“Don’t worry, pikin,” the woman says. “I’ll tell you what I need from you, when I need it. How does that sound?”
That actually sounds okay to me.
Unless she needs something I don’t know how to find, like a gecko. That wouldn’t be good at all.
“What do you think you might need?” I ask.
The woman shrugs. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask for anything you aren’t able to give.”
“Like a gecko, right?”
The woman’s eyebrows go up.
“Right,” she says. “No geckos.” She draws an X over her heart with her pointer finger.
I feel a whole lot better all of the sudden.
“All right,” I say. “Just tell me what you want, whenever you figure it out.”
“And you’ll give it?”
“Yes.”
“You promise, pikin?” the woman asks.
“I promise.”
The woman takes a black phone out of her back pocket and passes it to me. I hold it carefully with both hands.
“My name is Christiana,” the woman says.
“My name’s Jasmine.”
“All right, Jasmine,” Miss Christiana says. “Nice to meet you.”
“But I don’t really like it that much. At least not all the time.”
Miss Christiana stares.
“Don’t like what?” she asks.
“My name,” I answer. “I mean, sometimes I do like it. But other times I wish I could be named something different.”
Miss Christiana nods.
“When I was a girl, I wanted to be called Darwinia,” she says. “So I understand. But it’s a maskita problem, isn’t it? Nothing to get too upset about.”
A what type of problem?
“Um. I’m not sure what a maskita problem is,” I say.
Miss Christiana smiles.
She squeezes her finger and thumb together and makes a tiny pretend fly that buzzes around my face for a little while. It’s pretty funny. Eventually she makes the pretend fly touch down on my arm and pinch me just a little bit—it doesn’t hurt at all, though.
I understand what she’s doing almost right away.
It’s a mosquito!
“A mosquito problem!”
“Exactly, pikin,” Miss Christiana says. “Small problem. A nuisance, yes. But not too big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things.”
“Unless the mosquito is carrying malaria,” I say.
Miss Christiana looks surprised.
“You know about malaria?” she asks.
“Of course,” I answer, rolling my eyes. “It’s caused by a parasitic protozoan called Plasmodium. And did you know that your skin can even turn yellow from having malaria?”
“Wow,” Miss Christiana says. “You are a smart one, pikin. I’m impressed.”
“But can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can.”
“What is a pikin?” I ask. “You keep calling me that.”
Miss Christiana smiles.
“Your pronunciation is very good,” she says, nodding. “Pikin means child in Krio. A young person, like you. I mean it as a term of affection, not to be demeaning. Do you feel comfortable with it?”
I think about the question.
Am I comfortable with being called a child in a language I don’t know?
I think so.
I mean, that’s what I am. A child. So yeah.
I shrug. “Sure,” I answer.
• • •
I run back toward the toy shop, gripping the phone tightly.
I can’t believe that I actually did it.
Momma will be so happy with me.
When I open the glass door to the toy shop, I notice right away that the inside of the shop doesn’t smell very good.
I run to the back of the store, where I find Momma lying in the same spot as before, covered by the three yellow blankets and propped up with the purple hippo. Her skin looks pale and her eyes are closed.
“Momma,” I say, holding the phone up high. “I got one!”
Momma’s eyes open halfway. She smiles a barely-there smile.
I run to her side and kneel down. I put the phone carefully on her chest.
Momma takes a long time getting her hands out from underneath the blankets. She picks up the phone, turns it over and then turns it back.
“I asked Miss Christiana for her phone—that phone—and she let me borrow it,” I say.
“Miss Christiana?” Momma’s voice is quieter than a whisper.
“She’s the one who’s been helping us this whole time. Miss Christiana. She has two sleeping bags in the camping store, and she also has a huge gun, Momma. It’s huge.”
Momma’s eyebrows go up. “Really? Wow.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
I tell Momma more about the gun—how long it was, how it had two holes at the end, and how it looked exactly like guns look in the movies—and while I talk she turns on the phone. The bright white light makes her look like a ghost of herself.
“Were you able to get more medicine?” Momma asks.
Oh no. I totally forgot about the medicine part.
“I forgot. I’m sorry.” I look down at the floor; it’s easier than looking at Momma’s face.
“That’s okay—you did amazing, baby,” Momma says. “Amazing. Thank you.”
I smile. For the first time since we got to the mall, I start to feel happy—everything is going to go back to normal soon. Momma is going to call Daddy. Daddy is going to come get us and take us home. And Momma’s going to get better really fast.
“Why don’t you find something to play with, my little hero,” Momma says. “I’m going to make a call now. Okay?”
I look around the shop. “Anything I want?”
“As long as it doesn’t make noise.”
“How about two things?”
“Okay. Two is fine,” Momma says. “But one of them has to be the superhero book.”
“And I get to keep it?”
Momma smiles faintly like a sunset again. “Of course. Just make sure it’s something easy to carry with you. Sound good?”
It does. It sounds really, really good.
• • •
I make my way around the shop—checking out art supplies, books, crafts, board games, dolls, a train set, a few video game systems, and a skateboard with a pink skull-and-crossbones sticker on the bottom—until I decide what I want.
I choose a set of twelve poseable characters from my favorite cartoon movie.
I think Momma will be okay with my choice because it’s only one thing, like she said—a set is only one thing, even if it’s made of twelve smaller things—and it’s easy to carry. Each character is only three inches tall, so I could probably fit all of them in my pockets once I take them out of the giant box they came in.
I sit down on the floor in the back of the store near the cash register, far away from where Momma is lying. I can still hear her voice—it sounds like she’s talking on the phone—but I can’t hear any of the words.
I put the box of twelve characters on my lap and work on peeling the tape from the side flap. I think I might need some scissors. I remember seeing a bunch of pairs in the Arts & Crafts section, so I put the box aside and stand up.
“Jasmine,” Momma calls out. “I need to talk to you.”
Great.
Why does this always happen when I’m about to do something fun?
“Can I just open this real quick, and then I’ll come?” I ask.
“I need you to come now, sweetheart,” Momma answers.
I decide to ignore her and keep working on the tape with my thumbnail, just for a few more seconds. If I can manage to get the box open, then I can grab one of the characters and take it with me to talk to Momma. Then I’ll have something to do while she’s blabbing on and on.
“Jasmine?”
I ignore her. I’ve almost got the tape off.
“Jasmine.�
�
“All right,” I say, setting down the box. “I’m coming.”
I never get to do anything I want to do.
I leave the box by the cash register, go over to Momma and sit down on the tile. I can tell that she’s been crying; her eyes are pink and swollen, and I can see tear tracks on her cheeks.
While I wait for Momma to start talking, I feel my tummy rumbling.
“I’m hungry, Momma.”
“I know, hon,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Can we go somewhere and eat after this?”
Momma doesn’t answer; she closes her eyes and slowly shakes her head back and forth.
“I think I might have to pee,” I add.
Momma still doesn’t speak—she looks like she might’ve fallen asleep.
“Momma?”
Her eyes open. “I hear you, sweetheart,” she says. “You want to know what’s happening next. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
Momma’s face looks as sad as I’ve ever seen it look before.
It scares me, seeing her look so sad.
“I just talked to Dad on the phone,” Momma says, “and he helped me understand what’s going on—in here and outside. He told me why no one has come to help us, and why we can’t leave the mall right now.”
“We can’t leave?”
“Not right now, baby. We can’t.”
“But when is he coming to get us?” I ask.
“That’s what I’m telling you. Your father can’t come. He wants to really bad, hon, but he can’t get to us right now. I called 911 and they can’t come either.”
“Why not?” I ask.
Momma sighs. She’s turning the phone over and over in her hands.
“Remember when we landed in Freetown?” she asks. “Sierra Leone?”
“Yeah.”
“Some new people got on the plane with us at Freetown. Do you remember? Well, it turns out that they weren’t supposed to do that. And at least one them was carrying a sickness. A very serious one.”
“So what?” I ask.
“The people in charge don’t want the sickness to spread to this country,” Momma says. “So we can’t leave.”
“But we’re not even sick. Why can’t we leave?”
Momma doesn’t say anything.
“Momma?”
“I hear you, sweetheart. The truth is that we can’t be sure whether we’re sick or not. This kind of sickness takes around two weeks to start showing signs in people. I agree with you—I don’t think we’re sick—but we would need a test to be absolutely sure.”
“So why can’t we just get a test?”
“We can,” Momma says. “But the tests only work once a person starts to show signs of being sick. And like I said, it can take up to two weeks to show signs.”
I don’t understand what Momma is telling me; it doesn’t sound good, though.
“Have you ever heard the word quarantine?” Momma asks.
I think about the word—quarantine—repeating it a few times in my mind. It doesn’t seem familiar.
“I don’t know what that is,” I say.
“A quarantine is when a person is kept somewhere separate because they might be sick. It’s to protect the people who aren’t sick. That’s what’s happening to us right now. A quarantine.”
“At the mall?” I ask. My voice comes out broken. “Why can’t we have a quarantine at home?”
Momma sets down the phone on her stomach and reaches over to take my hand. “It’s okay, hon.”
“No, it’s not,” I say.
I’m about to cry—I know that I won’t be able to stop myself this time.
“We’re quarantined here in the mall because this is where we ended up,” Momma says. “This is where we all ran.”
I cry for a really long time.
“Hon? Come back to me, please,” Momma says, rubbing my hand. “Jasmine, sweetheart. I need you to pull it together for Momma.”
I wipe my eyes and nose. I’m having a hard time catching my breath.
“Can I finish explaining now?” Momma asks.
I sniff a few times. I nod my head.
“Your father said they’re sending some helpers in. The helpers are going to bring some supplies we need. To help us stay comfortable.”
I look at Momma’s belly—it’s covered up by a blanket, but I can imagine the bandages underneath.
“Can they help you?” I ask.
“I really hope so,” Momma says.
“When will the helpers come?” I ask.
“Your father said they don’t have the right equipment to deal with an airborne pathogen, so I’m not sure when.”
“A what?”
“A germ that can move through the air. That just means it’s really contagious—easy to catch if you’re not careful. The helpers need to bring in special gear from some kind of special office in San Francisco.”
“So when will they come?” I ask.
“Soon, love.”
I move closer to Momma and lie down next to her, resting my head between her shoulder and chest. The shop is really quiet—I can’t hear anything other than the sound of Momma’s heartbeat.
• • •
I open my eyes and look around, blinking. I don’t know where I am.
I cry out.
“You’re all right, hon,” Momma says. “Shh. You just fell asleep, baby; that’s all.”
I lift my head, turn and look up at Momma’s face. Her skin is almost as pale as mine. It’s like someone replaced my real mom with a wax statue.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
I really, really need the answer to be yes.
Momma’s eyes are only halfway open; I can see tears building in the corners.
“No, sweetheart. I’m not,” she says. “I need to be honest with you right now. Momma’s not okay.”
Hearing those words, I’m suddenly more afraid than I’ve been during this whole time at the mall—even more than when I was trying to find a phone. The idea of my momma not being okay is scarier than anything else I can imagine.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
I think I already know the answer, but I’m hoping to hear something different.
“I’m hurt bad, Jasmine.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I kind of do, but I kind of don’t.
“Can you explain it so I know even better?” I ask.
Momma doesn’t answer right away; she closes her eyes. Her breath is going in and out really fast.
“Something bad happened while we were in line at the airport last night—I’m not sure why,” Momma says. “Your father told me that the problem may have started when a passenger said no to the fever scan. It doesn’t even matter now. Whatever happened, one of the passengers pulled out a knife and used it against the police officers. Two of the officers died. The rest started shooting. Everybody just panicked.”
“Can you please not cry, Momma?” I ask. The sight of Momma crying makes everything even worse.
“I’m sorry, hon.” Momma opens her eyes and wipes both cheeks with a trembling hand. “Will you get me some water, please?”
I pick up one of the water bottles, unscrew the cap, and pass it to Momma. She doesn’t take it.
“Will you help me drink?” Momma asks.
I bring the bottle to her lips and tip it up gently. When Momma is done drinking, I put the cap back on—I notice that the water in the bottle has turned pink.
“Momma, look,” I say. “The water changed colors! How did that even happen?”
Momma looks at the bottle and then closes her eyes. She doesn’t answer.
“Momma?”
“I hear you, love,” Momma says. “Right now, I need to talk to you about something else. It’s important.”
I hate the sound of that.
“Okay.”
“I’m really tired, sweetheart,” Momma says. “More tired than I’ve ever been in my life. And I’m w
orried that I’m going to have to go to sleep for a while. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
“About going to sleep?”
“Yes,” Momma answers. “If that happens—if I fall asleep and you can’t wake me up—it might be hard for you. It might feel like you’re alone.”
Alone?
“But I don’t want that.”
“I know, sweetheart. I said it might feel that way,” Momma says. “But you won’t be alone. I’ll still be with you. Does that make sense?”
“But how long?” I ask.
“How long what?”
“How long will you be asleep for?” I ask.
Momma doesn’t answer right away. I decide to be patient and wait.
“It might feel like a long time,” Momma says. “But no matter what, I need you to be my big girl—my superhero—and do exactly what I tell you.”
“But how are you going to tell me if you’re asleep?”
“I’m going to tell you now,” Momma says, “while I’m still awake. You need to remember everything I’m saying.”
“But what if I can’t?”
“You can. I need you to,” Momma says.
Momma starts by telling me that I need to stay hidden, for as much time as possible, and that I can’t show anyone—not Miss Christiana, not anyone—my hiding places, even if the person seems friendly. She tells me that I can only show myself to the rescuers.
I get really afraid when I hear my mom say all that.
“But how will I even know who the rescuers are?” I ask.
“You’ll know. They’ll be in a group, they’ll be wearing some kind of uniform, and they’ll be calling out.”
“Calling out what?”
“I don’t know, Jasmine,” Momma answers. “Something about who they are. They’ll probably yell out that they’ve come to help. You’re a smart girl; you’ll know.”
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