I look around the shop. “But where do I hide?”
“I’ll help you, love. Just listen to me carefully.”
Momma tells me to make a hidden nest somewhere in the back of the toy shop, far away from the front entrance.
In the corner next to the cash registers, I find a toy train set with tracks, pretend trees, and buildings sitting on a low table—low enough for a kid my size to reach the train. I decide to make my hidden nest underneath the table.
I use one Hello Kitty pillow, two stuffed animals, and two baby blankets for my resting area.
When I’m finished, Momma tells me to build a low wall of boxes around the table, just to be extra safe.
One by one, I pick up boxes of toy trains from the shelf and build a wall around the table; when I’m finished, it looks like a real store display.
To get inside my nest, I have to move a few boxes out of the way to make a hole for myself, scoot through it until I’m underneath the table, and then move the boxes again to close the hole behind me. It’s dark under there, so I decide to put a tiny battery-powered reading lamp inside the nest—it’s the kind with an alligator clip that attaches right to the edge of a book.
Once my nest is ready, Momma tells me to make myself a mask. Not the fun kind of mask. The kind of mask that protects you from germs, like the mask that the woman was wearing when she checked everybody’s temperatures with her gizmo.
Momma tells me to get a kite down from a nearby shelf—the kite is shaped like a manta ray, which is pretty cool in my opinion—then she tells me to get some scissors from the Arts & Crafts section. Once I have everything I need, Momma tells me to cut out a triangle from the kite fabric—nylon, she calls it. It feels almost exactly like what a windbreaker might be made of.
I get really sad about cutting up the manta ray because it’s beautiful, but I do it anyway because Momma says to.
When I’m finished, I press the fabric up against my mouth and nose, lean in close to Momma, and wait as she ties it at the back of my head. It’s loose enough that I can still breathe pretty well, but I don’t like the way it feels.
“What about one for you?” I ask.
“One what?”
“A mask. Don’t you need one too?”
Momma doesn’t answer the question right away.
“Don’t worry about me, hon,” she says.
Next, she talks about drinking water. Water is more important than food—that’s what she tells me. We still have two bottles of water left, and Momma thinks two bottles should be enough to last me until the helpers come, but she tells me that I have to conserve. That means I should only use what I need, not waste it.
“What about you?” I ask.
Momma opens her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You said that I will probably have enough water. And then you said two bottles will be enough for me. What about you?”
Momma closes her eyes again. “Don’t worry about that,” she says. “Just focus on conserving it for yourself—when you absolutely have to drink some, make sure you take sips, not gulps.”
I think about what Momma is telling me.
“I’ll save some for you too, Momma.”
“All right,” Momma says. “That’s fine, hon. But listen to me—you don’t share that water with anybody else.”
“Why not?”
“In case somebody is sick. That’s the main reason. But also because you need to make sure that you have enough.”
“Okay, Momma,” I say.
“Not even Christina or whatever her name is. You hear me?”
“Miss Christiana,” I say, correcting her. “Okay, Momma.”
“Fine. Miss Christiana. Speaking of which, I want you to keep her phone. Do you know how to call home on a cell phone?”
Do I?
I remember Daddy showing me how to make a call on his phone once, but I can’t remember the steps he taught me. I also remember that I had to learn our home phone number when I was in kindergarten last year, but I don’t remember that either, except that it started with the numbers 4-0-8.
“Not really,” I answer.
“That’s okay—it isn’t hard. I’ll set up the phone so all you have to do is press a button or two and it will dial your father on its own. I want you to use the phone if you have to, and answer it if it rings—your father has the number. But the ringer is on vibrate, so you’ll have to feel around for it.”
Momma tries passing me the phone, but I don’t take it. I can see her hand shaking as she stretches out her arm.
“I don’t want to,” I say.
“Jasmine. Right now it doesn’t matter what you want. Take the phone.”
“But it’s not even ours.”
“Take the damn phone, Jasmine,” Momma says. “You need it more than whoever it belongs to. So take it.”
“Miss Christiana. It’s hers.”
“Jasmine.”
I take the phone from Momma’s hand.
“Now go hide the phone and the water somewhere in your bed.”
I do what Momma tells me to; I run to my nest and put the two water bottles and the phone under the pillow. I also take my coloring book and my box of twelve poseable characters.
When I get back, Momma isn’t finished telling me what to do. Can you believe that?
Now she wants to talk strategy.
“Do you know what I mean when I say strategy?” she asks.
“Kind of,” I answer. “But not really.”
Momma doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long time.
“I guess I just want you to think before you do something. Remember: the only thing that matters is staying safe until help comes. Which means everything you do should be done with that in mind—staying safe. Just lying low and waiting it out. Staying invisible until the right time. Do you understand?”
I listen hard and I try hard to understand, but I don’t hear all of the words and I don’t understand all of the words I do hear. There are too many big ideas and important things to remember.
“But where will you be?” I ask.
Momma shakes her head slowly. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Jasmine. I don’t know where I’ll be.”
“Can’t I just go where you go?” I ask. I can feel the tears building up in my eyes.
Momma tries to make me repeat all of her words back to her. Everything she told me about how to get in and out of my nest unseen. How to conserve water for me, not for her or anyone else. How to put on the face mask by myself. When to use Miss Christiana’s phone. How to use the right strategy to stay safe until help arrives.
I think I do a bad job of remembering because Momma keeps interrupting me to correct things I say, which makes me even more nervous than I am already. By the time I finish, my stomach feels like it’s tied up in one gigantic, tight knot.
“Goddammit,” Momma says. “Forget it.”
“What?”
“This isn’t working. I can’t prepare you for all this,” Momma says. “It’s too much to deal with alone.” She rips the blankets off her body and tries to sit up, but right away she cries out and slumps back down. Now that the covers are off, I see a huge red stain on the belly-part of her shirt.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Momma slowly pushes herself into a sitting position. The tears are streaming down her face.
“Momma?”
“Jasmine. I need you to be quiet,” Momma says. “Help me stand.”
“How?”
“Get up and pull.”
I do what Momma tells me to do; I stand up, grab hold of her arm, and lean back with all of my weight. Momma’s teeth are clenched—they’re also stained red for some reason, but I don’t ask why—and drops of sweat are making beads on her forehead. When she finally makes it onto her feet, I have to hold her steady; she almost collapses like a Jenga tower.
“Stay next to me,” Momma says.
Together we walk slowly toward the glass door leading to the main
mall. It feels like I’m walking beside Great Grandma, but it’s not her—it’s my momma.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The camping store,” Momma answers. “Where is it?”
“Two doors away. Why?”
Momma doesn’t say anything. I push open one of the glass doors and hold it until she passes through. As she walks, she keeps a hand pressed against the red stain on her shirt. Her breath sounds wet as it goes in and out.
“Momma?”
“We’re going to talk to Christiana,” Momma answers.
• • •
When we reach the front of the camping store, I climb in through the broken display window while Momma waits outside, leaning against a wall near a red fire extinguisher. Both of her hands are clamped against her belly.
I hurry inside.
“Miss Christiana?” I whisper.
I don’t hear anything.
I can’t see much of anything, either; the store is dark, like the last time.
I pass by the same clothes racks as before, and I make my way toward the cash registers with my hands reaching out in front of me to keep from bumping into something.
“It’s me—Jasmine,” I say.
As I approach the cash registers, I see Miss Christiana appear from behind the counter, holding the long black gun with both hands. It’s pointing right at me.
I freeze and put my hands up in the air, just like Momma always taught me.
If anybody ever points a gun at you—whether it’s a crook or the police—stop talking, stop walking, and raise your hands slowly.
“My Lord in heaven, pikin. Lower your hands,” Miss Christiana whispers. “This isn’t a bloody stickup.” She lays the gun down on the countertop—it makes a heavy clacking sound. “You think I’d shoot a child, do you?”
I lower my hands to my sides. “I don’t know,” I say.
Miss Christiana stares at me.
“You’re the one who looks like an outlaw, by the way,” she says. “I should be raising my hands.”
I’m not sure what Miss Christiana means.
“Huh?”
“That black mask. You look like a stagecoach robber,” Miss Christiana says.
“What’s a stagecoach?”
I’m pretty sure it’s like a judge that gives advice about how to sing better, but I can’t remember for sure.
“Never mind. Why are you wearing that thing anyway?” Miss Christiana asks.
I reach up to touch my face, feeling the slippery nylon. “My mom says that some people in the mall might be sick. So I have to put this on, just in case.”
Miss Christiana stares at my face—it seems like she wishes she had a mask too. Her staring makes me feel nervous for some reason.
“How is your mum doing?” Miss Christiana asks.
That’s when I remember that Momma is waiting in front of the store.
“She needs help,” I say. “She’s outside. Can you help her get in through the window?”
“Why?” Miss Christiana asks.
“Because she wants to talk to you,” I answer. “It’s important.”
Together, Miss Christiana and I help Momma through the broken window and into the camping store. We almost have to carry her; she is barely able to walk on her own.
We bring Momma behind the cash register and lay her down on one of the sleeping bags. The tears on her cheeks have dried. She stares straight at the ceiling like she’s been put into a trance by a magical spell.
“Momma?”
She blinks once, but she doesn’t look at me.
“I need you to go explore for a while, hon,” Momma says quietly. “Find some things in the store that you think you might need. But don’t go too far from me.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I need to talk to Christiana alone,” Momma answers. “Go on, hon. It’s okay.”
I do what Momma needs me to do; I walk around the store, looking for useful things.
It’s pretty scary.
Even though Momma is nearby—I can hear her talking quietly to Miss Christiana—it still seems like I’m alone. Plus it’s dark.
Eventually, I find a display filled with small keychain flashlights and I hold them up one by one, searching until I find a color I like. Purple! I press the button at the bottom of the handle—click-click—and the flashlight turns on, making a bluish-white glow. When I point the flashlight down at the tile, I can see where I’m going a lot better than before.
As I walk up and down the aisles, I find some pretty cool stuff.
I find packages of freeze-dried ice cream! I take three vanilla-flavored ones and three chocolate-flavored ones and put them in a black plastic shopping basket.
I find granola bars that taste almost exactly like candy bars. I’ve had one before—that’s how I know. I take five of them (chocolate peanut-butter crunch flavor) and put them in the basket.
I find a pocketknife. It’s the kind with lots of tools in it—not just a knife. It seems useful but I decide to leave it alone because I don’t think Momma would want me to have anything that sharp.
I find a compass. I put it in the basket in case I need to find my way around the mall later.
I really hope that I don’t have to use the compass.
I find a white plastic first-aid kit with a red plus on the cover. I put the first-aid kit in the basket because maybe there’s something inside that can help Momma.
“Jasmine,” a voice calls from across the store. At first I think it’s Momma calling me, but then I change my mind. I think it’s Miss Christiana.
I hurry over to the cash registers, carrying my basket of useful things.
I find Miss Christiana sitting on one sleeping bag and Momma lying on the other one. They’re not talking to each other anymore.
“Check out what I found,” I say, kneeling and setting my basket down between them. I put my hand inside the basket and stir the items around like they’re part of a stew.
No one checks out what I found.
I pick up the basket and dump everything out onto Momma’s sleeping bag. “See?”
“Jasmine. Leave those alone and look at me,” Momma says.
I don’t.
I heard what Momma told me to do—leave my stuff alone and look at her—but I don’t do it. I can’t. It’s too scary, seeing her be so sick.
“Hon? I need to talk to you about what happens next.” Momma’s voice sounds tired, like she’s already half asleep.
I keep my eyes focused on my pile of new stuff. “Okay.”
“Can you look at me?”
I shake my head.
Momma makes a big sigh. “Okay. That’s all right, sweetheart,” she says. “I understand. But just make sure you’re getting everything I’m telling you.”
I pick up one of the granola bars—it has a shiny golden wrapper with dark red words printed on it. “Can I have this now?”
“Sure, baby. Of course you can.”
I tear open the wrapper, peel it off, and take a huge bite of the bar—it’s delicious. Chocolate peanut-butter crunch, exactly as advertised.
“We have a new plan,” Momma says slowly. I can hear her breathing hard—it sounds like she’s getting tired from just talking.
“What’s the plan this time?” I ask, still chewing.
“We’re going to see if we can leave the mall,” Momma says. “That’s the plan.”
“But what about the quarantine?” I ask.
“Exactly. That’s why I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it,” Momma says. “Your father said that the doors are locked from the outside and that police officers are standing guard, but maybe we can get someone’s attention and talk our way out. Convince them to let us go.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
I take another bite of the granola bar.
I can feel Momma staring at me.
“Okay? So you’re good with the plan?” Momma asks.
“I guess so.”
“Good,” M
omma says. “Because I don’t think I can wait for help to get here, sweetheart. Do you understand what I’m telling you? I think I’m running out of time.”
I’m not sure what Momma means by running out of time, but I don’t want to think about it, so I don’t.
“So when are we going?” I ask.
“Now,” Momma says.
I look at Miss Christiana. “Are you coming too?”
“I am going to help your mum walk,” she answers.
• • •
We leave the camping store and walk until we find an escalator that leads to the first floor. This escalator is stuck also—just like the last one I found.
Momma can barely move a muscle on her own; Miss Christiana practically carries her the whole way down.
“Where are we going?” I ask when we reach the first floor.
“An exit,” Miss Christiana says. “We just need to find one. The right one.”
As we look for an exit (the right one), we pass by stores I’ve never noticed before—a computer store, a hair salon, a pharmacy that sells medicine and stuff for your bathroom, a shoe store with fancy high-heels, a tiny market called Food Plus—but I still don’t see any people. It’s like we have the entire mall to ourselves; either that, or everyone else is just hiding somewhere. Hiding really, really well.
I am the first to reach a tall light-up map showing both floors of the mall with every store marked by a code: D3, F12, C34, A20. Miss Christiana and Momma are still behind me, moving slowly.
I study the map up close, trying to find where I am—on most maps, it’s marked with a red star and the words You Are Here. If I can figure that out, then maybe I can figure out where the closest exit is, and then Momma will be happy with me.
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