Her Name Is Knight (Nena Knight)

by Yasmin Angoe

  She will hate me.

  “My love,” the man says. He pulls his wife into a hug and kisses her as if she’s been gone eons. I take several steps back, not wanting to intrude on their reunion, trying to blend into the walls so no one sees me.

  But Mr. Noble spies me pressed against the wall, nearly out the doorway we entered. “This is Nena?”

  Ms. Delphine throws an arm out to me. “Nena, come. Why are you all the way over there? Come meet my Noble and Elin.”

  I sneak a look at Elin as I shuffle toward her mother’s outstretched arm, stopping short of her wriggling fingers. Their daughter is studying me with a curious expression. It is not hostile, and I am relieved, but only a little. She does not say anything, watching with that same expression.

  I stand before Mr. Noble, a ball of nervous energy. He, too, studies me, and I realize he is judging me. This is when they are deciding to keep me or not, like some stray dog off the street. I nearly laugh because is that not what I am?

  Up close, I see how handsome he is. The air around him exudes power and authority, which instantly reminds me of Papa. It is a long time before he speaks.

  “Delphine tells me we have you to thank for her coming home to us relatively unharmed.”

  Only herculean effort makes me speak because I cannot not answer him. I can tell just by the look of him.

  “Was luck,” I whisper.

  “Oh, that’s not luck,” he says, looking down at me with dark, dark eyes that I will learn can express everything from gentleness and love to cold calculation when he condemns men to their deaths. But today, he looks upon me with appreciation.

  And then.

  Then he opens his arms to me. I am frozen. What am I to do? Every man’s touch since I have been in this nightmare has resulted in immeasurable pain and humiliation. I peer into his eyes again. The acceptance, the love, and the warmth I see in them envelop me, driving back the horrors I endured for so long.

  Gingerly, I walk into his arms, warring because while the thought of touch makes me cringe, the need for a father’s embrace is too great. However, I can only stand it for a moment. I alert him to this by tentatively patting his back thrice, then pulling away. Ms. Delphine and Elin share an amused look. He is just pleased.

  “Dad is a hugger. You’ll need to get used to it,” Elin quips.

  I look to her, stricken. Is it a deal breaker if I cannot?

  “Only with my girls,” he clarifies.

  I pause. Am I now considered one of his girls? I search for the proper feeling. The four little words bring me joy but also trepidation.

  “Well, come on then,” Elin says brightly. “Let’s find your room.”

  My room?

  My expectation is that I’ll be relegated to the basement, tucked away like some unwanted guest, shut away in a cupboard under the stairs. But we go up instead of down, through a maze of halls and rooms. She shows me one, two, three, four, five bedrooms before we reach her own.

  “This is my room,” Elin says, motioning to a massive room decorated in lavenders, light greens, and creams. She looks at me. “Are there any rooms we passed that you like? Do you like this one? Because you can have it.”

  My mouth drops open at her words. Surely, she must be playing me false to offer her own room.

  “You saved my mum,” she explains simply. “I owe you everything because she is my everything. Her and Dad.”

  I still cannot answer. She continues.

  “You’ll get used to Dad; he’s a big softy with us. And by us, I mean you too. You’re a Knight now, Nena.”

  Another four words that bring me such incredible joy I nearly buckle at their weight.

  “But why?” I blurt, truly confounded by this family and their total acceptance of me.

  Elin frowns, as confused as I. “Why not? Mum is a perfect judge of character.” She flips her ponytail. “If Mum gave you her seal of approval, you are in. Relax. Besides, I’ve always wanted a little sister.” She glances around the room, unsure. “Anyway, back to the rooms. You don’t really want this one, do you? I know I said you could have it, but hell, I didn’t mean it.”

  Her honesty is amusing. “No, it’s yours. I’ll be okay wherever you put me.”

  “Well, Mum and Dad’s room is on the first level because Dad doesn’t want to bother with stairs, so you want to be up here with me. You’ll have more freedom without them breathing down your neck. They’re cool and all, but they’re still parents, you know?”

  I nod because I can think of no better response.

  Elin chooses another massive room a couple of doors down from hers. She says it is so we have privacy but can still be close. But maybe it is so she can keep an eye on me in case I turn out to be a thief. Thievery is one thing Elin, or anyone, will never be able to attribute to me.

  Because I only take when my hand is forced, and that includes when I must take lives.

  47

  AFTER

  Waiting for the fallout from Kwabena’s death already had Nena on high alert, so when she received a frantic call from Cort, she arrived prepared for a gunfight. However, they were in the midst of a full-blown panic for a different reason. Georgia was in tears and threatening to never leave her room again.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cort said, answering the door before Nena could knock. “She asked for you.”

  The desperation in his eyes hit Nena like an arrow, and all she could think was that whoever had hurt Georgia would pay. She ran down a list of possibilities: something with Cort’s case; Paul having somehow found out about them and threatened Georgia; something about Kwabena’s death? No, if any of those were the cause of this mayhem, Cort would not be asking for her assistance.

  “Is she okay?”

  He stepped back, running his hands over his face the way he did when he was stressed, and she entered the foyer. Nena could hear music blaring. “What happened?”

  “I’ll let Peach tell you.”

  He looked terrified, as if he didn’t want to go near the room with the howling girl. This big man, as he’d be considered back home, was practically pushing her toward Georgia’s door so she could deal with whatever was behind it.

  “I’m handling it with the school.”

  She stopped to look at him. The school? Nena wasn’t one for group hysteria, but the way they were acting out of character was alarming her. She didn’t like changes, and this behavior was a change.

  He stopped abruptly, as if remembering himself. He reached out, holding her arm and making her feel all sorts of jolts radiating from the touch.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “We’ll get it all sorted,” Nena said as stoically as she could.

  They split up, Cort to the kitchen with his phone in hand and a look of relief on his face. The irony was not lost on her. He was sending a killer to sort out his daughter.

  She arrived at the door and knocked on it. “Georgia?”

  The music cut off immediately. Her sign to enter.

  Nena opened the door wide enough to see Georgia sitting in front of her dresser, comb in hand, attempting to work her way through her massive bushel of hair. She was in sweats and a T-shirt, damp from having come out of the shower. She was trying to tug a brush through the tangles, but through the mirror Nena saw the frustration and anguish etched on her face.

  Georgia turned in her seat, her eyes red and puffy. “They put gum in my hair,” she said, hiccuping. “And Dad had to cut out the chunks. My hair is ruined!”

  Nena let out a breath, understanding perfectly. She remembered the horror, the shame, when she had gazed at her own coarse, dry, knotted mess of hair in her mum’s hotel room. There was unbelievable pride in Black women’s hair. Their hair was their crown, their superpower, something women taught each other to care for, as Nena’s first mother had taught her.

  “I can kill them for you,” Nena said. “No one will know.”

  Georgia’s eyes saucered, her mouth dropping open with brush st
ill in hand. Then she burst out in laughter at Nena’s obvious joke.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, happy the girl was consolable.

  Georgia turned back to the mirror, her hands dropping to her side, leaving the white-and-black-handled brush nestled in her hair, which Nena carefully extracted. Nena made a concoction with the products they had. It took a considerable amount of time, but she finally got Georgia’s hair to the point where it felt buttery soft. With a wide-tooth comb, she separated her hair into quarters and worked through each section with precision and gentleness, as if handling a Fabergé egg, all while Georgia recounted her argument with Sasha over an answer Georgia had corrected her about in front of the class, and then the gum in the bathroom.

  “And she didn’t just throw it in, you know,” Georgia said. “She put a massive wad in and then mashed it until there was no way it was coming out without cutting. Bitch.”

  Nena agreed with her. Putting gum in another girl’s hair was an attack.

  “I miss this,” Georgia said, surprising Nena because the girl had fallen silent, eyes drooped, and Nena had thought she’d fallen asleep sitting up.

  “Miss what?” Nena asked.

  “Someone doing my hair. Like, my dad’s done real well with my hair until I got old enough. Don’t get me wrong.” Georgia’s voice cracked.

  She looked at Nena through the mirror, her eyes welling with huge droplets of tears that made Nena swallow in discomfort.

  “But I miss my mom doing my hair.” Her voice held immense sadness, and she sounded all of five. “Do you ever miss yours? Your birth one?”

  Nena frowned at the tuft of hair in her hands, not trusting the cavern of emotions this girl brought about in her, this girl who was so very much like her and yet so very different. This girl who was much more than her.

  “I miss her every day,” Nena whispered.

  “And when you met your mom and got adopted, did it change anything for you? Change how you felt? Did you ever worry you’d forget who she was or what she looked like?”

  Nena continued working on Georgia’s hair, understanding Georgia’s true meaning. Georgia wanted assurances she’d never forget her mom no matter who came into her life. Nena wasn’t ready for this. She wanted to run, wanted to do a dispatch, anything but talk about dead mothers and their memories.

  But wasn’t this what she was essentially signing up for by being here? To be that person for Georgia like Mum had been for her?

  Finally she said, “No one will ever take the place of your mum, Georgia. Some little details of her face may fade, but the most important parts always stay.” She paused. “Can I show you something?”

  Georgia nodded, tilting her head this way and that as she looked at herself.

  Nena jogged to the living room, where her rucksack sat on the couch—not where she’d left it. Cort must have moved it. There was a gun in a secret panel within the bag, but seeing as how Cort hadn’t come running, he hadn’t found it. She lifted its straps and hustled back to Georgia’s room, where Georgia still admired Nena’s handiwork.

  Georgia joined Nena on her bed. Nena opened her bag, and Georgia looked on curiously as she pulled out a white container and a bottle of cologne.

  Georgia shot her a quizzical look. “Olay and Hugo Boss? Are they for my hair too?”

  Nena almost laughed, but her response was to open the plastic bottle and give it a quick sniff before holding it out. Georgia leaned in, taking a deep inhale. Nena sprayed a fine mist of the cologne in the air, and Georgia leaned into that too. She regarded Nena, who gazed at the two bottles, one plastic, one glass, with all the love of the world, and waited.

  “These are my first parents, the scents of them, and what I remember the most about them,” Nena said. “I’ve kept these with me for half my life. They comfort me. Ground me. Settle me. They remind me of who I used to be and who I used to have.” She checked their tops were on tightly before slipping them back in her bag.

  “When I’m in my darkest moments, missing my mama or papa, I pull them out and put some of Mama on or spray my papa. Feels like a kiss and a hug. They’re always with me.”

  Nena wiped at the tears now sliding down Georgia’s face. “Find the thing that helps you remember your mum the most and keep her with you, because you don’t have to let her go, ever. But you also make room in your heart for others to get the privilege of loving you as well.”

  “I already have.”

  Oh, Nena wasn’t ready for that. Or for when Georgia threw herself into Nena’s arms, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist in a breath-sucking embrace. Nena hesitated, and then slowly, she put her arms around Georgia’s shoulders. She inhaled the coconut shea of Georgia’s hair, a new scent she’d cherish. She’d rushed to Georgia’s aid because Cort had called her and Georgia needed her. But Nena knew it was really her who was the one in need of them.

  48

  BEFORE

  Assimilating into the Knights’ lavish lifestyle the past few months has been difficult. Most of the time, anxiety plagues me. All this sudden good fortune could be snatched from me at any moment. I cannot relax well enough to enjoy any of it. I live each moment in this opulence like it is my last, because I have conditioned myself. Nothing good stays good, for me.

  They are a good family, treat me very well. They give me space. They never ask me about my past, and I am thankful for that, since I am not ready to share my story. It embarrasses me, believing once they know of my cowardice in my village, that my people gave their lives to protect me and I did not try to do more, the Knights will be ashamed and no longer feel I am worthy of them, as I already believe.

  Each day is a discovery of new freedoms. I walk the grounds, pushing to see how far they will allow me to go, memorizing and mesmerized by my surroundings. They never stop me. I speak little, only answering when spoken to. But I like to listen, enjoying how comfortable and loving they are with one another. They remind me of my family.

  I learn about everyone’s idiosyncrasies. Ishmael, the chef, hates when anyone peers over his shoulder while he cooks. Raul loves to discuss plants and flowers and allows me to prune and pluck with him in the greenhouse. He tells me to name the plants so they will return my love and grow for me. I find horticulture very soothing. The head of security, Montreal, is funny and a ladies’ man. He is seeing two of the maids at the same time, but they do not know. He winks at me to keep his secrets.

  I do wonder about the number of guards looking after the family. They go everywhere we go, especially when Mr. Noble and Ms. Delphine travel, which is often. It all has to do with Mr. Noble’s business dealings, of which I am unclear. I have heard “Tribe” and “Council.” I cannot make sense of any of it.

  “Why do you call Mum and Dad Ms. Delphine and Mr. Noble? You sound like all the people who work for them, and you don’t work for them, Nena. You’re family,” Elin says one morning as we prepare for school. The Knights have enrolled me in the same private school Elin attends, one vastly different and more formal than what I am accustomed to.

  We dress in matching blue plaid skirts, light-blue button-down shirts, and navy jackets with a blue-and-white tree etched on each jacket pocket.

  I stop packing my schoolbag. “What else should I call them?”

  “Mum and Dad, of course. They would love it.” She sweeps her hair up into a ponytail, her favorite style. “I would love it. Then we’d be real sisters.”

  Her answer rolls around in my mind. I would like that, too, but calling them Mum and Dad, calling Elin sister, feels like I am shutting the door on Mama, Papa, and my brothers.

  Elin has been my biggest source of comfort, much to my surprise. I really thought she would hate having to share her parents and life with me, but all she has shown is kindness. She takes care of me. Nightmares plague me often, waking me up in cold sweats, sheets twisted at my feet, my face slick with tears.

  Each time, Elin is there in my room, having heard my screams. She gathers me to her and assures me I am s
afe and okay, that it is all over.

  I want to believe her; really, I do.

  But the nightmares are driving me insane. They are worse now than when I lived them, because in these dreams, Monsieur and the men from the Compound turn into ravenous monsters that devour me alive. And Paul. Paul is the devil incarnate. After Monsieur and the men consume me, I am sent to Paul in hell, where he torments me forever. He holds my family—Papa, the twins, and Ofori—in cramped cages above a firepit of boiling black oil.

  The worst nightmares are when I fall into hell and see not only my birth family, doomed to his torment, but the Knights and Margot there as well. My worst fear is that I am now cursed and will visit upon them what my first family suffered. That I have no way to save them, failing as I did the first time.

  Elin cradles me, begging, “Please, Nena. Please, what has happened to you? Tell me how I can help.”

  I can never say.

  After Elin falls asleep in my bed, I rummage under my pillow for the two items that give me a semblance of serenity, Hugo and Olay. I inhale the scent of them, biting down on my tongue to keep from crying out from the agony of missing my parents. Eventually, I, too, fall back asleep.

  The obsession over my fears makes me withdrawn at school, where I am not popular or accepted by the students at first. There are other Black kids, like Elin, but they are all English born. I guess I look too “African” for them because my hair is natural and braided, twisted, or sometimes out in its full afro glory. My accent is different from theirs. I do not know the nuances of their rich worlds or the slang of their language. Most of them are from old English money, with ancestors of royal lineage or parents in Parliament or the government.

  They ridicule me, trying to antagonize me, and call me names.

  “Look at the little gorilla,” a boy named Silas taunts as I sit beneath a tree in the courtyard attempting to eat my lunch of tomato soup and grilled brie sandwich. The courtyard is one of the few places I find refuge from these loud children who hate me for no reason.

  Silas has been exceptionally horrible to me. He is the one who calls me names, the one who reminds me of a little Robach. I add his insults to my tally: whore, bitch, Souris, and—