My Heart and Other Black Holes

by Jasmine Warga

Two minutes before my shift ends, I open up the internet browser. I haven’t goofed around all day, so I feel like I’ve totally earned this free time. I search the web for McGreavy Correctional Facility’s phone number. It takes me a minute, but eventually I find the number I’m looking for. I scribble it down on the legal notepad next to my desk and then rip the paper off the pad and fold it up and slide it into my pocket.

  I get up out of my seat and fling my backpack over my shoulders. On my way out, I wave to Mr. Palmer. He looks like he might have a heart attack.

  “Bye, Aysel,” he says weakly.

  Like Laura pointed out, I know I seem to be in a better mood, but I’m not sure if I’m really in a better mood or if it’s a trick my mind is playing on me. Like I know it’s all going to be over soon so there’s no need to be anxious about things anymore. I have everything planned out. I know exactly how I want to spend my last days, and that sense of purpose is comforting.

  I used to feel so devastated thinking about the length of days, about how time seems to stretch on forever, unforgiving and unchanging. And like John Berryman said, so boring. I wonder if this is how marathon runners feel once they reach the last mile; they know they can make it through the final stretch, so there’s no use in getting fatigued at this point.

  I toss my backpack into the passenger seat and then climb into the front seat. I unzip the front pocket of my backpack and grab my cell phone. I pull the folded notepad sheet out of my pocket. I take a deep breath and then dial the number.

  I call unknown numbers all the time at work so this shouldn’t make me nervous, but I feel my heart racing and so I turn on the classical radio station ever so slightly. Bach’s Mass in B Minor pours out of the speakers, and as I listen to the music, it feels like someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I adjust the volume so it’s not too loud in case someone at McGreavy Correctional Facility eventually decides to answer the phone.

  Kicking my legs up on the dashboard, I fold the driver’s seat back so I can lie flat. I’m humming along with the music, tapping my fingers against the torn fabric seat, when I’m startled by a voice on the other end.

  “This is Tom. How can I help you?”

  I lurch forward in my seat. “Is this McGreavy Correctional Facility?”

  “Yes,” he says with an aggravated sigh.

  “I’m calling because I’m looking for information on how I can visit my father.”

  “Huh?”

  “My father. He’s an . . .” I search for the word. “Inmate there.”

  “Ah,” Tom says. I guess Tom is a man of one-syllable answers. “Lemme transfer you over to Visiting.”

  Before I can say anything, the phone line goes blank and the cheesy elevator holding music comes back on. I turn the volume up on my car radio.

  After not too long, a new voice greets me. “This is Bob.” McGreavy Correctional Facility employees aren’t only into one-syllable answers, they’re also into one-syllable names.

  “Hi, Bob,” I say, trying to seem friendly so he’ll help me. “I was calling to get some information on how I can visit my dad.”

  “Your dad’s locked up here?”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound like it’s no big deal, like I’m down with the prison system or something.

  “And you’re on the list?”

  “What?”

  “His visiting list. If you’re his daughter, you should be on the list.”

  I gulp. “I don’t know if I’m on the list.” Mom’s never let me visit Dad. Not even once.

  “Well, if you aren’t on the list, there’s nothing I can do to help you. But my guess would be that you’re on it. When people get locked up, they tend to put their immediate family on the list as a default. In case any of them ever want to visit.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “So I just show up?”

  He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Yeah. You just show up during visiting hours. It’s a first-come, first-serve basis. If all the visiting booths are filled when you get here, you’ll have to get on the waiting list. And I can’t make any guarantees about the waiting list.”

  So many lists. “When are visiting hours?”

  “Girl,” Bob says, and I can practically hear him shaking his head. “All this info is on our web page. But because I like you, I’ll tell you.”

  Looks like the friendliness paid off. “Thank you so much, Bob.”

  “So Tuesday through Saturday we have visiting hours. We have a morning session that runs ten a.m. to twelve p.m. And an afternoon session that runs one p.m. to four p.m. And want a tip?”

  “I’d love one, Bob.”

  “Try to get here as early as you can. You’ll have better luck that way. System can get jammed toward the end of the day.”

  “I really appreciate it. I’ll see you Saturday.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Bob hangs up first.

  I adjust my car seat so I can sit straight up, but I don’t drive away from TMC. My head feels crowded and overwhelmed with competing thoughts. I cradle it in my hands and take deep breaths. After a few minutes, I pick up my phone again and call FrozenRobot. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help myself. I want to share my thoughts with someone, and he’s the only person I could possibly talk to. I guess this is another reason why people have Suicide Partners. They come in handy.

  “Hey,” Roman says.

  “Hey, what are you up to?”

  No answer.

  “Just hanging out in your room?” I prompt.

  “What else would I be doing?”

  “I don’t know. Playing basketball.”

  I imagine him glaring at me. Him, flopped on his back on the cotton comforter, his golden-green eyes narrowed, a pencil in his hand, balancing a sketch pad against his knees. I picture Captain Nemo telling him to chill out and that only making him angrier. I guess I laugh because Roman says, “Please cut it out.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop. I promise,” I say quickly.

  “You keep saying that and you don’t stop. It’s starting to get really annoying.”

  I dig my fingernails into the car’s seat. I don’t want to be annoying to FrozenRobot. I know I shouldn’t care what I am to him. But a small part of me kind of does.

  “Sorry,” Roman says in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it’s okay. I deserved it.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  I pause for a moment. The line is silent and all I can hear is his shallow breath. I want to ask if he’s drawing, but I don’t. “Can I come pick you up?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  I inhale sharply and try to come up with an excuse to see him. My mind swirls and I remember all my phone calls from today. “I was thinking we could go to the Langston Spring Carnival.”

  “Have you gone completely insane?”

  “Is that a yes?” I tease, and then quickly correct my tone. “I mean, you are the one who said that it was going to be easier for you to sneak away on the seventh if your mom really believed we were close friends.”

  “True, but I still don’t get why you want to go to the carnival.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I say, and hang up.

  And he’s right. By all standards, by my own standards, I should want to avoid the carnival. But the closer we get to April 7, the more reckless I feel.

  The truth is, the Spring Carnival is one of the last places I can remember being truly happy. I don’t know how old I was when I first realized that the black slug inside of me would inevitably eat any and every positive thought of mine. But I do know that the last time I was at the carnival, my little hand interlocked with my dad’s, my happiness didn’t disappear.

  It stayed.

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 27

  11 days left

  I text him when I’m in front of his house and within seconds FrozenRobot is walking toward my car. The hood of his blue sweatshirt is pulled over his ears and he’s hunched over, li
ke he’s trying to hide from some invisible enemy.

  Once he’s inside the car and I’ve turned to pull away from his street, he says, “So why are we are going to the carnival?”

  “I thought I was doing you a favor. Your mom will be really excited that you’re out doing normal social things.”

  He bangs his head back against the headrest. “Yeah, you said that on the phone. I’m asking why you want to go to the carnival.”

  I glance over at him. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are downcast. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for any nonsense. No need to be so angry, FrozenRobot. “Okay, fine. I’ll level with you. I called McGreavy Correctional Facility.” I pause. “That’s where my dad is, by the way. He’s locked away there. And anyway, I wanted to tell you what I found out about the possibility of visiting him.”

  He lifts his chin and stares straight ahead out the windshield. He doesn’t seem to have any reaction to my confession that my dad is locked away in prison. It’s like I just told him my dad flips pancakes at the local diner or something. “Did you hear me? My dad’s an inmate at McGreavy Correctional Facility.”

  Roman doesn’t look over at me. He keeps staring out the windshield. “Couldn’t you have just told me that on the phone?”

  I shrug even though I know he’s not watching me. It’s funny the things we do even though no one is watching. “Well, yeah. But I thought it might be fun to go to the carnival and then I could tell you in person.”

  “Fun?” He spits the word out in the same way he spit “friends” out on the first day I met him. He finally turns to look at me. “Who are you?”

  I press my foot against the gas pedal and stare straight ahead, doing my best not to show how hurt I am by his tone. I don’t answer his question because I’m not sure I even know the answer anymore. We drive the rest of the way in silence.

  Once we get to the carnival, I park my car in the muddy lot across from Langston Middle School. We walk side by side to the entrance and I buy tickets for the both of us. It’s the least I can do considering I made him come with me and he paid for me at the zoo.

  On the gates leading into the main ground, someone’s hung five large banners, all of which feature Brian Jackson. I sneak a glance at Roman and see him studying the photographs. The inside of my mouth is dry, but I force myself to speak. “When’s the last time you two talked?”

  He shrugs. “A while ago. I don’t really know the guy anymore.” I may be paranoid, actually I know I’m paranoid, but it sounds like there’s something lurking just beneath the surface of Roman’s voice. Like he knows something that he doesn’t want me to know he knows.

  “Were you really as fast as him?” I think back to the first time I met Roman, when his friends Lance and Travis boasted about his athletic skills.

  Roman lets out a cold laugh. “No. Bri was always way faster.” He turns from the banner to me, a sly grin on his face. “But I could dribble circles around him.”

  A shallow wave of relief washes over me. Maybe what I sensed in Roman’s voice wasn’t judgment about my dad. Maybe he still really doesn’t know. Maybe it was just jealousy, a reminder of how much his life has changed since Maddie died. I’m about to ask more questions, but Roman nods his head in the direction of the carnival. “So are we going to go in or what?”

  I hand him his ticket. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  The carnival is already crowded. Younger kids dart by us, chasing after one another, their hands sticky with cotton candy and their lips dyed blue from drinking one too many slushies. My heart drops into my stomach. I miss being that age. Before I completely realized that there was something seriously wrong with my dad, that there was something seriously wrong with me.

  Roman places his hand on the small of my back. I can’t quite figure FrozenRobot out. For someone who can be so cold, he’s awfully handsy. “You okay?”

  “Just memories,” I say. The ground is soft beneath my feet and my sneakers sink into the mud. The whole place smells like popcorn and fried food and dirt.

  He nods and takes his hand off my back. “Maddie loved this carnival.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I make a lame suggestion. “Want to ride the Ferris wheel?”

  He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

  We wait in line. I see a few other kids from my class. I wonder if they’re here to watch my sister’s performance. I should probably go to that. Even though my presence would likely hurt more than it would help. It always does.

  I see Stacy Jenkins lean into Nate Connors and whisper to him. I imagine she’s saying something about me. I bite down on the side of my cheek and do my best to ignore them.

  Roman glances at me and seems to sense me tensing up. “What’s wrong? Do you have a problem with—”

  I cut him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He turns around and gives Stacy and Nate a dirty look. If they weren’t already whispering about me, this really makes them take notice. I hate the feeling of their eyes on the back of my neck like I’m a target they can’t wait to hit. I wrap my arms around myself and try to tune it all out. I hum Mozart’s requiem, slowly rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. I don’t want Roman to engage my classmates in a conversation about me. If they start talking, he’ll definitely figure out who my dad is. I can’t think of a worse way for him to find out.

  We reach the front of the line and a man who maybe has half his teeth left motions for us to get into the next car. We hop in and slowly start to leave the ground.

  “You really think visiting your dad is going to help you?” Roman asks. He’s looking at me instead of at the ground below, missing the entire point of riding the Ferris wheel.

  “I don’t know if it’ll help. But I need to know some things.”

  I gaze out at the concession stands and game booths that are becoming tinier and tinier. I wonder if dying is like that. Everything in your mind becomes tinier and tinier until it all disappears.

  “What things?” Roman presses. “You said that seeing him again won’t change your mind about . . . you know.” His hands jump on his lap. I think about telling him that he should be comfortable enough with the topic of death now to just say it, but I let it go. The last thing I need is to pick another fight with him.

  “Look,” I say, my voice rising in volume. “My dad was an awful guy, right? He did an unimaginable, horrific thing. I just want to know why he did it.”

  “But why? If it doesn’t matter anyway, why do you need to know?” His voice is soft and calm. No pressure. No judgment.

  I’m overwhelmed with the urge to hug FrozenRobot. I love that his question isn’t what my dad did. He isn’t interested in the gory details. I stare at his broad shoulders and imagine my face pressed up against his chest. I can’t let myself think like that, so I shift my eyes to the ground, zeroing in on the soft-pretzel stand. My dad loved soft pretzels. He used to joke that they were one of the best things about life in America. He’d buy a cinnamon-sugar one for me and a cheddar-cheese-and-onion one for him. We’d stroll around the festival, pretzels in hand, pointing at the different rides and debating which ones we should check out. And in those rare moments, I felt at home.

  “Hey, wake up.” Roman taps my shoulder and waves his hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry. I guess I spaced out. I like looking at the ground below. I like watching everything get smaller.”

  “Right, but you still haven’t answered my question. I want to understand, Aysel. I really do. But I don’t. If you’re going to jump with me on April seventh, why does it matter why your dad did what he did?”

  I bite my thumbnail and force myself to think about the weeks leading up to my father’s crime. He’d been on edge, even more than usual. He was convinced he was losing money because kids were shoplifting, pocketing candy bars and magazines when he wasn’t looking. I remember one day I bounded into the store after school and found him sitting behind the counter, maniacally leafing through papers. He looked up at me with
bloodshot eyes. “I try and I try, Zellie. But I just don’t know if it’s going to be enough.” Part of me wanted to run far away from those eyes, but I swallowed my fear and joined him behind the counter. I put my arms around him and pressed my nose into the fabric of his shirt, which always smelled like garlic. After a few moments, he started to hum a piece from Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 1.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Sometimes I can still hear my dad’s low voice in my ear. “I don’t know, Roman.” I sigh and open my eyes. “But he raised me, you know? I just need some closure.”

  Our car comes to a stop at the bottom and we jump out of it. Roman drapes his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close to him. “As long as you aren’t flaking out.”

  “I told you, I’m not a flake.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  My heart jumps a little when he says that and I remind myself to get a grip. Anyway, Roman’s wrong: I’m not flaking out or looking for reasons to live. I’m looking to validate my reasons for dying. But when I glance up at his face and see the dark shadows under his eyes, I’m not sure if it’s him or me I’m trying to convince of that. I’m not a flake, I repeat mentally to myself. I’m not a flake. This is what I want.

  “What’s going on with you?” Roman frowns.

  “Nothing,” I say, and I wish that were the case. “So can you go with me this Saturday?”

  “To visit your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, I guess,” he says. “I’ll have to come up with something to tell my mom so I can get away.”

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. Probably pretty early. Does that work?”

  He shrugs. “Just text me.”

  “Okay.”

  We stand in silence for a few awkward moments. “Well, you dragged me here. We might as well try to have some fun.” He says the word “fun” like it’s a foreign word, a joke.

  He steers me toward the mini basketball game stand. He hands the worker some rumpled bills and she gives him a basketball. I don’t recognize the woman, but she’s probably one of my classmates’ moms. She gives me a look like she knows who I am and who my dad is, but she doesn’t say anything.