Nine, Ten

  And where was her mother now? In New York City. Probably looking at studio apartments to rent for herself.

  “Aimee. Over here!” a voice shouted. It was Bridget, minus Vanessa. Aimee could just make out what she was saying. “Come onto my team.” Bridget was waving her arms and mouthing.

  Aimee didn’t need to be asked twice. She rushed over to her left and merged into the group of kids Bridget was standing with.

  “Thanks,” Aimee told her gratefully.

  Gym turned out to be not so horribly bad, even on an empty stomach. In fact, it was kind of fun and it took Aimee’s mind off food. Bridget turned out to be pretty nice. They ran crazy relay races without winners, because that, apparently, was another thing about California: Everyone is a winner. When she caught her breath, Aimee thought about what she would tell her mother on the phone when she got home.

  I think I might have made a friend. Her name is Bridget.

  Until Vanessa showed up right before the end of the period, just when—as promised—Tom Cruise gave the class a few minutes to “socialize.” Bridget and Aimee were sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  “What are you two doing?” Vanessa sat down right between them, even though it would have made more sense for her to sit where there was much more room, next to Aimee.

  Bridget had to shift over to make space. “Just talking,” she answered ever so quietly.

  “Are you in this class too?” Aimee asked Vanessa.

  “Yes,” Vanessa answered. “But I know what you’re doing.”

  Bridget let her eyes fall, like there was something incredibly interesting crawling around there in the grass.

  “Doing?” Aimee asked. “What am I doing?”

  “You’re reacting to your mom and dad splitting up by trying to steal someone else’s best friend. Mine. I see right through you.”

  The words were so nonsensical Aimee thought it must be some movie business tradition. The way boys were always reciting lines from movies. Maybe here in California, people did that all the time. Aimee tried to figure out what movie this could be from. X-men? Star Wars?

  “No, she’s not,” Bridget tried. She kept her head down. “She was just telling me about her old school.”

  “I’m sure,” Vanessa said. “Well, everybody knows what happens when the mom is more successful than the dad. Just look at Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe. How long do you think that’s going to last? I mean, what has he even done since Cruel Intentions?”

  She leaned in toward Aimee and asked, “Is there someone else? There’s always someone else in cases like this.”

  * * *

  Aimee ran to the phone as soon as she opened her front door and burst into her new house. What she wanted to do was cry and complain and wail and cry some more. What she really wanted was for her mother to be here, right here. Right now. After Aimee’s very worst day in her entire life, hands down, no contest, worst day ever. She dialed her mother’s mobile number.

  “How was school, sweetie?” Her mom’s voice sounded so far away. Three thousand miles far away. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. But I’m sure it was great. I’m sure you were great.”

  And slowly, like the realization that you’ve just cut yourself on that seemingly harmless piece of paper, it did make sense what Vanessa had been saying. Her mom didn’t really want to know about her day. She just wanted everything to be great. Great. So her mom didn’t have to feel bad that she had to go away to this stupid meeting at the worst possible time for Aimee. Her mother didn’t want to hear what had really happened, she just wanted to feel good about what she was doing instead of terrible, which was what she should have been feeling.

  “Fine,” Aimee answered.

  It wasn’t a very good mobile phone connection, which made it easier for Aimee to answer in monosyllables and not have to explain why. She didn’t feel like talking to her mom right now. She sure didn’t want to listen.

  “So, I’ll call you tomorrow morning before my meeting, okay, sweetie?” her mother was saying. “Before you head off to school again. Okay?”

  “When?” Aimee asked.

  “My meeting is at nine o’clock but it’s all the way downtown,” her mother told her. “It’s in the World Trade Center, so Chris and I have to leave the hotel around eight.”

  Aimee had never heard her mother mention anyone at work named Chris.

  “Aimee, are you there? Aimee? Okay? I’ll call before I leave for my meeting.”

  Chris?

  “Mom, that’s five in the morning here,” Aimee heard herself saying. “I’ll be sleeping.”

  “I know, sweetheart. So I’ll just leave a message on the machine, like I always do. You don’t have to pick up. I just want to say good morning and I love you. Okay?”

  Aimee felt her throat sting.

  “I love you, Aimeleh,” her mother said into the phone.

  And that’s when Aimee was supposed to answer with the matching Yiddish nickname: I love you, too, Mamaleh.

  “Aimee?”

  “Can’t hear you, Mom,” Aimee said, holding the phone out, away from her mouth. “I gotta go.”

  And she hung up.

  September 10, 2001

  4:10 p.m. EDT

  Brooklyn, New York

  “My nana is going to be so crazy worried,” Sergio said. He looked at the clock hanging on the wall behind the cash register. How had the whole day gone by so fast? It was past four. Since the accident on the subway he had been talking for hours, nearly nonstop, to Gideon.

  Gideon looked at his watch. “Wow, you’re right. It’s late. I didn’t realize what time it was.” He paid the check and counted out five singles from the change. He walked back and laid them on the table where he and Sergio had just finished burgers, fries, and milk shakes.

  He returned to where Sergio was surveying the gum and candy display under the counter while he waited. “Want me to call your grandma and explain?” Gideon asked.

  There would be so much to explain. This morning felt like it had happened days ago: his dad in the doorway, skipping school, walking the streets, ducking into the subway, jumping the toll, the man bleeding from his head, and Gideon jumping into action. That had been like a movie. But it wasn’t a movie. It was real. Sergio would never forget it. Now, when he was trying to remember it in detail, it felt like it had happened forever ago, but it had probably been only a couple of hours.

  * * *

  “Hey, hold still,” Gideon ordered the man, who immediately tried to stand up again, reaching for the subway pole and missing.

  Of course, Sergio didn’t know Gideon’s name yet.

  “Hey, kid. Come here.”

  “Me?” Sergio said.

  Gideon didn’t bother answering that question. “Give me your T-shirt.”

  Sergio reflexively looked down at his own body. His hoodie was tied by the arms around his waist; he wore a beater, and a V-neck over that.

  “The outer one. The T-shirt,” Gideon yelled. “Give it to me.”

  Now that the man was sitting upright, the blood ran freely from his head like a freaking river, covering his face in a red mask.

  My T-shirt. Is this guy kidding?

  New T-shirts were like gold, especially Ralph Lauren V-necks. They were not easy to come by. If he was lucky, Sergio found a three-pack at Marshalls. He even washed them by hand to make sure they lasted.

  Gideon yelled, “Now,” and this time Sergio obeyed. He tore off his hoodie and pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it to the fireman.

  “Can you tell me your name?” Gideon spoke calmly to the man, as if nothing were unusual at all; at the same time he folded Sergio’s brand-new, perfectly white tee into a square and pressed it to the guy’s bloody head.

  The man struggled. “My name?”

  “Do you know where you are?” Gideon asked.

  The man didn’t answer, but he didn’t try to stand again. He seemed totally out of it, losing his balance, nearly toppling over onto his side
. His eyes were wide and darkening. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.

  “You are on the subway. Just take a deep breath. Everything’s going to be all right. You hit your head. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  The way he spoke, the confidence, the firmness, even the kindness of it, reminded Sergio of something long ago. Something he had lost. Something that wasn’t his, but should have been.

  “Listen, I am Gideon. I’m a firefighter. And a medic.”

  The subway raced through the tunnel and then jerked and hissed to a stop. The doors slid open. Gideon called to Sergio again.

  “Come and help me get him to his feet. We need to call an ambulance.”

  At this point resistance was futile. Sergio didn’t hesitate. Besides, he didn’t want to. He wanted to be included in whatever was happening. So with Gideon on one side, still pressing the T-shirt against the wound, and Sergio on the other, they hoisted the man to his feet and made their way out of the train. The station was crowded with people.

  “Please, everyone, move out of the way,” Gideon called out.

  They stepped in unison across the platform and lowered the man down onto a bench. Like the parting of the Red Sea, everyone moved out of their way. Sergio could feel Gideon’s authority, only it wasn’t threatening. It was powerful, and it was transferred by their connection. People listened and did what Gideon said, and now Sergio was part of that.

  “Take my mobile phone.” Gideon reached into his back pocket. “Go up to the street and call nine-one-one.”

  Sergio took the phone, and even though he had known the number all his life, he repeated it to himself with every step he took.

  “Emergency, please move. Emergency.” Sergio imitated the commanding tone that Gideon had had in his voice, and people stepped out of the way without question. When he got up to the street, he pressed in the number.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  “There’s a guy here who hit his head pretty bad. He’s bleeding and seems . . .” Sergio paused, searching for the right word that would be accurate, not hysterical, something urgent and intelligent, to bring immediate help.

  “Incoherent,” he said.

  “Is he breathing?” the disembodied voice asked.

  “I don’t know. I think so. I had to come up here to call. Just send an ambulance.”

  “Where are you?”

  That’s when Sergio realized he had no idea where he was. He looked back at the subway entrance. “Bowling Green Station. The uptown platform.”

  “Emergency personnel have been dispatched to your location. Can you remain at the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have your name, sir?”

  Sergio didn’t hesitate—the New York City dispatch wouldn’t care if one twelve-year-old boy was skipping school, anyway.

  This was more important. This mattered more than he did.

  “Sergio Kinkaid Williams. I gotta get back down there.”

  As soon as he entered the station, the phone service cut out. Gideon was still at the bench. The man was lying down across it, moaning.

  Gideon didn’t ask Sergio if he had made the call, or if he had reached anyone. Gideon assumed he had.

  “He’s got a concussion. He’s still bleeding. But he’ll be okay.”

  Sergio could hear the sirens from the street above.

  After the ambulance finally arrived, the paramedics came running down the stairs. There seemed to be some kind of brotherhood, some unspoken agreement, when they found out Gideon was a firefighter. And now Sergio was included, too.

  “Hand me that bag, kid.” One of the paramedics was on his knees and reaching out his hand.

  Sergio lifted the medic bag and passed it over. He felt his heart pumping, adrenaline rocking his body. Only when it was all over, when the paramedics had carried the man up the stairs strapped to a gurney, the ambulance doors had slammed shut, and the crowd had dispersed, did Sergio pause and remember who he was. Where he was. And why. At the same time it was as if a door had been cracked open, letting in light from the other side, from a hallway he had never seen before.

  Gideon was pulling off his plastic gloves. He said to Sergio, “Guess I owe you a new T-shirt.”

  They stood on the street, facing in the direction the ambulance had driven, the sound of the siren wailing in the distance.

  “Nah, it’s okay,” Sergio said.

  Sergio didn’t really care about the T-shirt anymore, but he didn’t want this, whatever it was, to be over. He didn’t want the door to shut just yet. He wanted to know more about what lay on the other side.

  “I know it’s okay, but I want to do it. C’mon, there’s a store right over there.”

  “That’s kinda weird,” Sergio said, because it was.

  “Well, here, I’m Gideon Burke.” He put out his hand. “Oh, maybe I could call your mom and ask her permission. I could explain what happened?”

  Ask her permission? That’s a funny one, Sergio thought.

  Nobody had been there to ask permission when he was living on the street. Before his nana found him.

  Was it a day? A week? A month? There was conflicting information. In his memory there were only vague, shadowy images that might not even be real. People had quizzed him, had asked him so many questions that Sergio no longer knew what was a real memory, what was a dream, a nightmare, or somebody else’s story he had picked up along the way.

  But one thing in his memory was certain. They had been together then, Sergio and his mom—no one disputed that—living in a shelter in Albany. They shared a room. Was it white? Were there bunk beds? A dresser?

  Food came at long tables, didn’t it?

  Plates divided into sections. Soapy, clean water. Was there a playroom with toys? Dirt on the faces of the plastic people, plastic action figures with missing eyes, hands, a missing leg. He remembered that.

  Bent puzzle pieces. Broken boxes. Tiny, square orange carrots. Applesauce. White sheets. Men yelling. Milk in small containers. Blankets that were thin and too small to fit around them both, so his mother tucked him in and curled around him.

  But the strongest memory that Sergio could attribute to either reality or desire was the smell of his mother, close to him, warming him, holding him, all the dark night.

  Until they found her dead, according to reports. Had there been a child with her? It seemed to have gone unreported. Sergio was picked up on Route 32 in downtown Albany, and nobody would say for sure how long he had been wandering. It was the three-day hospital stay he remembered most.

  Clean sheets. Warm-water sponge baths.

  Ice cream every night.

  And then they tracked down his maternal grandmother.

  The grandmother, as it turned out, lived in New York City, in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and had been searching for her daughter for three and a half years, exactly Sergio’s age. She never saw her daughter, but she held on to Sergio like a fierce hawk with tremendous talons.

  September 10, 2001

  9:45 p.m. EDT

  Columbus, Ohio

  That evening Naheed could not wash enough for wudu. Nouri was already finished. She didn’t need any help remembering. Face, hairline to chin. Forearms, elbow to fingertips, right then left. Scalp.

  And lastly, feet. Right foot with right hand. Left foot with left. Toes to ankles.

  Nouri ran water over the tops of her socks and called it a day. But Naheed couldn’t wash long or hard enough. Before you can pray, you need to wash. You need to be clean, not just of real dirt, but of all the bad things you might have done with your hands, your ears, your eyes, your mouth. Your words.

  Annoying Eliza.

  Annoying Eliza.

  In her mind Naheed could see Eliza’s sad face while she was trying to eat her lunch in the cafeteria, even though Naheed hadn’t turned around to see her once. All Eliza needed was one friend and she could probably have handled the teasing. Maybe even laughed it off. But alone, it was a tsunami.


  When Naheed crawled into bed that night, Nouri was already asleep. Naheed would get her own room back when Uncle Iman and Aunt Judith left the next day, but for now her little sister occupied the trundle bed right below.

  Naheed’s mother appeared in the doorway. “Are you all tucked in?”

  Naheed answered, and her voice cracked when she spoke. “Yeah, I am.”

  Instead of moving away, her mother opened the door farther, letting light from the hall fall across the two beds, separating them right in half, light and dark. She stepped inside and sat down at the end of Naheed’s bed, careful not to rustle Nouri. There was really no need. Nouri had been known to fall asleep right at the dining-room table at late-night suppers and stay sleeping while everyone cleaned up.

  Some trick, that was.

  “What’s wrong?” Naheed’s mother asked.

  Naheed wanted to say: Nothing. Because she wanted that to be the truth. And because the last thing Naheed needed was for her little sister to hear any of this, she said as softly as she could, “Something bad happened today.”

  “Something bad?” her mother whispered back. She rubbed Naheed’s feet under the blankets. “At school?”

  Only, just as Naheed was going to tell her mother about how she had been mean to Eliza because she didn’t want anyone to be mean to her, but then it had all gotten out of control and everyone started being mean to Eliza too, something entirely else came out of her mouth.

  “Two boys were teasing me about my hijab,” Naheed said.

  “Oh? What did they say?” her mother asked.

  “Well, one of the boys wanted to know if it was hot under my scarf all the time. And the other boy said he thought I went bald in third grade and that’s why I had to keep my head covered.”

  Her mother was quiet for a moment.

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “Nothing.” Which was sort of the truth.

  “Nothing? You know we’ve talked about this, Naheed. People don’t understand, and it’s your job to show them that you are proud of who you are. And teach them, let them see that we are not like what they see on the television. And in the movies. You can do that, can’t you?”