Jessica?”
What was that? Alex’s voice, from nearby. How long had her sister been repeating her name? Maybe a long time.
“Jessica? Girl, are you okay?”
“She’s back. See? She’s back, Alex. She’s back.”
Suddenly, Jessica saw her sister’s eyes. They were close to her. Jessica could see nothing, somehow, except the molasses brown of her sister’s grave, worried eyes.
“Jess, it’s me. It’s Alex. Can you hear me, hon?”
You really, really won’t like it.
“Hon? Stand up. Lean on me, okay? Let me help you get up . . .”
Alex’s eyes. Sister eyes. Alex pulling on her arm, bringing her up from her knees. Her legs wouldn’t stand on their own. But how could that matter now? Kira was back. Wouldn’t Alex be so surprised to see Kira?
Alex’s voice again: “Sweetie, please give me that so you won’t cut yourself, okay?”
“What?” For the first time in what seemed like forever, Jessica could speak.
“You broke it, honey. Let go. Let go of it.”
“Kira,” Jessica said, a pant.
“I know, baby. But it’s broken. I’ll go get a new frame tomorrow. All right? Let go.”
Jessica looked down at her hand. She was clutching Kira’s photograph, and the grip of her fingers had shattered the glass into crisscrossing web patterns obscuring her daughter’s face, all except the smile.
Oh, no. Oh, God, no. Oh, please, no—
“Where is she?” Jessica said, whipping her head right and left, ignoring the searing stab of pain in her neck and shoulders from her sudden movement. The room was empty except for Alex. Just the window, the beds, the desk. No Kira. “Where is she?”
“Where’s who, Jessica?” Alex asked. “Who are you looking for? Fana?”
The moonlight was back, filling the room with a noticeable glow again, just that suddenly. Yes, it must have been a cloud, after all. Staring toward the window, Jessica realized there was no avoiding what she now understood: Kira had never been in this room with her at all. What she had seen, touched, heard, and smelled had only been Kira’s memory, fresh, unfiltered, vivid.
Fana had stolen it, and Fana had given it back to her.
Jessica tried to speak to Alex, but could not. Her mouth hung open as she swooned on waterlogged limbs, sobbing and moaning from somewhere so deep that all of her insides felt as if they were bleeding, giving birth again.
9
Tallahassee
Lucas followed a coarse, methodical scraping sound past the rusted old John Deere riding mower parked alongside Cal’s house and walked toward the backyard, his feet crunching across the bed of dried, speckled leaves carpeting Cal’s two-acre property. He found Cal sitting on the steps of his narrow back porch, his bare back leaning against the banister as he sanded down the footboard of an unvarnished pinewood crib. Cal, no doubt, had heard Lucas’s approach, but he didn’t move his gaze from his handiwork, measuring his strokes. Already, in the welcome shade of Cal’s sweet-gum and broad-trunked red-maple trees, Lucas felt ten degrees cooler.
The crib, Lucas realized, was glorious. Headboard carved with a circle at the top center, eight perfectly contoured railings on each side. Like something store-bought, except more precious somehow. “That thing’s looking good,” Lucas volunteered after a long, painful pause.
He didn’t expect any response, but Cal finally cleared his throat. “Hard to believe, I know. I could have been making an honest living all these years, Doc Shepard, instead of shoveling out horseshit at that behemoth at 400 North Adams Street. What can I say? I had a dickhead counselor in high school who put me in woodworking ’cause he said I didn’t have the brains to do much else. Guess he forgot about politics. Want a beer?”
Lucas felt his chest loosen its knots slightly. “You read my mind.”
“Good. Bring me one, too. Porch door’s open, and they’re on the third shelf in the fridge,” Cal said, not interrupting his strokes. “I have two Coronas hid in back.
”
I should have known Cal wouldn’t wait on me like company, Lucas thought. He almost chuckled, except he couldn’t manage it past the lump that had been sitting in his throat for days. “Where is Nita?” he asked, walking past Cal to climb the stairs.
“Taking a nap. Groceries wear her out nowadays. Oh, and that hinge is busted, so don’t let that screen door slam. Makes a real racket.”
“Yessir,” Lucas muttered.
“Please,” Cal said, an afterthought.
The Corona was sharp-cold in the bottles, and Lucas even lingered in the kitchen long enough to root around for a lime to slice into pieces small enough to nestle inside each bottle. Just stalling, he knew. But the task felt good, so he took his time.
“Oh, yeah. There we go,” Cal said, pausing from his work to take a swig when Lucas handed him his bottle. “My drinking buddy got knocked up, so she’s not allowed to touch alcohol. And I hate to drink alone. Pretty silly, maybe, but when your parents were stone alcoholics, you’re awful sensitive to appearances.”
“Guess you would be,” Lucas said, at a loss for anything else to say as he stared at the patch of red-tinged hair growing in a perfect triangle across Cal’s chest. Looking at Cal now, in tattered shorts as he drank from a beer bottle by the neck, it was hard to believe he was one of the staff people literally responsible for putting words in the governor’s mouth. A suit and tie on Cal performed a miracle on a grand scale.
“So . . . what can I do you for?” Cal said.
Cal’s casual tone pummeled Lucas in the gut. It was a phoniness that wasn’t like Cal at all. They’d had arguments before, Lord knew—over the Bill Clinton scandals, Louis Farrakhan and the Million Man March, the presidential election, and a slew of other topics they should have had sense enough not to incite each other’s opposing politics over—but Cal had never adopted such a coolness afterward, pretending the conversation had never taken place. And Cal had never been so obvious about shunning eye contact with him.
“Just . . . what we talked about the other day,” Lucas said.
Yeah, they’d talked about it, all right, he thought. They’d talked until Cal’s face had turned nearly the color of his red mower, and Cal had been shouting so vehemently that spittle had flown from his lips on every consonant. He’d called Lucas a “selfish, childish, goddamned asshole,” among other names, and Lucas would just about rather chop off his own arm than have to talk about it again. But here he was. He didn’t have a choice.
The Living Blood Page 14
