“I just want to talk to her is all,” Mr. Jim says. “The gun is just to show that the talk is real talk.”
“Real talk about what? What business you got to discuss with a child?”
“About the fact that she exposed my daughter to your fucking disease,” Mr. Jim answers. “And the fact that she lied to my goddamned face in the process.”
Mr. Emmanuel snorts. “Oh, shit. A beg padin, you sensitive little bitch,” he says. “You ain’t laying hands on that girl for no kind of reason like that. Go on back home, my bruh, before you get yourself perforated.”
“I can’t do that,” Mr. Jim says. “Not anymore, I can’t. Now that I’ve been up here with you people, I can’t go home either.”
“Ain’t my problem,” Mr. Emmanuel responds. “If you so scared of the sickness that you can’t even walk on the same level as us without hiding afterward, that’s your issue. Not the girl’s.”
“What do you care what happens to her?” Mr. Jim asks. “The little shit isn’t even one of yours.”
“You damn right on that. She ain’t one of mine, and I don’t care nothing ’bout her. But she ain’t yours neither. And you ain’t having her. Not while I got this shottie in my hands, you ain’t.”
“All right,” Mr. Jim says. “Let me ask you this, then. If I let her go, what happens to her?”
“What you mean?”
“I mean what the hell will you do with her if I leave?”
“Me? Not a damn thing,” Mr. Emmanuel says. “She ain’t welcome with my people no more, so I guess she makes her own way until help arrive on the white horses. That’s it.”
“So she’s on her own?” Mr. Jim asks.
“That’s right. Nobody want that girl up here on the second,” Mr. Emmanuel answers. “But let me be crystal with you, bruh. You don’t get no time with her. You leave her ass be. Period.”
“As long as you do the same. I need to know that you won’t take her in. Just leave her with some food and water, and then let her fend for herself.”
“I ain’t taking no conditions from you,” Mr. Emmanuel says. “But I can tell you this. She won’t get shit from none of us here on the second, unless I say so. Like I told you, she ain’t ours. She already been cut off.”
“Fine.”
“All right then.”
I don’t hear anything else other than the sound of the front door opening and closing.
• • •
I stay under the table for a really long time.
More than a day, I’m pretty sure.
It’s always really dark under the table, so I use my tiny reading lamp with the alligator clip whenever I need to see something more clearly. Usually I keep it turned off, though, to save batteries.
I try to play with my coloring book, but I can only look at the pages; I forgot to put crayons in the nest, and I’m too scared to go out and find some, so I can’t do any actual coloring.
I also try to play with my twelve poseable characters (from my favorite cartoon movie), but I can’t do that either. I figure out how to get the box open, but the characters have so much packaging on top of them that I can’t get any of them free.
I need a tool—or my daddy—but I don’t have either one.
After a while, I give up and sing every single song that I like from my favorite ALICE 97.3 radio station.
Actually, I don’t really sing.
It’s more like I whisper the songs. Or maybe it’s really a mixture of both singing and whispering. Like winging or swispering.
Whenever I get thirsty, I take very small sips—not gulps—from one of my water bottles, just like Momma taught me to do. I make sure that I save some water for her too, because I promised her that I would.
Sometimes I need to rest, so I lie down on the two baby blankets, hug my Hello Kitty pillow, and talk to my two stuffed animals for a while—did I mention that one is a polar bear and the other is a black cat? I can’t remember if I said that already, but just in case. That’s what they are.
I’m not weird, by the way. I know that the stuffed animals can’t really hear me, but I talk to them anyway because I want to. It’s just something that I like to do—I can’t really explain it any better than that.
I tell my stuffed animals about my momma.
I talk about the things that Momma liked and didn’t like.
I talk about the things that she wanted to like, but couldn’t make herself. And I also talk about the things she didn’t want to like, but couldn’t stop herself. At least, the things that I knew about.
I talk about books.
I talk about music.
I talk about food.
I talk about TV.
I talk about pastimes.
I talk about the people she used to know.
When I finish saying everything I can remember about my momma, I feel different than I did before.
Not better—just different.
It’s weird.
I feel like Momma is actually sitting in my secret nest beside me, holding me close. But I also feel like she’s really, truly gone and I’ll never see her again.
Neither one, exactly. So both.
• • •
“Pikin,” a voice hisses.
The sound is so unexpected that I nearly bump my head on the bottom of the table.
But I don’t answer—I don’t make a single sound.
“Pikin. It’s me. Are you here?”
I know that voice.
It’s Miss Christiana. I’m positive.
I almost decide to shove the train boxes out of the way, burst out of my nest and leap into her arms, but I stop myself before I can.
I’m still angry with Miss Christiana.
She was the one who told me to leave the second-floor village forever.
“Are you here?” Miss Christiana whispers. “I’m so sorry for everything, pikin. I came looking for you like I promised, but I couldn’t find you. Only after Emman told me you might be here inside the shop could I come. Are you here? Hello?”
I think about what I just heard.
I’m still really mad at Miss Christiana.
But at least she said she was sorry.
“I’m in here,” I say, shoving the boxes out of the way.
I’m almost blinded right away—Miss Christiana must have turned on the overhead lights. Squinting and covering my eyes with a hand, I get to my feet.
Before long, I feel Miss Christiana’s arms wrapped tightly around me.
I really want to push her away, but I don’t.
“I’m so glad to see you, Jasmine,” Miss Christiana whispers. She lets go of me and smoothes my hair with both of her hands. “Are you all right, love?”
I don’t answer her.
I don’t answer because I’m angry, but also because I’m not sure about the answer. I don’t know whether I’m all right or not all right.
“Okay, pikin,” Miss Christiana says. “That’s fine—you don’t have to talk. But are you willing to go with me?”
“Go where?” I ask.
“To the camping store. I have something to tell you. It’s important.”
I stare at Miss Christiana.
Eventually, I nod my head.
• • •
When we get to the nest behind the cash registers at the back of the camping store, Miss Christiana sits down on the blue sleeping bag.
“Wait,” I say.
Miss Christiana looks up at me. “Wait what?”
“Can I please sit there?” I ask.
“Of course,” Miss Christiana answers, shifting over to the left.
“No. Not next to you. By myself—I want to be on the blue sleeping bag by myself.”
Miss Christiana studies my face like she’s checking it for dirt smudges.
“Yes, pikin, of course,” she answers. She stands up, moves over to the red sleeping bag, and sits with her legs crossed underneath.
I sit down too.
Miss Christiana takes a de
ep breath—I hear the air rushing into her body, and I feel the warmth on my face as she lets it out.
“We are leaving here in about an hour,” she says. “Leaving for good.”
I can’t believe it.
“Leaving the mall?”
Miss Christiana nods. “Yes. In less than an hour.”
“So I get to go home?” I ask.
“No,” she answers. “Not home. To a hospital.”
Oh, yeah.
I remember hearing about the hospital.
“But I don’t want to do that,” I say.
“I know, love. We have to. The doctors need to watch us to make sure we don’t show signs of the sickness. After that, we will be let go.”
“And then I can go home?”
“Absolutely,” Miss Christiana responds. “You can think of the hospital as one stepping stone on the path that leads home.”
I think I can handle that.
I nod. “Okay.”
“Good. Because I need to talk to you about something else.”
Oh no.
Miss Christiana is using the same voice that Momma uses when she’s about to tell me something that I won’t like.
“Talk about what?” I ask.
“Your debt.”
“I don’t even know what that is. What’s a debt?”
“Something you owe,” Miss Christiana answers. “Which means something that you need to do, even if you don’t want to.”
I’m always doing things that I don’t want to do.
I must have an awful lot of debts.
I make a big sigh. “What do I have to do?” I ask.
“I need you to tell a certain lie for me,” Miss Christiana answers.
I stare at her.
“You mean, like, a lie-lie?” I ask.
Miss Christiana nods. “Yes.”
I think about what I just heard.
In my whole entire life, no one has ever told me to lie for them before.
It’s both exciting and scary at the same time.
“So you just want me to lie?” I ask.
“When I ask you to, yes. You lie for me,” Miss Christiana says. “That’s all.”
“Like, I can tell any lie I want?” I ask.
“No. You tell my lie,” she answers. “Whatever I say. You will repeat my lie as though it were the truth.”
“To who?”
“To anyone. To everyone who needs to hear it.”
“But why?” I ask.
“Because I let you use my phone when you needed it,” Miss Christiana answers. “Remember? You promised.”
I wait, hoping Miss Christiana will explain more, but she doesn’t.
I’m not sure what Momma would want me to do right now.
I know that I’m not supposed to tell a lie.
But I also know that I’m supposed to keep my promises.
“So? Do you agree?” Miss Christiana asks.
I need time to figure out what to do, but there isn’t any time.
I just need to pick yes or no.
I think Momma would be okay with me lying, since it’s for a good reason. Just like she’s okay with me lying about liking birthday presents that I really don’t like. This situation is an exception.
Plus, Daddy told me to do whatever Miss Christiana asked me to do.
“Okay,” I answer, shrugging. “What’s the lie I’m supposed to tell?”
Miss Christiana doesn’t answer.
She reaches to her left, lifts the corner of the sleeping bag and pulls out Momma’s purse. She unzips it, pulls out Momma’s wallet, and unsnaps the cover.
I don’t understand. I study everything Miss Christiana does, looking for clues.
She turns the wallet around and points to the clear plastic sleeve with Momma’s driver’s license inside.
As I look at my momma’s face, I listen while Miss Christiana explains the lie she needs me to tell.
• • •
It’s time for me to go.
It’s time for me to leave the mall—both the first and second levels—behind.
Escorted by a group of soldiers dressed in camouflage jumpsuits and hoods, the entire second-floor village marches downstairs to the first floor exit in one long line.
At the very back of the line, the very last person, is me.
Me and Miss Christiana, actually, walking hand in hand.
When we finally reach the exit doors, I see that they have been propped wide open. But they don’t lead outside. Not really.
They lead into an enormous, clear plastic tunnel. It’s like a giant snaking hose, large enough to fit a grownup.
As I walk into the tunnel, I hear the pattering of rain on the roof, almost like I’ve walked into a camping tent during a storm.
Water slides down either side of the tunnel in tiny rivers. Everything on the other side of the plastic looks hazy, crooked and lopsided.
I wonder whether that’s how I look from the outside: like a weird, runny watercolor version of myself.
About halfway through the tunnel, I see a pair of hands press against the plastic from the outside. After that, a pale face. I look closely, but it’s hard to tell who the person is, or if it’s even someone that I know at all.
But then I see.
It’s Daddy.
He says something that I can’t understand because of the plastic barrier and the rain, but I press both of my hands against his hands so he knows that I see him.
I hold my hands there for a few seconds before moving on.
At the end of the tunnel, a blonde-haired woman wearing a white hooded jumpsuit and carrying a tablet computer approaches us, a soldier walking beside her.
“Name and ID, please?” the woman asks. “License or passport is fine—either one.”
Miss Christiana takes the purse—my momma’s purse—off her shoulder, removes the wallet, and opens it to show the driver’s license inside.
“Amina Johnson,” Miss Christiana says. Her voice sounds almost exactly like my mom’s.
The woman glances at the license, then focuses her attention on the tablet computer sitting in the crook of her arm.
“And this is your daughter?” the woman asks, her eyes still glued to the tablet.
“Yes,” Miss Christiana answers.
The woman taps the screen a few times, looks down at me, and smiles. The smile looks genuine, not like a school-picture type of smile.
“And is this your mother, sweetheart?” the woman asks.
about the author
Jonathan R. Miller lives in the Bay Area of California with his wife and daughter.
www.jonathanrmiller.com
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