the two levels

by Jonathan R. Miller

  If I give him the good news, he might think about happier things and forget that he’s mad at me. And once he’s happy again, I can ask him to use the medicine I found to help Momma, like he promised he would do.

  I decide to give Mr. Emmanuel the good news.

  “The rescuers are here,” I announce. I force myself to smile at him. “I saw them downstairs. They brought pizza.”

  Mr. Emmanuel stares at me with his mouth wide open.

  “You saw them come from outside?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer hopefully. “I mean, I didn’t see them come in through the door. But I talked to one of them. She was wearing a suit that covered her whole body, even her head!”

  I study Mr. Emmanuel’s face, waiting for him to smile. But he doesn’t.

  Maybe he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to tell him.

  “The woman said we can get out of here soon,” I add. “Probably only a day more, and then we can go home. She told me they would help everyone on the second floor, too.”

  Mr. Emmanuel doesn’t respond. He isn’t staring at me anymore; now he’s staring off into the air like he’s daydreaming about pizza. But for some reason, he has a gigantic frown on his face.

  I don’t get it.

  Shouldn’t he be happier right now?

  Without a word, Mr. Emmanuel turns and jogs away from me, heading toward a crowd of men gathered next to a display filled with pantyhose and ladies’ underwear. When Mr. Emmanuel gets closer to the men, he shouts something in a language I don’t recognize. Before long, the men scatter in every direction, their eyes wide and their mouths pinched closed. I watch as those men shout to more men, who also take off running, and soon there are scared-looking people everywhere I look, all of them busy getting ready for something—I have no idea what. I see men holding long kitchen knives or long black guns like the one Miss Christiana has. I see women pushing small kids into the middle of clothing racks, then arranging the clothes so that the kids become invisible. I don’t know what’s happening right now, but the sight of everyone rushing around—and seeing the looks on their faces as they do it—leaves me completely terrified.

  I look around for Mr. Emmanuel.

  I can’t see him anywhere.

  I lost Mr. Emmanuel.

  He took the backpack with Momma’s medical supplies in it, and now I’ve lost him.

  • • •

  I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.

  It’s gentle, like Momma’s hand always is.

  I open my eyes and look up, hoping to see my momma standing next to me.

  But it isn’t Momma.

  It’s Miss Christiana.

  “Stand up, love,” she says, rubbing my arm. “Things won’t get any better by staying on the ground. Come.”

  I look down at myself, and then I look around. I realize that I’m sitting on the floor of the men’s shoe section.

  I don’t even remember how I got down here.

  Miss Christiana snaps her fingers right in front of my face. “Stand up, love,” she repeats. Her voice sounds tougher this time. “Be strong.”

  I do the first part of what Miss Christiana tells me to do. I get on my feet.

  But I don’t know if I can do the second part.

  All around me, people seem to be waiting for something big to happen. Something big and bad. Everyone looks nervous, and no one is moving around very much at all. It’s like a movie where a pack of wolves is about to leave the forest and invade a village, and all the villagers are ready to either fight, run away, or hide.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  Miss Christiana glances in the direction of a group of men holding kitchen knives and meat cleavers.

  “Don’t think about them right now,” she answers. “They’re worried about the people from the outside coming here to take them away. Or worse than that.”

  “What people?”

  “The people you told Emmanuel about,” Miss Christiana says. “The people that come here in uniforms and suits and masks.”

  “But why?” I ask.

  “But why what?”

  “Why be scared of them? They’re coming up here to help us,” I respond. “Aren’t they?”

  Miss Christiana doesn’t answer.

  I wait for her as long as I can.

  “They’re coming here to help us. Right?”

  “I told you, love. You shouldn’t be thinking about them right now.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because you need to be thinking about your mum,” she answers. “That’s all. Just her.”

  When I look up at Miss Christiana’s face, I see that she looks sad, which scares me half to death. I don’t know what she means, and I don’t want to know what she means. But I feel like I have to find out whether I want to or not.

  Miss Christiana puts an arm around me. “It’s time. Come.”

  I want to push her arm away but I don’t.

  “Time for what?” I ask.

  “For you to say goodbye,” she answers.

  • • •

  I cry for what feels like hours while Miss Christiana holds me tight.

  Eventually she lets go, telling me again that it’s time, and then she takes my hand and leads me to the boys’ fitting rooms.

  We’re there in seconds. It turns out that Momma was really close to me the whole time I was looking for her—I just didn’t know it because I was lost.

  When we get to the hallway that leads to the fitting rooms, I don’t want to go any further. I can’t. Instead, I flump down on a curved, padded bench and stare at the blank screen of a TV attached to the opposite wall.

  Miss Christiana kneels down in front of me so that we’re face to face. I’m reminded again how pretty she is—I still think she looks a lot like Momma, just a little bit younger.

  “Jasmine,” she says quietly. “You have to go in now. It’s time, love.”

  “But I don’t get why I have to say anything.”

  “Because your mum is in a bad way,” Miss Christiana says. “And you had your chance to honor her before, but instead you behaved badly. You won’t have another chance. This is the last.”

  “But why can’t we just get Mr. Emmanuel to help her?” I ask.

  Miss Christiana stares at me. She looks like I just asked her why we can’t go to Mars for suppertime.

  “What could my brother possibly do for her?” Miss Christiana asks, shaking her head. “Or for anyone, for that matter. He can barely do for himself.”

  “He’s a doctor. He said he could help my mom.”

  Miss Christiana snorts.

  “A doctor?” she says. “He really told you that? I’m sorry, love, but my brother is as much a doctor as I am a bloody senator.” She rolls her eyes. “If he told you that, he must’ve been trying to get something from you—yes? He promised you a quick fix for your mum in exchange for what, exactly?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  Miss Christiana is exactly right.

  Mr. Emmanuel did ask for something in exchange for helping my momma.

  “He wanted watches and phones and things like that,” I mumble. “I got them from downstairs. He told me that everything was for his mom, though. For your mom.”

  “My mum? Well. I suppose it’s possible Emman is dreaming of giving money to the old gal for her retirement, but I seriously doubt that’s the case.”

  “So all of the things I got were just for him?”

  Miss Christiana shrugs. “Look. Emman is not the worst of all men, believe me, but he is an opportunist,” she says. “Do you know what I mean by that?”

  “By what?”

  “Opportunist,” she says. “When I tell you that my brother is an opportunist, do you know what I mean?”

  I shrug. “That he’s a huge jerk?”

  Miss Christiana smiles.

  “Very close,” she says. “It’s more that Emman will do for Emman first. Always. And if he sees a chance to grab something go
od for Emman, he will take that chance every single time.”

  “So he lied to me?” I ask.

  I’m afraid to hear the answer to that question.

  Because if Mr. Emmanuel really did lie, it means that I have no idea how to help my momma anymore.

  Miss Christiana shrugs again. “Emman didn’t tell you the entire truth. That’s for sure,” she says. “The truth is that Emman can’t do anything for your mum, not only because he is not a proper doctor, but also because your mum is beyond the help of anyone save the Almighty, love. She is lost to us here on Earth. I’m sorry.”

  “So what do I do?” I ask.

  “I told you. You march down this corridor and you tell your mum goodbye using a strong voice,” Miss Christiana answers. “No crying. You do that to give her comfort, so that she knows you will get on, even without her. She won’t be able to answer the things you say, but believe me when I tell you that it still matters. It matters that you speak over her body, even now.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  Miss Christiana is completely wrong.

  I really can’t.

  Miss Christiana rests a hand on my knee.

  “If the word goodbye feels too big, then imagine that your mum is falling into a long sleep,” Miss Christiana says. “And so you simply lie over her body and tell her a different word instead: goodnight.”

  “Goodnight?”

  “Goodnight,” she says. “As though she is falling asleep. What else is death but the longest sleep, after all?”

  “I don’t want to say that.”

  “Well, whoopee, child. No one wants ninety percent of what they see in front of them, but that doesn’t make these things any less theirs,” she says. “This is yours. Your mum’s passing is yours. So it really doesn’t matter anymore what you want or don’t want, love.”

  • • •

  Miss Christiana and I talk for a lot longer.

  Finally I give up.

  Miss Christiana waits on the curved bench while I enter the fitting area alone.

  I walk past the row of open doors until I reach the last fitting room, the one that has a small blue sign with a white wheelchair symbol on the outside.

  I find Momma where I found her the last time I was here: lying flat on a padded bench. She’s wearing underwear and a tanktop, like before, but her eyes are closed this time. She isn’t moving at all.

  I rush over to her side.

  I lie across her chest and wrap my arms around her, resting my head.

  I can barely hear her heart beating. It’s like I’m getting my hearing tested at the ear doctor, but this isn’t fun at all.

  “Momma?” I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I climb all the way onto the bench and nestle in next to her, getting as close as I can, squeezing myself in between her body and the wall.

  I shut my eyes tight.

  I need to be distracted, so I think about a better time in my life, a time when Momma, Daddy, and I went to the ice-skating rink next to the stadium where the San Jose Giants play baseball. A mural is painted on the outside of the brown building with the hugest letters I’ve ever seen in my life: I-C-E. That’s what it says—the word ICE! The letters are light blue with snowcaps on top of each one. You can’t miss the word when you’re driving by. It’s totally obvious.

  We went to the ice-skating rink a few months ago so I could try skating for the first time. The loudspeaker was playing a song called The Chicken Dance! It was pretty funny. People were making chicken beaks by pinching their thumbs and fingers together! Bock-bock-bock-bock!

  Anyway, there were a ton of people skating that day. Mostly kids, but also mommas and daddies and regular people too. Some of the skaters were really good, but for beginners like me, they had a whole bunch of red, green, and yellow buckets that you could turn upside-down and stack on top of each other to make a tower. When I’d built a tower of buckets big enough (up to my chest), I put my bucket-tower on the ice in front of me and pushed it around the rink while I skated behind it. It worked perfectly! If I ever felt like I was about to fall, I always had something right in front of me to lean on.

  • • •

  My eyes open.

  I blink a few times.

  I think I must’ve fallen asleep somehow.

  My head feels heavy, like it does on some mornings when I wake up early in my bed at home.

  In front of me, I see the skin of my momma’s shoulder up close. It’s only about two inches away.

  Smooth, clear, and light brown. No marks on it anywhere.

  She reminds me of the brown plastic Nikki doll I have in my room—Nikki’s skin always looks perfect, no matter what.

  I reach out and touch Momma’s arm to let her know that I’m awake.

  She feels weird.

  It’s like she’s made out of wood, instead of being made of normal Momma stuff.

  I grab her arm and try to shake it, but it won’t go where I want it to go.

  “Momma?”

  She doesn’t answer me.

  I sit up, throw my leg over Momma’s hips and crawl on top of her, putting my hands on both of her collarbones. I shake her body back and forth, like I do when I try to get her out of bed on Saturday mornings. Her mouth is open a little bit—her lips look almost purple.

  “Momma?”

  I grab her by the chin and squeeze her cheeks with my fingers. When nothing happens, I do it again, digging in with my nails.

  “Momma?”

  • • •

  I leave the fitting room and run down the hallway past the row of open doors, screaming for Miss Christiana.

  I pass by the curved bench with the TV on the opposite wall, but Miss Christiana isn’t there. I don’t stop. I keep running into the main part of the store, passing racks filled with boys’ clothing, passing by the men’s shoe section, passing by the display of ladies’ underwear. I see people everywhere—it seems like they’ve all gone back to their normal routines instead of waiting for something to happen—but none of them make a move to help me. They pause what they’re doing for a moment to stare at me like I’m an animal that escaped from the zoo.

  Maybe they’re not helping me because I’m calling for Miss Christiana.

  If they don’t hear their own name being called, maybe they think I don’t want their help.

  I stop saying Miss Christiana’s name. I start calling out to anyone—to everyone—for help.

  I yell at every grownup I see, begging them to come with me to help my momma wake up.

  But no one listens. No one volunteers to help me.

  I keep on running and screaming until I reach the Culinary Center, where I finally collapse behind a kitchen counter with my face in my hands.

  I start bawling.

  I have no idea what to do.

  “Jasmine,” a voice says, startling me.

  I know who the voice belongs to without even looking. It’s Miss Christiana.

  When I uncover my face, I see her crouched down in front of me, like she just appeared there magically.

  She sits all the way down on the tile, reaches out, and gathers me in her arms. I curl up onto her lap and she rocks back and forth.

  I cry for what feels like years.

  “Has your mum gone to sleep?” Miss Christiana asks quietly.

  I can’t use my words. I’m still crying too much.

  I nod my head.

  Miss Christiana nods her head, too.

  “Did you tell her everything you needed to before she was gone?” she asks.

  I think about the question for a while.

  Did I?

  Chapter Seven

  I spend hours lying next to Momma’s body on the red padded bench.

  I don’t think I’m ever going to leave the fitting room again.

  As I lie there, I think about everything and everyone I’ve ever known that has died during my life, and I try to remember if any of them has ever come back to lif
e afterward.

  I remember when Roof the Woof died.

  One morning I woke up and found him lying on the couch with his eyes closed and his muzzle nestled in between his two front paws, which were crossed. He looked like he was only asleep, but he wasn’t—he had died sometime during the night. When I touched him, he was stiff, like my momma is right now.

  But did Roof the Woof ever come back to life?

  No. I don’t think he could have. My dad told me that Roof the Woof got cremated, which means all burnt up into dust. And I’m pretty sure that a pile of dust can’t come back from the dead.

  I remember Great Granddad also died.

  I even saw him wearing a brown suit and tie inside his coffin.

  Did he ever come back to life?

  I’m not really sure. But I don’t think so.