I notice something else. Almost no one is wearing a mask like I am.
Miss Christiana pushes open one of the glass doors and holds it for me. I hear the sound of activity and voices coming from inside, and it feels amazing for some reason—it’s like I get warmer just by listening.
I stand in the entranceway, staring at all the movement.
“Is she in there?” I ask.
I imagine what Momma might be doing in the middle of all those people.
“I think she’s here. But I’m not certain,” Miss Christiana answers. “Let’s go see.”
I don’t move; I keep scanning people’s faces, hoping that one of them will be my mom’s.
“It’s okay,” Miss Christiana says. “If your mum isn’t here, that only means she’s at Nordstrom. It isn’t far.”
I nod. “All right.”
The moment I walk into Macy’s I see clouds of smoke drifting in the air, off to my right. I hear a sizzling sound.
The smoke smells so good.
I see two ladies wearing matching green Nike track suits, cooking what look like chicken strips on a flattop grill. A sign on the wall above them says Culinary Center.
“What’s culinary?” I ask Miss Christiana.
“Cooking,” she replies.
I stare in amazement.
A cooking center? In the middle of a store?
“The store holds cooking classes here,” Miss Christiana says. “They teach you things, and then afterward maybe you buy things from the store—whatever tools you used during the class. Everybody wins.”
I stop staring at the two ladies and look around the store. Soon I realize where I am—I’m standing in the part of Macy’s that sells home products.
Bed sheets and pillows.
Toothbrush holders and pump-action soap dispensers.
Crock pots and long butcher knives.
Cushy sofas and dining room tables.
Everywhere I look, I see people from my flight—kids running up and down the aisles, serious-looking men in business suits talking loudly in small groups, ladies reading documents or typing on laptops or folding clothes or holding crying babies. It’s like Macy’s isn’t even a store anymore; it’s turned into a small village. The noise reminds me of the crowds of people at the light-rail station on the way home from my school.
“Are you hungry?” Miss Christiana asks.
The sound of her voice surprises me—I jump a little bit.
She puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You must be hungry,” she says. “Am I right?”
Miss Christiana is definitely right. In fact, she couldn’t possibly be righter.
I’m starving.
But I also really need to find my mom. Right now, I need her even more than I need food.
“No, thank you,” I answer.
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” she asks. “It’s chicken. We managed to pull a few bags from a refrigerator at the food court.”
“I just want my mom,” I say.
Miss Christiana stares at me; she looks disappointed.
Maybe I accidentally made her feel bad by saying no to the food.
“But I’d really like to eat after I see my mom,” I add. “Is it okay if I eat after that?”
Miss Christiana smiles. “Of course it is. Let’s go see if we can find your mum.”
We walk through Macy’s for what feels like a hundred centuries.
Every once in a while, Miss Christiana stops and talks to someone in her language—their language, I mean. It’s pretty hard to understand what she’s saying, but I do my best.
Trying to figure it out is fun, actually, sort of like doing a puzzle with my ears.
Miss Christiana starts all of her conversations in the same way—by saying Aw yu du?
I think that means something like: How are you doing?
After that, Miss Christiana asks “Yu kin sho mi usai mama de?” and then points at me. I’m pretty sure that means Can you show me where her mom is?
A lot of people shake their heads immediately after hearing Miss Christiana’s question. Sometimes they say Noh-o, a noh no.
But Miss Christiana doesn’t give up right away.
She usually asks them more questions, all of which have the words fohrina uman in them. She repeats those words a bunch of times: fohrina uman. Fohrina uman this and fohrina uman that.
I think she means foreigner woman. Either that, or she’s saying foreigner human—I’m not sure which. Foreigner means you’re not from the same place as the person who’s saying the word. Daddy taught me that word when we first got to South Africa.
It’s weird. When I was there, I was a foreigner. But then when I came back here, suddenly I wasn’t one anymore. It’s like when I go to school and they call me a student, and when I come home, I’m just a regular kid. But the whole time, I’m just me!
I hear Miss Christiana say veri badlohk quite a bit. Very bad luck, I guess.
I also hear her say ep mi a few times. I think that means help me.
Putting all those clues together, I finally decide that Miss Christiana is asking people to help her find a foreigner woman with very bad luck.
When I realize that’s what Miss Christiana is saying, it isn’t any fun listening to her anymore.
It really scares me to hear my mom described like that—like she’s not even important enough to have a name of her own. Like she’s just some random foreigner woman with very bad luck.
Soon I stop paying attention to Miss Christiana’s conversations; instead, I quietly walk with her around Macy’s and try to think about happier things.
I imagine escaping from the mall and being free again—free to run outside in the sun, free to go to school and see my best friends Laney and Jaquelle, free to eat junk food from the pantry in our kitchen, free to sleep in my own bed in my own room—but imagining my freedom doesn’t help me feel better. In fact, thinking so hard about leaving seems to make staying feel even worse.
So, instead, I try replaying my favorite TV shows in my head as a distraction. Episodes of cartoons I’ve seen a hundred-thousand times. But that doesn’t help either—TV just reminds me of the couch in our living room. I try singing my favorite songs to myself, but that reminds me of the millions of hours I used to spend listening to the radio while driving in the car with Momma. Music doesn’t help. Nothing does.
Eventually Miss Christiana leads me to the boys’ clothing section, where we walk side by side between racks filled with colorful superhero t-shirts, skateboard pants, basketball jerseys, and pairs of blue jeans. I don’t see any other people around, so I’m not sure what we’re doing, but I follow Miss Christiana anyway because I trust her.
I just now realized that.
I trust her.
When we reach the entrance to the boys’ fitting rooms, Miss Christiana stops and looks down at me. She seems worried; I see a deep crease in her forehead between her big brown eyes.
She crouches down.
Now we’re face to face.
“They tell me that your mum is inside these change rooms,” Miss Christiana says, pointing behind her. “But I have to tell you, dear—your mum is in a bad way. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“No.”
That’s actually not true—I think I do understand what Miss Christiana means by in a bad way—but for some reason I don’t want to admit it out loud.
Miss Christiana puts a hand on my shoulder and makes a big sigh.
I take this as a really bad sign; I can tell she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
“Your mum is dying,” Miss Christiana says. “Maybe you know this in your heart already. If not, I’m sorry to be the one sharing the news. But it’s true. She was near death when I last saw her, and her condition has only worsened since then. That’s what I’m told.”
Miss Christiana stares like she expects me to say something.
I don’t say a word.
She waits, staring righ
t into my eyes.
I still don’t speak. It’s not because I’m being difficult; it’s because I’m worried that if I open my mouth—even if it’s just to tell Miss Christiana that I understand—it will mean that what I just heard is somehow true. It will mean that Momma really is about to die.
Miss Christiana finally breaks eye contact, shaking her head slowly as she straightens.
“All right, my girl. I guess that’s the sum of it,” she says. “Go ahead now. Go see your mum.”
I don’t move.
I glance inside the fitting room area; I see a few open doors with full-length mirrors behind them and piles of clothes resting on red padded benches.
I look at Miss Christiana. “You’re not coming with me?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Now is your time to give honor to your mum,” she says. “That has to be done alone. I’m sorry.”
I enter the fitting area.
I stop and say Momma’s name and wait for a response, but none comes.
I start walking.
I pass a line of open doors leading to dressing rooms; I look inside each one, but I don’t see Momma.
I say her name again—Momma?
This time, I hear what sounds like a response: a quiet voice coming from the far end of the fitting area. I can’t hear what the voice is saying, but I think it could be Momma.
I pick up the pace, passing open fitting rooms, all of them empty, until I reach the last door in the line. There is a small blue sign with a white wheelchair symbol on the outside of the door—that means the room is meant for disabled people to use.
As I get closer to the door, I smell something familiar. In a bad way. It reminds me of the way our kitchen smelled a few weeks after a mouse got caught in a trap and dragged itself (and the trap) behind the refrigerator. The smell makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I stop walking. “Momma?” I whisper.
I wait, and after a few seconds I hear the voice again, coming from inside the last stall—the voice is Momma’s; I’m completely sure of it now. She sounds hoarse, like she’s been coughing a whole lot.
I rush to the door and push it open.
“Momma?” I call out.
I find her lying flat on one of the long red padded benches like the ones I saw in the other fitting rooms. Her eyes are barely open, she’s wearing only underwear and a tanktop, and she’s soaked in sweat. She smiles faintly—it reminds me of a lightbulb that’s about to burn out—then reaches toward me with a trembling hand.
“Baby,” Momma says quietly.
I rush to her side.
I fall to my knees, wrap my arms around Momma and bury my face into her shoulder. Her skin feels icy against my forehead, like she’s been outside in the cold for too long.
I burst into tears. I cry so hard that I can barely breathe.
I feel one of Momma’s hands come to rest on the back of my head.
“It’s okay, hon,” she says.
I lift my face from Momma’s shoulder—her skin is wet from my tears—and look at her. I pull the mask off my face and wipe my eyes and nose with my shirt sleeve.
“You left me,” I say. “You left me.”
“I’m sorry,” Momma says. She mumbles something else, but her voice trails off—I think she may have fallen asleep in the middle of her sentence.
“Momma,” I say.
Her eyes open halfway. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t know what else to do.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was keeping you safe. Please don’t be mad.”
I don’t say anything. Momma is right—I am mad at her. I just now realized it. I’m furious.
“You’re not supposed to leave me alone,” I say. “Not ever.”
“I know. You’re right,” she answers. “I sent Christiana to look for you but you were gone.”
Without thinking, I get to my feet, turn around, and walk toward the stall door. I’m so mad right now—mad that Momma got us trapped inside a stupid mall, mad that she got hurt, mad that she can’t do anything useful to help us, mad that she left me alone. I can’t even look at Momma anymore.
“Jas, please,” Momma says. “Jasmine.”
I don’t stop.
I leave the stall, slamming the door behind me.
On my way out, I shove my hands into my pockets, pull out all the goldfish crackers, and throw them on the floor.
Miss Christiana is waiting for me at the entrance to the fitting area.
When I see her face, I realize that I’m mad at her, too.
I try to push my way past but she keeps stepping in front of me, arms folded, blocking my path.
“Was that your way to honor her?” Miss Christiana asks. Her eyes are flashing; she looks as angry on the outside as I feel on the inside.
“Huh?”
Miss Christiana shakes her head. “I could hear you, Jasmine.” When she says my name, it sounds like Jas-MEEN. “Not your words, but the tone in your voice.”
“So what?”
“So it was not proper,” Miss Christiana says. “Were you really yelling at your mum when she is in a bad way? Really, girl.”
I shrug.
Miss Christiana doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t look finished with me—she looks like she’s trying to choose which words to use next. After a few moments, she takes a step in my direction, her arms stretched out like she wants to pull me into a hug, but I take two steps back, staying far out of her reach.
She raises her hands like she’s surrendering. “Okay, fine. Just listen to me then,” she says. “This isn’t the first time that I’ve seen a gunshot to the belly. I wish that I’ve never seen it in my life, but I have. Too many times. And all of the wounds I have seen went untreated—or at least, they went without proper treatment—like your mum’s wound. All of the people passed on from it. All of them.”
“So help her then,” I say. My voice cracks on the word help.
“More talented women than myself have tried to help her already. Those bandages she’s wearing? You saw them? These didn’t float down from heaven to land there, love. They were put on.”
“So put some more bandages on.”
Miss Christiana shrugs. “More bandages is not what your mum needs. That is what I’m telling you, Jasmine. And besides—we have no more bandages anyway.”
“What about medicine then?” I ask. “Give her more of those pills.”
Miss Christiana doesn’t answer. Instead, she reaches out for me again.
I push her hands away as hard as I can until she gives up and backs off.
“Jasmine. Listen to me,” she says. “That medicine I gave? The pills? They are for pain relieving only. That’s all. They were never going to heal your mum’s wound. She is damaged on her insides.”
“You could try.”
Miss Christiana shakes her head. “I have nothing to try with. We have only the minimum for survival here. Most items of real value are concentrated on the first floor,” she says.
The first floor.
Maybe I can get some more bandages from the boxes I found on the staircase to the first floor.
There might be medicine in one of those boxes too.
That will help Momma get better.
And when Momma gets better, then we can leave here and go home.
My mind made up, I step around Miss Christiana—she doesn’t make a move to stop me this time—and I walk back the way we came, looking for an exit into the main mall. My plan is to leave Macy’s, find the staircase with the “Go Back” tape blocking the bottom, get some bandages and medicine for Momma from the boxes on the landing, and bring them back to the fitting rooms.
“Jasmine,” Miss Christiana calls out.
I don’t respond to her. I don’t even turn around and look back.
As I search for a way out of Macy’s, I can feel people staring at me—actually stopping whatever they’re doing to stare—even more than they did when I was walking alongside Miss Christiana earlier. It’s weird that I can
feel people staring at me, but it’s true. It feels almost like I’m wearing a really heavy coat around my shoulders.
I pick up the pace, keeping my head down and making no eye contact.
Before long, I spot the sign for the Culinary Center—that’s where we entered the store, so I know that the doors are somewhere nearby.
I break into a run.
“Ey, pikin,” a man’s voice calls out from somewhere behind me. “Jasmine, girl. Hold up now.”
I freeze.
I turn around and look.
I see Mr. Emmanuel jogging toward me, his long dreadlocks banging against each other like black wind chimes.
Watching him approach, I realize something.
I don’t like Mr. Emmanuel.
I don’t like him because I’ve already seen him do three pretty bad things, and I’ve only known him for, like, a single day.
First, he broke down a chainlink fence. He didn’t do it alone, but he was the leader.
Next, he threw a rock at the police. I know that some police are really bad, but I don’t think hitting them with a rock is going to make them act any better.
Third, Mr. Emmanuel stole. He stole video games from the toy shop—I saw him do it—and he probably stole a bunch of other things that I didn’t see.
Breaking a fence, throwing a rock, and stealing video games aren’t the worst things I can think of doing, but they are definitely not good. And if Mr. Emmanuel is willing to do three not-good things like stealing and rock-throwing and vandalism, what else is he willing to do?
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