When You Look Like Us

by Pamela N. Harris

  “Your grandmother’s Ms. Marie Murphy, right?” Rick Ross asks me as he sits across from me.

  My leg freezes. How in the hell does he know MiMi? “Yes, sir.”

  He nods, and his fingers disappear into his beard as he scratches it. “We go to Providence Baptist together. Your grandma’s good people. Helps with the bookkeeping there, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I repeat. Try to picture his face in one of the pews, but the clock on my phone usually keeps me busy during service.

  “Let me formally introduce myself.” He extends his hand. “Miles.”

  I scope out his badge. Hunter. Miles Hunter. Name like that, he had no choice but to be a cop. “Jay.” I shake his hand.

  “All right, Jay.” He takes a long sip of his coffee. “How can I help you?”

  I had to find the one cop in the precinct that knows MiMi. But maybe it’s better this way. Nic’s been gone longer than normal. MiMi’s bound to have questions, and maybe Officer Hunter can help give her answers.

  “I want to file a missing person report.”

  Hunter blinks a few times, stunned. “Who’s missing?”

  The knee starts again. “My sister, Nic. Nicole Marie Murphy.”

  Hunter taps a finger on top of the table, creating his own spastic beat. I try to follow his melody, but he’s all over the place. “How long has she been missing?”

  “Since Friday.”

  “Friday? Your grandma didn’t mention any of this when I saw her at church yesterday.”

  I take in a deep breath. “She don’t know yet. Nic does this thing where she fades, just to get some space from MiMi. Figured I’d give her the weekend to breathe. But this is the longest she’s gone without chopping it up with me.” I pause as Hunter rubs his thumb across the lip of his cup. “Where’s your notepad? Aren’t you supposed to be writing all of this down?”

  Hunter pushes away his cup and folds his hands together. “Your grandmother’s good people, so I need to give it to you straight, Jay. I . . .” He breathes deeply through his nose. His face scrunches up like he’s solving a complicated math problem in his head. “The streets talk. I know that Nicole is Javon Hockaday’s main girl, and Javon doesn’t necessarily keep the cleanest nose.”

  I wait for more, but Hunter continues to stare at me, as if the silence says everything. “And?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, when you roll with trouble, trouble rolls with you.”

  “But Nic’s not trouble,” I bark.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. What I’m trying to say is . . .” Hunter pauses and takes a breath, like he’s about to speak to a kid who just lost his puppy. “I just really wish she hadn’t gotten mixed up with Javon. I know the guys here. They take their merry time to help out people they assume intentionally got caught in the fray. Especially when there’s already so much going on. Jay, we got over twenty missing black girls in our county alone. Three homicides over the weekend that this precinct is currently investigating—one right in your neighborhood. The Ducts, right? I can add your sister’s name to a list, but it might take me a while to get a strong team going. Hopefully, she’s lying low. Has she done that before? When anything in the neighborhood got a little dicey?”

  Dicey? Hunter’s acting like Nic’s hiding out from a playground bully when she could be somewhere hurt, trying to get home. Or maybe too scared to come home. I leap from my seat, almost knock the card table on Hunter’s lap. “If she was blonde with blue eyes, it’d be another story, right?”

  Hunter sighs. “Are you even listening to me? I want to help, and I will. But I may not have the manpower right now to snap my fingers and make her appear.”

  “Yeah, or maybe you just don’t even feel like trying.” I always assumed that there were some dirty cops doing Javon’s bidding, and Slick Ross here’s proving me right. I shake my head. “Thought you’d be different, bruh,” I say. If I had the balls, I’d spit at his feet. But I’m pissed, not stupid—he’s the one with the gun.

  Hunter flinches. “If I didn’t care, I’d be spitting lies at you—brother.”

  I swat my hand at Hunter, make my way to the door to escape his stale snacks and even staler concern.

  “Let me do what I can, Jay—but talk to your grandma. She needs to know,” Hunter says to my back.

  I snatch open the door without another word. I’ve done enough talking.

  Seven

  NOTE TO SELF: NEVER LISTEN TO A GIRL WHO WEARS UGLY Christmas sweaters unironically. Riley’s suggestion to speak to the cops did nothing but send me crashing into another wall. That Rick Ross wannabe dismissed me like I stood in his way of watching Monday Night Football. Yeah, he went to my church—he even had the same extra dose of melanin as me. But it didn’t matter. Homeboy still bled blue. He proved his allegiance when he tried to pin Nic’s disappearance on Nic herself.

  I hitched my way back home from the precinct, ready to crack skulls and get answers the way that someone from Javon’s crew would. But thug fits me as well as a Halloween costume from five years ago. No matter how much I want to storm up to Slim and Quan and give them the business until they spill everything they know about Nic and Javon, I still scurry past their stoop and retreat to my bedroom. I need to prove Hunter wrong. Not everyone from the Ducts is on a fast track to a rap sheet. If I want to find Nic, I have to use my wits and not my emotions. I plop on my bed. Stare at the ceiling like a game plan can be found up there. The more I try to think of something, the more Hunter’s words seem to dance around my light fixture: Talk to your grandma.

  Damn. Maybe he’s right. There’s only so many stories I can spin about Nic’s whereabouts. Besides, MiMi might think of something that I didn’t. Or couldn’t. Even after years of leading Nic’s damage control committee, there’s still a part of me that’s hoping for the Pre-Javon Nic. The one who tried to shield me from Mom’s downward spiral so I wouldn’t love her any less. But MiMi saw through Mom’s shiz, just like she sees through Nic’s. MiMi would be able to take her mind to the darkest corners to find where Nic might be hiding.

  I don’t get a chance to rehearse my talk. On cue, the front door opens, signaling MiMi’s return home. She doesn’t crack a smile when I walk to the living room, wave hi. Not even a fake one. She takes a seat on the couch, begins unlacing her heavy work shoes.

  Okay then. “You look tired. Want something to drink?” I offer.

  “I want you to have a seat with me.”

  My stomach climbs to the back of my throat. The last two times MiMi asked me to sit with her like that, she was telling me Dad died and that Mom was locked up. “I’m good,” I say. “I have homework, so—”

  “I’m not asking, Jay.”

  I sit in the loveseat across from her. Maybe if I’m far enough, whatever she needs to tell me won’t stick.

  MiMi places her elbows on her knees and leans forward, just like Mrs. Pratt when she’s ready to get all up in your bidness. “Where’s your sister?”

  It doesn’t matter how far away I am—MiMi’s question knocks me right in the ribs. I open my mouth to spit another story about Nic and Sterling, but the lie sits heavy in my chest. So much so, I brush a hand across it to make sure my heart’s still beating. Talk to your grandma.

  “Before you spin whatever you’re about to spin,” MiMi begins, “know that the school called to inform me that Nicole hasn’t taken a step inside that building since last Wednesday.”

  I look down at my shoes. The top of my sneakers got scuffed sometime during the storm of this weekend. The storm I had to weather alone. Old Jay would make some smart-ass comment about Nic being blissed out of her mind. But New Jay’s realizing that whatever’s happening with Nic might be out of her control. That maybe Nic isn’t coming home any time soon. That maybe he needs to lean on MiMi to let that sink in.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble.

  “What?” MiMi asks. “Open your mouth and look up when you speak to me.” She claps her hands together and my head snaps up. I stare her in the
eyes even though my eyes sting.

  “I don’t know,” I repeat.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  I try to shrug but my shoulders are too heavy. “I’ve been calling her. Texting her. She won’t pick up. Her phone’s not even on anymore. I spoke with Sterling and she ain’t seen her, either.” The words tumble out of my mouth. I wait for my chest to feel weightless, but the heftiness of dread still hasn’t left it yet. “I went to the cops and everything. Spoke with Officer Hunter from church. He ain’t trying to help, though.”

  “Wait a minute.” MiMi gets to her feet. No groaning like usual—she’s on them in half a second. “You went to the cops? Jayson, how long has she been gone?”

  My eyes are back on my shoes. “Last time I heard from her was Thursday night.”

  “Lord have mercy, Thursday night?” MiMi cups her hands over her mouth and says a prayer in between her fingers. When she looks back at me, she has enough tears to turn her golden eyes murky. Just like that, I’m ruined. “I have to find her.” She starts patting her pants, the pocket in front of her shirt. “Keys. What I do with my keys?”

  “I’ve tried to find her, MiMi,” I say—and then instantly want to punch myself in the face. I didn’t try hard enough. Hell, I hung up on her. Then ignored her call like she was some bill collector. I’m her brother. Doesn’t matter how irritated I get with her, I’m always supposed to have her back.

  MiMi rummages through her purse now. “I just had them . . .” she says more to herself than to me. Beads of sweat crawl down her face like sideburns.

  Now I’m on my feet. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get answers. I owe her that much. Just sit down for a minute. You don’t look too—”

  “No, Jay. No. I’m supposed to take care of both of you. I promised your father I would. It’s my job to get that baby back home before she gets hurt.” She clutches her forehead. “What if she’s already hurt? Lord, what if my baby’s out there crying for me right now—wondering why I haven’t gotten her yet? What . . . what about her bottle?”

  I frown. “Her bottle? What?”

  “Don’t make it hoo tot. Too hot. Just run some hot water over it and . . .” MiMi takes a wobbly step toward me. Before I can catch her, she tumbles to the floor. My heart right next to her.

  I get back home right around dinnertime and the apartment is so still, so quiet, that I almost choke on the silence. The doctors said MiMi had a hemorrhagic stroke because of her high blood pressure. They said the ambulance got to her just in time. That I did good and moved quickly and other shiz to pat me on the back.

  But all I hear is: MiMi wouldn’t be here if you got her meds. If you didn’t lose Nic. If you weren’t such a shitty grandson.

  MiMi’s face just before she hit the floor is tatted on my brain. The urgency to get to Nic. The fear that it might be too late to get to her. Parallel feelings sketching parallel paths across her forehead. Not the usual worry lines—MiMi was devastated. And I caused that devastation by pushing Nic away.

  I keep beating myself up as I pull out my phone. Stare long and hard at it. I don’t know the prison number by heart, but it’s somewhere in my contacts. Mom would want to know what’s going on with her mother-in-law. With Nic. With me. But having that conversation, after so many years of no conversations, is enough to give me heartburn. I had enough on my plate right now. Instead, I grab a suitcase out of MiMi’s closet. Start shoving in some of her belongings. She has to be under close observation in ICU for a few days, and I want to make sure she has everything she needs when she finally comes to. Bedroom slippers, nightgown, her favorite hairbrush. I pause when I reach her lotions and perfumes. She changes up her scent each season, but I can never remember if she prefers Japanese Cherry Blossom in the spring or in the fall. Nic always knows. But she’s not here to help because of me. She doesn’t even know MiMi’s in the hospital.

  Because of me.

  I’m almost grateful for the knock at the door. The more time I spend in MiMi’s bedroom, the emptier it feels. I grab the packed bag and make my way to the front door, peek out the peephole. Frown hard when I spot who’s out there.

  I open the door and nod at Riley Palmer. Not too enthusiastically. After all, it’s just Riley Palmer. “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Aren’t you full of pleasantries?” She nods back at me. “Are you going to let me in?”

  Let her in? Riley is the kind of Black chick who thinks Black guys like me eat fried chicken and watermelon with every meal—and have a crew that eats chicken and watermelon in between impregnating random girls. I’m not giving her any opportunity to scope out where I lay my head to come up with any more tall tales about me. “What are you doing here?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong from upstairs giggle over something just as they crank up the R&B musings of Usher. Mr. Armstrong just got a promotion at the shipyard. Sure I’ll be hearing them celebrating all night long.

  Riley glances over my shoulder. “Where’s Ms. Murphy? I want to say hi.”

  “She’s not here.” I grip onto the doorknob, brace myself for what’s about to come out my mouth. “She’s in the hospital.”

  Riley’s eyes grow wide, circular. I’m sure the color would leave her cheeks if that was possible. “Jay . . .” Her mouth freezes, partially open. Like she’s searching for the right thing to say.

  “She’s fine,” I spit out before she finds it. The nurses offered enough sorrys that I could take a shower in them. But sorry doesn’t help MiMi. “She’s just there for observation. She’s fine.” I try not to repeat it again. “What do you want?”

  Riley pauses in case I want to say more, but I chew on the inside of my cheek. “If you or Ms. Murphy need anything . . .”

  I keep chewing.

  Riley sighs and continues. “I need to tell you something. But I was hoping I could come inside.” She leans close to me. So close that I smell the hair gel that keeps her ponytail intact. Almost like candy, but Riley sure as hell isn’t sweet.

  “What’s wrong? Scared that you’re going to be grazed by a stray bullet?” I ask. “Think a car with huge rims is going to run you over? If you want to feel cozy, book it back home.”

  Riley shakes her head. “Jay, you have no clue where I’m from.”

  “Not sure if I care, Riley,” I say. “Either start bumping your gums or leave.”

  Riley looks over her shoulder, keeps an eye on the door that leads out of my apartment complex. “I have some information for you,” she says in a hushed voice.

  Information? What kind of intel could she possibly have that I need to know? I shrug at her even though she’s not looking at me. The silence makes her look at me again.

  “About what we talked about yesterday,” she says, even quieter. “About your sister.”

  Her words, though soft, come with gale force winds, so strong that I fall back against my door.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Does it look like I’m laughing?”

  “Everything about me is a joke with you, Riley. But Nic is a topic me and you aren’t going to chuckle about.”

  “First of all”—Riley holds up a finger—“I don’t think you’re a joke, Jay. That’s your own insecurity. And second of all”—another finger gives me the peace sign—“do you want the info or not?”

  I picture MiMi in her hospital room. Think about sitting next to her, Nic-less. If Riley gets me closer to changing that image, then I need to hear her out. “Let’s walk,” I say. I need to get back to MiMi.

  Riley follows me out of my building as I lead her to the mailboxes on the corner. This spot is usually a ghost town. Probably because the only piece of mail most of us get around here are bills. “Okay. What you got?” I ask.

  Riley fluffs out her ponytail, which she lets roam crinkly and free today. Then she moves closer to me, wraps her arms around my waist. I’m so off guard that I freeze right in her arms, limbs stuck between awkwardness and action. I hear snickering in the distance. My neighbor Lil Chuck and
two of his ashy fifth-grade friends pause their game of catch to laugh and point at me and Riley. Lil Chuck antes up, makes kissy faces at us.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I snap out of it, step out of Riley’s grasp. “It’s not even like that.” I jump at Lil Chuck and his crew and they scurry away like they hear the ice cream truck nearby. They should be hightailing it home anyways. The streetlights are almost on, and every kid in this neighborhood knew what that meant: beat the lights home or risk a beating.

  “Don’t you watch movies? I can’t just stand here and give you intel. We have to act like we’re up to something else.”

  She’s right. Eyes are everywhere around here. I peek over at Javon’s building. Slim and Quan are in their usual spots. Sipping something strong out of paper bags while they play cards on an overturned crate between them. The window leading to Javon’s living room is open, the curtain blowing in and out, in and out as if Javon’s breathing controlled it. I groan and then step back in front of her. She wraps her arms around my waist again, and I follow suit. Timidly. Making sure there’s only clothes-to-clothes contact.

  “Just don’t be breathing your hot breath right in my face,” I say.

  “Excuse you? I chew Dentyne Ice all the time. You can’t get any more wintry fresh than that. Now . . . how often do you go to the corner store on Menchville?” Riley smiles up at me all dreamy like she’s my boo. Eyelashes fluttering, fingers laced behind my back—but keeps her thumbs free so she can trace tiny circles of affection over my shirt. It takes me a second to realize that she’s gaming the neighborhood still. She’s good. She’s damn good.

  I shift and clear my throat. “Not much. Don’t really have to.”

  “Every day after school I stop by there and buy the same thing: a box of Lemonheads, a small bag of peanuts, and a bottle of Diet Cherry 7UP.”

  “Hence the Dentyne Ice?” I make myself ask. We both need to remember that this cuddle fest we have going on serves a larger purpose.

  Riley gives me a quick eye roll but continues. “Every day after school, I see the same two dudes kicking it in front of the store. Kenny and JT. Ring a bell?”