Hoodie

by S. Walden

  “So you the white bitch thinkin’ she can fuck a black guy,” one of the girls said.

  Emma said nothing. Her eyes darted wildly around. What could she do to get out of there, she thought? But the girls had her trapped against the far wall of the bathroom, and she only then noticed a fourth one standing guard by the door.

  “You got some nerve, girl, thinkin’ you can fuck one of ours,” the girl continued. She appeared to be the leader of this very real, very scary gang.

  Emma opened her mouth to say something. She always heard that talking helped. Maybe if she just said something, they would let her go. But the words stuck in her throat.

  “You know you responsible for killin’ him?” another one of the girls asked.

  Emma shook her head.

  “Oh you don’t know? Well, you are. See, you get with a nigga and mess up his life and make him turn against his brotha. You make him humiliate his brotha in front of everyone. Yeah, I was there and saw the whole thing.” It was the ring leader who spoke. “Then he go and kill hisself outta grief. And you responsible for that,” she continued. “So the question is, what should happen to you?”

  Emma felt the tears stinging her eyes, her face awash with them. Her body shook violently, the terror coursing throughout her making her feel like she would throw up or soil herself.

  “I guess we gonna have to make you pay up,” the ring leader continued, and she pulled a knife out of her purse.

  “I’m begging,” Emma whispered, feeling she would faint. “Please don’t.”

  Her words went unheeded as the knife plunged into her stomach over and over again. It was an electric pain that rendered her speechless. She could do nothing but double over and try hard to protect herself, but the knife found its way between her arms, slicing her skin and battering her insides.

  The girls ran out leaving her alone to watch the blood seep into her shirtfront. She collapsed on the floor, blood smearing the term paper still clutched in her hand. She couldn’t believe the amount of blood. She thought she could bath in it, swim in it, let it swallow her whole.

  The electric pain subsided as she felt a new sensation. She didn’t hurt anymore, and it made her giddy. She giggled as she clutched at the dirty floor. It was moving, she thought. The floor was moving, and her heartbeat quickened as she felt the lightheadedness that comes before a fainting spell. She thought that she might like to faint, and smiled dreamily as her eyelids closed.

  CHAPTER 25

  TUESDAY, JUNE 2

  She woke from her dream. She felt a mask on her face and wanted to take it off. She willed her hands to move, but they remained frozen by her sides. She thought she would suffocate from the mask and felt desperate for someone to take it off. But then she realized it was pushing something into her body that she needed. She could almost hear it, a soothing song of life flowing into her, helping to make her strong again.

  She thought she felt his hand in hers. His fingers were lightly stroking her palm. He was saying something to her. She thought she heard him crying, and she wanted to tell him that everything would be alright. That she was feeling better. She felt his lips on her forehead and his hand leave her hand. Don’t go, she thought. Stay awhile. I’ll take you to the movies. I’ll take you to the park. We can sit and watch the ducks on the water and talk about our paper. You can say something funny and I’ll laugh because I always laugh. We can do whatever you want, just please don’t go.

  Her head felt fuzzy and she slipped back into her dream.

  ***

  Anton left her room unwillingly. His time was up—a short fifteen minutes—and he watched as her parents passed by him into the room. They acknowledged him but said nothing. He walked to the lobby and sunk deep into a chair. He would stay there and wait until he could see her again. He would sleep at the hospital every night until they released her.

  He put his face in his hands and inhaled deeply. It was almost unbearable to see her for the first time. The respirator, the tubes everywhere, the thin hospital gown covering her grotesque wounds. He knew they were there, could imagine what they looked like, and he cried when he pictured what must have happened to her in that dirty, lonely bathroom. And he was not there to protect her. He had thrown her out of his house, his life, because he was consumed with his own grief. He never thought once how she must have felt.

  Every day his mama urged him to go home. She worried constantly, he could tell, and he wished he could do something to ease her anxiety. She was there a lot, checking on Emma, giving him updates when he wasn’t allowed to see her. He knew Emma wouldn’t die because she was too young. She would fight it because he had to believe that she knew he still loved her. In spite of his anger and hurtful words, he loved her. And as soon as she opened her eyes he would tell her that. Tell her that he would never talk to her that way again, that he would cradle her against him forever whispering only the language of love into her ear, breathing the sweetness back into her. The pain would disappear as though it never existed, and they would find their way back to the time they first kissed.

  He looked up when he heard someone clear his throat. It was Emma’s father standing over him looking concerned. He sat down opposite Anton; his face looked haggard and as he began to talk, Anton heard the strain in his voice, like every word was a struggle.

  “That’s my baby girl in there,” he said.

  “I know,” Anton replied.

  “No, I don’t think you do know,” Mr. Chapman said. His tone was not accusatory. “See, I made her. And when I made that decision, I took on the responsibility of protecting her. Not until I thought she was old enough, but forever. Because she’ll always be my baby girl, even when she’s a hundred.”

  Anton was quiet, listening.

  “I love her more than anything. I love her more than my own wife,” Mr. Chapman said quietly.

  Anton raised his eyebrows at that.

  “And I get a sense that you love her too,” he went on.

  “I do,” Anton said. His voice cracked, and he cleared it. “I do,” he said more firmly.

  “And what has your love done for her, son?” Mr. Chapman asked.

  Anton had no reply.

  “You see, my love heals and protects. That’s a father’s love. And no one in the world can match it. But your love? Your love has broken and scarred her. That’s your love. Do you see the difference?”

  Anton felt the tears sting his eyes. He wanted to say that her father was wrong, that his love could heal, too, but he couldn’t.

  “I can’t tell you to stay away from my daughter,” Mr. Chapman said. “You’re going to do what you want based on what you feel is right. But Anton, you need to remember something. She will heal and come out of this place. She will resume her life as normal. But what has passed between the two of you is broken and can never be fixed. And if you try to hold onto her because of your own selfishness, you will destroy her.”

  Anton buried his face once more in his hands. He didn’t want to believe it. They could get over this. They could both heal and move on. He knew he wanted that, and he knew she wanted that too.

  Emma’s father stood up slowly and placed his hand on Anton’s shoulder. He stood there for a few moments then walked away.

  ***

  It was late and Anton was allowed to see her for five minutes. The nurses were stubborn and wanted to keep him out completely, but his mother persuaded one of them to let him in. She was firm in her five-minute time limit, telling him he’d not see Emma again if he became difficult, and he nodded in understanding. She was disinclined to leave the room, and only did so when she was told to go and check on another patient. She closed the door quietly behind her.

  He took Emma’s hand immediately. He bent low to kiss it, thinking for a brief exhilarating moment that he felt her stir. But it was just his imagination. She lay motionless and very far away from him.

  “Emma?” he said softly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m’ll say it anyway. I love you.�
��

  He waited, but she did not move.

  “You gotta know that,” he continued. “I can’t believe the way I talked to you the other day. I was outta my mind, you’ve got to know that. I can’t even imagine my life without you. And I know I’m only eighteen. I’m supposed to have the whole world opened to me, right? I don’t want none of that. I just want you. You my world, Emma, and I just want you.”

  He wiped at his face and looked at her earnestly.

  “Open your eyes, Emma,” he demanded softly. She stayed unmoving.

  “Emma, do you hear me?” he asked. He was crying outright, the strain in his voice unbearable to his own ears. He did not recognize himself. “I love you,” and he bent his head over her hand. “I love you. Do you hear me?”

  I hear you, she thought. Don’t you hear me saying that? Her mouth never moved, but she thought it did.

  Thursday, July 16

  They drove to the park in silence. It wasn’t angry silence or scared silence. It was the silence that comes when two people have not seen each other for a long time. They were shy and tentative. Anton’s heart hung low in his chest as though it were a battered star hanging on by a mere string. If the string broke, he knew the light would go out inside of him forever. Emma’s heart was hopeful, like the brightness that follows a mighty storm. The clouds had cleared and now there was only the brilliance of the sun. She reached her hand over to his and gently took it.

  He wanted to ask her if she liked the flowers he sent. He made sure they were waiting for her when she was released from the hospital. He had stopped going to see her after a week because it was too painful. Her parents became more and more uncomfortable with his presence, and he wanted to be respectful of them. Her condition was not improving either, and he could not bear to be so close to her while she was so clearly far away. In a dreamland, he thought, and wished he could go with her. When she woke up, he wanted to see her immediately. But there was already so much distance and so many other people who needed to see her. He didn’t want to be in the way. And after all, what did he think he could possibly say to her?

  Anton parked the car and told her to stay seated. He walked around to her side and opened the door. He picked her up carefully, cradling her like a baby, and carried her to a park bench near a familiar spot they so often occupied in former days. He sat down, holding her on his lap, letting her head fall gently on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure that he could speak right then. He didn’t have the words, so he stroked her back instead and relished the feeling of her face nuzzling his neck.

  “Do you want to see them?” she asked after a time.

  He didn’t know how to reply. Yes, he wanted to see her wounds. He didn’t know why. He knew what they would do to him, how he would lose it completely when he saw the aftermath of his failure. He could not rid himself of the feeling that it was all of his fault that she got attacked. His mother told him time and again that he could not blame himself, that it wasn’t his fault. And her words would soothe him and begin to change his mind. But then he would remember the words he said to Emma that day she came to his apartment and how he left her alone all week to believe that he hated her and didn’t care what happened to her.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “They’re not so bad.”

  His nod was almost imperceptible but she saw it and lifted her shirt to expose a heavily bandaged stomach. She peeled back one of the bandages, and Anton saw a small thin purplish wound stitched cleanly. He was tempted to run his finger over it, but thought better. He didn’t want to get germs on it.

  Emma placed the bandage back over the wound and pulled down her shirt.

  “See? Not so bad,” she said. “The doctor said they’ll heal nicely. The scars won’t be too noticeable.”

  Anton nodded but said nothing. He felt the lump in his throat and concentrated on pushing it down. Her beautiful stomach, he thought. The creamy whiteness forever scarred because of him.

  “I’ve got battle scars,” she said lightly. “Does that make me gangster?”

  The tears that hovered on the edge of his eyes spilled over, and he cradled her head under his chin so that she would not see. He stroked her hair as he searched for his voice. It was failing him.

  “Yeah,” he croaked softly. “You gangsta.”

  “Good,” she replied, pushing her body into him. He wanted to envelop her completely, shield her from everything on the outside. But he couldn’t. It was impractical to hide her away forever. He knew he could not, and he suddenly remembered that she would be leaving soon for college.

  It was over. He knew, but she did not. He could tell by the way she nuzzled him, how her body relaxed in his embrace, how she sighed when he kissed the top of her head. She was still hopeful, he thought, and that made her beautiful. Suddenly he could not bear to imagine a life without her.

  He could try, he thought. He could try hard to make it work. In spite of all of the pain he felt, the hopelessness, he could not give her up. He knew he should, but he wasn’t strong enough. He needed her and decided that he had to try. Perhaps they simply needed more time to heal.

  “Tell me a story about when you were little,” she said after awhile.

  He thought he had exhausted them all. He was sure that she knew every detail about him by now, that even in the few short weeks of their relationship, he had given her everything, shown her everything about himself so that now he sat empty searching for a story she already knew.

  “Well, let’s see. Did I tell you ‘bout the time I came home drunk? And mama whooped me so hard, I thought I was gonna die? Did I tell you that one?” he asked.

  She laughed softly. “No,” she replied, but he had.

  “Okay then. So me and Kareem and Johnny D was goin’ to Kareem’s older brother’s house one time. I think I was like twelve or somethin’. So anyways, we was gonna hang out and play video games, right? We wasn’t lookin’ for no trouble,” he began, and she settled in for the story.

  She listened while he stroked her hair and held her close.

  EPILOGUE

  “Baby, you know I hate bananas,” Anton groaned as he examined the contents of his lunch bag.

  “How many wives actually pack their husband’s lunches?” Emma asked.

  She was standing at the kitchen sink wearing a light cotton dress, her long hair pinned in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She turned to face him, the question still on her face, and he smiled as he looked at her swollen belly.

  “And anyway,” she went on, “they’re good for you.”

  “You right,” he said walking towards her. He bent low and pressed his lips to her stomach.

  “Your mama always right,” he said into her belly. “Don’t forget that.”

  He straightened up and kissed the top of her head.

  A cry pierced the quiet moment, and Emma disappeared to the nursery. She came back holding a little girl who nuzzled her neck.

  “Well, that was good,” Emma said. “We made it a whole fifteen minutes.”

  “Baby girl, why you not sleep for yo’ mama?” Anton asked the small child.

  She had dark curly hair and light blue eyes. She smiled at her daddy and reached for him. He took her and cradled her in his arms.

  “You’re going to be late, Anton,” Emma warned.

  “You say that every day, and every day I’m right on time,” he said kissing his daughter on her cheeks and forehead and nose and chin. She giggled and grabbed at his lips.

  Emma rolled her eyes and began emptying the dishwasher.

  “Go to work,” she ordered. “You’re the only one with the paying job right now, remember?”

  “You hear yo’ mama talkin’ to me like that?” he asked the little girl, and she squealed with delight.

  He placed her on the kitchen floor and looked around for something to distract her. He pulled a wooden spoon out of the utensil holder beside the stove and gave it to her. He watched her briefly as she
sat holding it poised over the floor before bringing it down on the tiles with a sudden smack. He smiled and walked over to his wife, taking the plate out of her hand and tossing it carelessly on the counter.

  “Anton,” Emma said exasperated.

  “Mmm, say my name again,” he cooed, pulling her into him.

  She cocked her head in mild irritation, raising her eyebrows at him.

  “Do you know you the prettiest thing on the planet? I wanna job where I can get paid to just sit around and watch you all day. How I get a job like that?” he asked her, placing a hand on her belly and rubbing it.

  She laughed.

  “You know I’m’ll want another one after this,” he said.

  “You’re insane!” she replied. “If you had it your way, I’d be pregnant for the rest of my life!”

  “That’s right,” he agreed, moving his hand farther down.

  “Anton!” she squealed when his hand was in between her legs.

  “Come on. Let’s go practice,” he said.

  “You’re impossible,” she said slapping his hand away. “Go to work.”

  “Fine, but I’m’ll get me some of that when I get home,” he said decidedly.

  “I love you,” she said standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. As usual, she couldn’t reach and had to pull him down to her lips.

  “I love you,” he replied, kissing her forehead.

  “I love you,” she said as they walked together to the front door, and the familiar routine started.

  “I love you,” he said descending the front steps of their small blue house.

  “I love you,” she replied as he reached the driveway.

  “I love you,” he called from inside their car.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Emma woke with a start. She was shivering and sweating again, her side of the bed drenched with it. It was the third night. The same dream. She instinctively put her hands to her belly. It was flat. She lifted her shirt and fingered the lines of her scars. They were barely visible now, but she could still feel them, the healed skin thinner and papery. She turned to the man lying next to her. He was snoring soundly, reaching every now and then to scratch at his pale cheek. She looked at the clock. It was early, but not too early to get up. She knew she couldn’t go back to sleep. She could not reenter the dream.