She grins at me with crooked teeth. “Just go.”
Oh- kay. First, my lucky earrings and now this. This woman is like a mind-reader or something. Although, anything is possible in a dream, right? Because I’m creating all these people. In a dream.
Or at least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.
“I added a butterfly to help with your transformation,” she says and traces the closed wings of the butterfly on my hand. She nods. “I am hopeful they will open soon.”
I yank my hand away. She’s starting to really freak me out now.
I lean over to the girl sitting on a pouf closest to me. “May I please borrow your phone?” I whisper. “It’s a surprise for Malika.”
My lie rewards me with a huge grin, and I feel a little guilty. When Malika looks the other way, I take the girl’s phone, hide it under my sleeve, and excuse myself.
I hold my breath as I escape downstairs. I need privacy. I don’t know why since this is my dream and all, but for some reason I don’t want anyone to hear what I’m about to do. I slip out the front door, yank it closed with both hands, and only then do I exhale, standing outside the door, deep in shadows.
I dial Mama’s cell. This has to work.
Someone picks up and my breath hitches with excitement, only to hear a voice telling me I need to dial the international code.
Oh right, I’m in Morocco and she’s in Colorado. I guess that makes sense.
EXCEPT THAT THIS IS A DREAM!
I shake my head, and dial again, this time adding the “1” in front of the number for the crazy annoying phone company in my dream. A deep tone buzzes twice, and then someone answers.
“Hello?”
My heart leaps for joy. “MAMA?” I yell. “It’s me!”
I’m greeted with silence.
“Mama?”
Maybe I don’t have a good signal between these concrete walls. I’m quickly learning that anything is possible in dreams. I glance at the phone. Three bars. That should be enough but I walk a few steps down the cobblestone street anyway in case I get a better signal. Now that I have Mama, I don’t want to lose her.
“Mama? Can you hear me?”
“I’m sorry,” she answers. “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
And then she hangs up on me.
My heart constricts so tight I can’t breathe. My palms sweat and my stomach roils. No. Don’t hang up on me, Mama. I have to talk to you.
I pinch myself. WAKE UP!
Nothing happens.
I try to inhale. It’s jagged, but I get it down. Okay. It’s going to be okay. You heard Mama’s voice. That was her voice. Now close your eyes. Think of her voice. Think of her. She’s wearing your favorite sweater on her head like a turban. Think of Berg spiking his hair in that mini-mohawk. Of Daddy dousing you with flour the other night when you helped him make fried chicken. I pinch myself really hard again. WAKE UP!
I inhale, open my eyes… and my heart plummets. I’m still surrounded by what feels like a prison of white walls. I inhale another deep breath. It’s still okay. I’m still okay. This is going to work. I’m going to make this work.
I re-dial her number, hear those strange tones again, and beg Mama to pick up. “Pick up. Please. Pick up. Pick up.”
“Hello?”
“Mama, it’s me!” I scream. I don’t want her to hang up again so I rush into my explanation. “I’m in Morocco. But I’m in a dream. So, I guess I’m dreaming that I’m calling you. But I just saw all of you and no one would talk to me. And then I ended up back here. But I want this dream to end. I want to come home.”
I hear Daddy’s voice in the background. “Darling, who keeps calling?”
Mama’s voice is muffled when she answers him, like she’s holding the phone away. “I have no idea. I can’t understand a word they’re saying. I think they’re speaking another language.”
What? Why could I speak English to that American lady, but not to my own mama?
I focus really hard. English. Speak English!
“Please don’t hang up!” I plea. “I need you to help me!”
“I’m sorry,” Mama says politely, “but you need me to help you do what?”
My hearts soars. She understands me!
“Mama, it’s me! It’s me, Lottie!” I’m so choked with happiness that I almost can’t speak.
“What did you say?” Mama whispers.
“It’s me, Lottie,” I laugh. “It’s Lotus. Your daughter! I’m stuck here and I can’t leave. I need your help! I need you!”
“Is this some sort of sick joke?” Mama growls. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY LOTUS?” she yells. “If you hurt her, I will hunt you down and I will…”
I don’t hear the end of her threat because I hear myself say, “Mama, what’s wrong? I’m right here.”
Except…
Except I didn’t say that. Those words didn’t come out of my mouth. They came out of someone’s mouth standing next to my Mama. Was that me? If I’m at home then why I am here? As Aicha?
“Mama?” I whimper, aching for her to help me make sense of all this. But all I get is bitter anger.
“Do not ever call here again,” Mama growls. “I am not your Mama.”
And then she hangs up on me.
I’m frozen. My heart has stopped. I keep holding the phone to my ear, desperately hoping Mama will come back on and apologize, and I’ll wake up. But nothing happens. I slump against the wall and try to ignore all the emotions swirling inside of me like a terrible tornado.
This dream used to be fun and happy. What happened? I loved doing all this wedding stuff with Malika, and I really do love being her sister. She’s so sweet and caring. But to have Mama tell me that she’s not my Mama. That hurts. It really, really hurts. Like when you slam your hand in the car door and the pain won’t stop throbbing.
And I don’t want to hurt. Which is why I have always buried my pain.
I inhale a deep breath. This is just a dream. It has to be. A dream that’s turning into a friggin’ nightmare, but still, it’s just a dream. Exhale. I will get out of here. Inhale. I will wake up soon. That’s what happens in a dream. It all seems so realistic, but you always wake up and go back to real life.
A spot of white behind one of the pots catches my eye. I walk over, kneel down, and find the little white kitten from this morning. The one with the brown eyes like me. I reach down to pick it up but the minute my hand touches its body, I recoil. It’s limp, and cold… and dead.
I crumple to the ground, one hand still on the kitten’s listless body, neither of us moving.
This dream really is becoming a nightmare.
I pick up the dead kitten and cradle it close to my heart. “My mama rejected me, too,” I whimper and kiss its tiny head. I notice the black spot on its forehead is in the shape of a butterfly just like my henna. A butterfly that should be alive and flitting around exploring the beauty of the world, not cold and lifeless.
Anger and despair try to wash over me. Sobs crawl up my throat like vomit. But I swallow them back and refuse to feel the pain. For the kitty, or for me, I don’t know. Maybe for both of us. Either way I’m so done. With this dream. With feeling. With everything.
The front door slowly opens, and the old woman who did my henna shuffles out and kneels in front of me.
“What have you discovered?”
I raise an eyebrow.
She raises both her eyebrows. “Well, what?”
Seriously? Is she friggin’ blind? I feel laughter bubble up in me.
I giggle. “I found death.”
She shakes her head. “I was not referring to your little friend.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, you weren’t. You are just another part of this annoying dream that makes absolutely no sense and is driving me crazy.” I don’t care that I’m being a jerk. I’m so sick of everything that I’m finding it really hard to care anymore.
She reaches out and strokes my cheek with her wrinkle
d hand. “Whether it is a dream, or it is not,” she murmurs in a voice that is somehow soothing and unnerving at the same time, “you must care enough to feel the pain so that you may choose to live.”
I snort. “No thanks.”
“And that is how you feel?”
“Nope.” I stand up and hand her the stupid, dead kitten. “I don’t feel anymore. Feeling is overrated. I am done with feeling.”
She gently tucks the kitten into her jilbab. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“Even if it means never waking from what you think is a dream?”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever, lady. I’m done here. I’m done feeling. I’m done worrying. I’m done being angry.” I bounce my chin in a way that I think looks cool but probably looks like a dorky, bobble-head. “Lottie is out.”
She nods so slowly that I wonder if time is ceasing to exist. “Then that is the way it will be,” she murmurs and shuffles down the street.
I close my eyes, imagining my Mama’s comforting hands hugging me close, and wishing myself far, far away.
CHAPTER 13
Home, Painful, Home
I’m done with this dream. I need to wake up. I scream inside my head. WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
This.
Is.
Going.
To.
Work.
I inhale a deep breath, open my eyes… and let out a whoop of joy. I did it! I’m back in my room!
My room. With my blue walls, and my cozy comforter, and my stuffed zebra, and my desk that my great-grandfather built. I exhale for so long that my legs feel like jelly and I have to sit down. I sink into the chair at my desk and my joy fades when I see all the shattered pieces of the glass heart and remember all the pain and sadness waiting for me here.
Does Berg still hate me because I wasn’t there for him? He was so sad and heartbroken. And so angry… at me.
Tears form in my eyes.
Does Mama still think I’m selfish? I acted like such a jerk, and she was so disappointed.
A huge sob escapes my chest.
And Dillon. Is he okay? I know he must hate me. And by now everyone must know what I did. How I totally lost it and exploded and almost killed him. How I’m the freak with Oh my GAD. Everyone must hate me.
Pain rockets through me. I lay my head down on the shattered glass and explode into gut-wrenching sobs. The sharp pieces cut into my cheek, but I don’t care. I deserve it. I deserve to be punished for who I am. This crazy monster who can’t control her emotions. Who cries and screams and freaks out with feelings.
I wish I didn’t have to feel anything ever again.
I wish I didn’t have to be me anymore.
I lift my head from the desk. One of my great-grandmother’s postcards is stuck to my cheek so I peel it off. The front is a photograph of baby elephant, with “Bangkok” written in black script above it. I flip it over and read the writing on the back.
Dear Lotus,
Until you choose to feel all that life offers you, you will never be home.
See you soon,
Venerable Bhik
The postcard falls from my fingers. My great-grandmother’s name was Rita.
My lungs seize and my eyes drift shut as I wish myself far, far away.
CHAPTER 14
Crushed by my emotions
I can’t breathe. That postcard. Where did it come from? Why was it on my desk? And what is a Venerable Bhik? And what does “I will never be home” mean?
I think of never seeing my loving Mama, my sweet Berg, and my fun Daddy ever again, and that makes my chest ache. Crushingly bad.
I think I’m going to puke.
No! I need to get control of myself. I need to shove my emotions so deep that I don’t ever have to feel them again. I struggle to inhale a deep breath… and find that I can’t.
Holy crap! My chest has never felt this heavy before. These emotions are crushing me! I need to get rid of them!
I hear voices. They’re muffled, but they sound angry. No, not angry. They sound frantic. Panicked, almost. I hear words tumbling over words, every voice begging to be heard.
Oh crap. My heart seizes with fear. Did they finally find out what I did to Dillon? Are they coming to arrest me? I try to open my eyes, but they’re glued shut. I try to raise my arm to wipe them off, but it’s stuck to my side and I can’t move it. What is happening?!
I feel hands clawing at my scalp.
Oh my god! Get away from me!
I ache to punch them away but I can’t move either of my arms. It’s like they’re pinned to me. I open my mouth to scream and beg them to stop, but nothing comes out, and I taste dirt.
Dirt?
Oh my god! I’m swallowing dirt! I’M SWALLOWING DIRT! I can’t find any air! I’m drowning. I’m dying…
“Breathe!” a man yells.
Hands are clawing at my mouth now.
“Breathe, boy! Breathe!”
I really don’t want to eat any more dirt, but my chest feels like it’s going to explode so I breathe… and finally get air. Sweet, sweet air! I inhale deeply, the smell of musk and earth and something else I can’t place fills my senses, and the aching pressure on my chest eases.
“He’s breathing!” the man says, but his voice is muffled, like I’m wearing headphones.
Hands claw at my chest, my arms, and my belly. Why are all these people touching me? Leave me alone! This is my body! I want to cry, but I can’t get the words to my lips. I try again to stop them and this time one of my arms is free and I connect with something solid.
A warm hand grabs mine. “Stop fighting,” a different man’s voice orders. “You’re almost out.”
Hands grasp under my armpits and lift me into the air. I feel so light. I can breathe again! But I still can’t open my eyes so I lift my other arm to wipe them and pain rockets through my body so fast that I see stars in the darkness behind my eyelids. I cry out.
“Boy, quit moving. It’s broken.”
Someone wipes my eyes.
“Try to open them,” a man says.
I do as he says but it’s so bright that I’m blinded. I want to close my eyes, but I don’t. I’m afraid I may not be able to open them again. My eyes burn but I keep blinking them until I can make out shadows of men crowded around me. There’s a loud ringing throbbing in my head, but the voices beside me are starting to drown it out.
“Let’s get him out of here.”
“Find him help.”
“We found another one!”
Whoever is holding me under my armpits hands me off to another shadow. I feel like a limp puppet. My legs won’t hold my weight and my arm feels like a million bees are eating it alive. The shadow grabs me around the waist and lifts me off the ground. I don’t resist.
My eyes finally adjust and take in the man carrying me. He’s wearing a knee-length tunic, trousers so baggy they look like a skirt, and a turban. His face and beard are cocoa-colored, but streaked with what looks like grey dust. He’s quiet, but I hear wailing and angry yelling around us. I want to ask him where I am when four armed policemen sprint by, their huge machine guns poised and ready.
I watch them race past, and immediately know where I am. This is the souk, packed with stalls selling colorful fruits and vegetables, racks of raw meats, clothes, spices, and who knows what else. But I’m not in Morocco anymore.
How do I know this? Because I’m still dreaming? Then why does this all feel so real?
The policemen stop near the last stalls where cheery, red-and-white awnings are engulfed in flames. Billows of smoke hang in the air. And the three-story building next door looks like a giant took a huge bite out of it and then spit a tower of rubble beside it.
The rubble that could have been my burial site.
I’m in Afghanistan. In the middle of Kabul. And I’ve just been buried alive by a bomb.
The men who rescued me are still on top of that tower of rubble, scrabbling away at the rocks and dirt, desperat
ely searching for any more survivors.
A man dashes out of the smoke, screaming and cradling a body in his arms. I have to turn away. My stomach roils and gurgles. I start seeing black spots. I hear another explosion and I close my eyes.
The man lowers me onto the ground. “Rest now, boy,” he demands in a tight voice.
I know he’s speaking Dari, the most widely spoken language in Kabul, because I speak it, too.
“We may need you to fight soon,” he adds.
I don’t like the sound of that, so I just keep my eyes closed and nod.
I’m totally lying, of course. No way am I fighting. I’ll be lucky if I don’t throw up and pass out in about five more seconds.
I feel a small hiss of air and know he’s rushed away. Careful not to move my injured arm, I shift my seat to face away from the destruction and feel something between my legs. I almost giggle. So this is why everyone keeps calling me boy. I wrinkle my nose. Crap, what is that smell? Is that me? It smells worse than when that girl brought egg salad to school and left it in her locker for two weeks.
I open my eyes to find out what’s stinking up the place… and immediately wish I hadn’t. I’m surrounded by bodies. Scorched, dead bodies. A woman and man still holding hands. A boy Berg’s age… with no legs. A small girl in a tattered dress. No head. Just a body. And there are more. Dead. All of them dead. All around me. Dead.
I somehow crawl one-armed as far away as I can and start puking my guts out into a mound of shiny, red apples. Sobs rip through me. I can’t even think to stop them.
I’m not in my room. I’m not even at a happy henna party in Morocco anymore. I’m halfway around the world, surrounded by bodies that used to be someone’s mother, and someone’s father, and someone’s brother. And they’re all dead. Not pretend dead. Not video game dead. No. They are all real-life, no-more-breathing ever dead.
All I can think about is that these rotting corpses could be my Mama, or my Daddy, or my Berg. Wretched emotions flood my brain. How could someone do this? Did they know their life was over? Did they suffer terribly? Do their families know they’re dead?
Will anyone miss them?
I cry out in anguish. For their lost lives. For being so far away from those I love. For my grisly, broken arm, and for my throbbing, chaotic, utterly confused brain.
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