Monday's Not Coming

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  I had to see for myself.

  The weather had broken overnight, leaving it warmer than it had been in weeks. Just like DC, Ma would say. Winter one day, summer the next. Sweat dripped down into my eyes and my socks were soaked, but panic kept me moving.

  Police cars blocked the main entrance of Ed Borough. Struggling with every breath, I cut through the grass path around the back of the basketball courts to Monday’s side of the complex, hoping the traffic would clear. But the barriers thickened, as well as a crowd that created a semicircle, right outside her house.

  I dropped my bike by the curb, wobbling up the path to join the onlookers. Yellow police tape roped around the old trees, casting shadows over the parked police cars and ambulances. The rumbling crowd grew louder. Old ladies in their housedresses, sweats, and thin coats. Men with their oversized sweatshirts, jeans. Women holding their babies, trying to tame their wild toddlers.

  A policeman stumbled out of the house, his white face tinted green. He hacked and heaved, covering that same crack I tripped over with pink vomit. A hush came over the crowd. The police and medics moved at a snail’s place. No urgency—meaning whatever was done was done, there was no one left to save.

  A photographer appeared, taking pictures of the crowd. CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. News crews elbowed through as the neighbors started whispering. . . .

  “What happened in there?”

  “They saying they found some children dead inside.”

  “Dead?”

  “Get out!”

  The police tape that held us back flapped in the breeze with a smack. My heart cracked, my throat clenching so tight I could barely breathe.

  CLICK, CLICK, CLICK.

  “Hey, ain’t that Patti’s house?”

  “Oh my lord! She got four babies!”

  “I saw them take away April.”

  “Well, which one they find dead?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “They saying they found two kids in the freezer.”

  “THE FREEZER? What you say?”

  “Lawd! Who they find in the freezer?”

  My legs, my arms, my hands . . . everything went numb. The voices drowned out, mouths still moving but silent. I could hear nothing but my heart racing . . . and the buzz of the freezer.

  BUZZZZZ.

  The world spun, slow at first but then real fast. Like the way Monday and I would spin each other . . . ’round and ’round . . . fits of giggles . . . until we’d fall into the grass and look up at the sky.

  BUZZZZZ.

  I coughed up a breath, looking at the clouds. Only one hovered nearby, a small puff of gray, as if forgotten by a passing storm—left for dead. My eyes rolled back. Knees shaking, I staggered, bumping into something hard and solid.

  Daddy.

  He lifted me up, cupping a hand around my head. I clutched his neck, gripping his leafy green jacket, my whole body shaking.

  “Shhh . . . it’s okay, Sweet Pea. Daddy’s got ya. Just close your eyes. It’s alright.”

  He backed out of the crowd and carried me all the way home.

  The After

  “Oh, thank GOD!”

  As soon as we walked in, Ma gathered me into a tight hug, burying her nose in my hair. “Y’all had me so worried.”

  I wiggled free of her grasp as Michael closed the door behind us.

  “Ma, we don’t have time for this! We have to go to the police!”

  Ma frowned, rubbing my arms. “The police? Why?”

  “It’s my fault, Mrs. Coleman,” Michael mumbled, his head low. “I thought if she . . . saw him, it would help her remember.”

  Ma sighed. “It’s alright, Michael. I know you were just trying to help. Tip called here not too long ago.”

  “See!” I said to Michael. “I told you! Running like we were the police ’cause he knew he was up to no good. He called trying to stop us!”

  Michael sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Ma’s eyes toggled between us. “Sweet Pea . . .”

  “Ma, you have to listen to me. Monday . . . she’s not at her aunt’s house. She’s not at her mom’s or her dad’s. They found a girl’s body in the woods in Baltimore, near where her dad lives and . . . and I think it’s Monday. I know it sounds crazy but I talked to Nurse Orman. Monday never had the flu. CFSA took her . . .”

  Ma’s eyes filled with tears, her lip trembling. “Oh, Sweet Pea. I . . . I thought you were getting better.”

  “What? No, I am better! I’ve been going to Ms. Walker’s and TLC! That ain’t got nothing to do with this!”

  I looked to Michael for backup but he just stood there, staring at the floor.

  “The breadcrumbs!” I continued. “Monday took out books from the library about kids being abused. She was trying to tell the government what was going on, but the government doesn’t look at the books you take out after all! Her mom lied about that!”

  Ma nodded with a sniff. “Okay . . . how about you sit down and—”

  “Ma! You’re not listening! I’m trying to tell you Monday’s missing! Why won’t anyone listen? Why won’t anyone believe me?”

  Ma froze, glancing at Michael, tears now falling. “You’re right, Claudia,” Ma whispered. “You were right all along. We should have believed you the first time you brought it up.”

  First time, I thought. What is she talking about?

  “Honey, listen to me. Monday . . . Monday is gone. She’s been gone almost two years now.”

  “What do you mean?” I turned to Michael. “What’s she talking about?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’m sorry, Claudia.”

  “Sorry? For what!”

  “Claudia, Monday died two years ago,” Ma said gently, grabbing my wrist to keep me steady. “Her and August were . . . were . . .”

  The bursting of our bubble could be heard around the world.

  “No,” I gasped, trying to back away from her.

  “Yes, Sweet Pea!” she said, gripping me tighter. “And I’m so sorry! You keep having these . . . episodes, where you forget what happened.”

  Two years! Two years? But that would mean . . .

  “Wait, how . . . old am I?”

  Ma took a deep breath. “You’re sixteen.”

  “That’s impossible . . . I just turned fourteen,” I muttered. “You said I can have a party! I’m applying for schools!”

  “Yes. Yes, you’re applying for high school. Again. We took you out of school. Do you remember your last day? Do you remember what happened?”

  I tried to think back. Back to the before, but everything felt jumbled, just like how my words jumbled when I wrote. I looked to Michael for help, but he avoided my stare. Two years?

  Ma. Her hair wasn’t as golden. Had more grays than I’d ever seen. It was as if someone had swiped a gel filter in front of my face and the whole room rearranged.

  BUZZZZZ.

  “This isn’t happening,” I mumbled.

  Ma caressed my cheek. “Ms. Walker has been homeschooling you for the last year. We put you in dance class to try to ease you back into things. And Michael . . . he’s been by your side since the very beginning. But maybe we pushed you a little too hard. We’ll try again. ’Cause everyone, and I mean everyone, wants to see you get better.”

  I stared at Michael. He did seem older than I remembered. Taller, thinner, more mature. Have I really been so blind?

  “Ms. Valente,” I hiccupped. “She knows about Monday . . . she—”

  “She moved back to New York, not long after it happened.”

  The room spun both ways. “It? What . . . what happened to Monday?”

  Ma shook her head, wiping her face dry.

  “No!” I screamed, the rug pulled from under me. I fell to the floor, hugging my legs. They’re wrong! I know Monday better than I know myself: she loves crab chips and sweet tea, can do backflips, won the fifth-grade spelling bee . . . and she can’t be dead. She just can’t!

  Right?

  “Come on, baby. Let’s g
et you to bed. And in the morning, we’ll talk some more.”

  I nodded, too weak and confused to fight as one last thought hit me.

  “Does April know about . . . me?”

  “Yes, Sweet Pea. She knows.”

  May

  Can I tell you a secret? I knew she was dead. I just hoped she’d be in the trunk of a car, chopped up, and buried somewhere. Not in a freezer, hiding in plain sight. That aggravated the pain felt by anyone who ever laid eyes on her. Once red, she became a starless sky, an endless midnight, a hole in the universe swallowing up the world, leaving everyone blind. Onyx, ebony, jet black.

  A part of me was glad Monday wasn’t named Friday. It would’ve been too tragic.

  The Before

  I wish my mom could be like Claudia’s mom.

  Last night, Mom beat August until he couldn’t get up. Said he deserved it. I thought he just passed out, but when April tried to move him, he wouldn’t wake up. April tried to save him, but Mom stopped her. She made April put him in the freezer. I’m so scared. I want to tell someone. But what if they split us up like before? I may never see Claudia again.

  August is still in the freezer. I keep telling April we got to tell somebody. But she scared. She trying to find Auntie Doris first so we won’t get split up. Everybody talking about getting kicked out of Ed Borough at the rec center. So we either gonna get split up again if they find out about August or we gonna be living on the streets like some bums.

  I almost told Claudia what happened to August today. At school, everyone was making fun of me and my hair. I messed it up bad. It’s like five colors. Claudia said her mom can fix it, though. That’s when I almost told her. I’m scared what she might do. What if she tells her mom or a teacher? Then everyone is gonna know! What are they gonna think of us? I shouldn’t be writing all this. If Ma ever finds this book, she’ll kill me.

  At his televised press conference, Tip Charles coughed out excuses drenched with tears.

  “I didn’t know. I just didn’t know,” he cried. “I’d call and she wouldn’t let me talk to them. She wouldn’t let me near them. Not unless I gave her money.”

  He broke down, and his surrounding family members comforted him. Monday’s family. Where have they been all this time? Why weren’t they looking for her too?

  “Had to find out with the rest of the world that my children were gone, on the TV. It ain’t right. How could she do this to my babies?”

  Policed questioned April, little Tuesday, neighbors, and school officials. It didn’t take long to put the puzzle together:

  August had been in that freezer for a year and a half.

  Monday . . . at least ten months.

  Mrs. Charles wasn’t home when they finally came to evict her. She wasn’t there when the marshals peeked inside the awkwardly placed freezer sitting by the door and found two kids stuffed inside. She wasn’t there when they ripped Tuesday out of April’s arms as she pleaded. She wasn’t there when a neighbor tipped officers off on her whereabouts.

  Mrs. Charles was down the street, next to Darrell’s, calmly smoking a blunt, listening to the sirens come for her.

  A mountain of teddy bears grew outside Monday’s door, spilling into the street. Hundreds of candles, burning throughout the day in a valley of flowers and “Rest in Peace” posters. Reporters stood in front of the basketball courts, combing through the tangled details of the story, as kids played three-on-three.

  BUZZZZZ.

  Boy, I wish you could have been there to see the funeral.

  You would have seen the droves of people from the DMV line up outside Mt. Holy. The police department surrounded the block, walling us in, and news vans turning the side streets into parking lots.

  You would have seen a standing-room-only church with TV cameras in the balconies, hundreds of white carnations and lilies flooding the pulpit—the old ladies in their high black hats, the gospel choir in their holiday robes, the mayor in the front row.

  You would have seen the puddles—no, oceans—of what Ma called crocodile tears from fellow classmates. The same ones that had cackled at her blond hair, called her a ’ho, then a lesbian. Shayla and Ashley, consoling each other, faces wet with snotty tears. Jacob Miller sitting next to his brother with his head hung low.

  You would have seen the ushers in white gloves and charcoal dresses walking around with boxes of tissues, handing out church fans and programs with her middle name spelled wrong.

  You would have seen Daddy help carry in her coffin, along with some of her neighbors, dressed in dusty, mismatched suits and shoes that needed shining. Tip Charles was too distraught to carry nothing but himself to church, in a T-shirt with her face on the front—a picture from four years ago.

  Speaking of pictures, there weren’t many. Monday’s mom had none to share. Her dad had a few old blurry ones on his cheap flip phone. So Ma gave them all the pictures she had. Almost seven years of photos of us dancing, decorating Christmas trees, trick-or-treating . . . and they cut me out of every one. Like “we” never existed. In the program, I’m always a mysterious arm, linked with hers.

  Where was I during all this? The third row, in front of a pearl-pink coffin with my best friend inside. August next to her, in an identical pearl-blue coffin. There were even less pictures of him. The Redskins players offered to pay for the entire funeral. Someone must have told them that pink was her favorite color. That someone wasn’t me.

  Ma’s arm draped around my shoulder. She wore a black wrap dress, church heels, and a frown on her face. She scoped out the attendees, measuring them, searching for something to pinpoint a memory or recollection until it finally dawned on her. None of these people knew Monday. I questioned if I really knew her either.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Pastor Duncan said at the pulpit. “We are here to celebrate the life of Monday Cherry . . . I mean, Monday Cherie Charles and August Devante Charles. This home-going is particularly painful. Children should not lose their life so young . . . but we as a people must trust in the Lord. . . .”

  I stared at the back of April’s head in the front row, her hair in a high bun, Tuesday in her lap, with their aunt Doris waving a fan beside them. I wanted to see her face, her expression, to know what she was thinking, feeling. Did she even feel at all? I looked up into the packed balcony. With the church cameras and audio replaced by CNN, Michael stood on the sidelines with hands behind his back. We locked eyes and he nodded.

  Pastor read the welcome scripture and the choir sang a hymn. After the eulogy, Pastor invited the congregation to speak in remembrance. Shayla and Ashley, linked arm and arm, were first to the mic.

  “Monday was our friend at school,” Shayla whimpered, looking straight into the camera. “We’re gonna miss her so much. . . .”

  Ashley broke down, crying harder than everyone combined. They boo-hooed before being escorted offstage by one of the ushers.

  More people went up to talk. None I recognized.

  “Monday was an avid reader. She burned through our summer reading list. Always willing to help put books away after reading time . . .”

  “That little girl there was my heart, always willing to help an old lady out. . . .”

  “Monday and August took our swimming classes together during the summer. Nothing but smiles—you couldn’t help but smile when you were around them. . . .”

  Ms. Valente trembled as she took the podium, her face red, her eye makeup ruined. She gazed at the audience until she spotted me, giving me a half smile before she began.

  “Monday was smart, witty, funny, wise beyond her years, and ever curious about life. One of my very best English students and one of the most caring, protective friends you could ever have. I’d never met a girl so young who loved so fiercely. It was an honor to be her mentor.”

  Pastor finished his service, and the choir began another hymn. Jacob Miller stood, slowly walking over to put a single pink rose on her casket. Photos snapped like clockwork. Later on, his perfectly rehearsed teary-fa
ce photo would be used for the cover of Time magazine. The choir sang in joyful praise, but all I could hear was buzzing.

  BUZZZZZ.

  Ma, confused by the theatrics, squeezed my shoulder. “Do you want to say something?” she whispered.

  I shook my head no.

  When you first wake up from a nightmare, you search for something to ground you—something to anchor you to reality. So, each morning after they found Monday, I stared out the window at the library, waiting for it to morph into a cave full of flesh-eating rodents. Only when it remained a clear box would I pull back the covers, step out of bed, and start a new day, with each step heavier than the last.

  My toothbrush weighed a thousand pounds, my comb stung my scalp, and I found showers an unnecessary task. The smell of oatmeal made me want to vomit. Just the idea of school caused dread to swell up in my chest, and I’d sit on the bathroom floor until I had enough air to leave. I slept at all hours of the day. I’d wake up to watch the recurring news reports, showing the same picture of Monday that Tip Charles had on his T-shirt.

  My best friend, my other half, was dead.

  You were right, a voice inside me kept saying over and over again as I slumped down the stairs. But being right did not give me the satisfaction I had hoped for.

  One morning, I walked into the living room and clicked on the TV to the local news. Endless coverage on Monday’s death, interviews with specialists and witnesses.

  “Sweet Pea, I think you’ve been watching too much TV,” Ma said. “It’s not good for you.”

  I shrugged, changing the channel to CNN. They too were covering the story about the kids found inside a freezer.

  “How about some lunch?” Ma offered. “Maybe we could go to the movies later? Or maybe just take a walk. What d’you say?”

  I shook my head, pulling the red throw over every square inch of my body.

  “The body of Monday Charles is now being reexamined for possible sexual trauma after a witness came forward with allegations of abuse outside of her home. . . .”