I wonder if she’s gonna call Dad.
When it was all of us, we lived in a house with a yard. Until we got evicted, which apparently was when my mom found out there was a problem. Caro was crying and my mom was crying and my stomach was tumbling over and over again — I couldn’t cry, I could only glare.
My dad had a pretty decent job. For all I know he still has that job, a paralegal with a pretty snazzy law office downtown. Before we moved here there were pictures of my mom and dad from the holiday party. Imagine a law firm so fancy they pay for a photographer, and then they print them out and frame them, right there for you! Okay, so the frames were paper, but still.
My mom looked beautiful. She’d bought her dress in the garment district, it was green and shimmery and she moved in it like she was dancing. In the photograph she looks so happy.
My dad looks like he looks in every photo I’ve seen of him with my mom. Hey, I’m with her? How’d I get so lucky? He does. I told that to Ma once and she just snorted.
It was probably because I was thinking of Dad, and whether he’d call or not, or whether she’d call him, that I did what I did. I don’t feel guilty, but I don’t feel good. I wish I hadn’t listened.
I heard my mom talking on the phone. Caro was watching TV, I was in the kitchen making us a couple of quesadillas, when I heard her voice. Did she need something? Was she calling me? Was she okay?
“Ma?” I said, walking down the hallway. Her plates were outside. She’d finished eating the can of soup I’d heated up for her.
I tapped on the door, “Ma?”
“Hold on,” I heard her say. “What, Abby?”
“Did you need something?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I stood there a moment and heard her talking to someone. I stepped into the bathroom. From there you can hear practically everything, because of the way the vents work, or the walls are thin or something.
I could hear her talking. Was it to Dad?
“No, Sandra, you don’t understand.” Oh, she was talking to Tía. Tía Sandra lives in Rohnert Park, up north past San Francisco, so we don’t see her and her boys very often. The last time Dad drove us, it seemed to take a week, but a good week. We stopped everywhere. We saw the Golden Gate Bridge. We saw otters and elephant seals and regular seals and redwoods and Monterey pines. We ate clam chowder out of bread bowls. We stayed with Tía and did more things with them all. Thinking of that, when we were all there together, all of us going to Foster Freeze’s for ice cream, made my chest hurt. I didn’t want to think about it. So I listened to my ma.
“Would you let me talk?” She’d stopped coughing. “Hell yes I’m worried. Why would she bring over all that food if she didn’t think I was gonna die?”
Did she really say that? Did I hear right? Did she really think that?
She continued: “Yeah, I feel like crap. My head hurts like you can’t believe and sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.” She listened to Tía. “No, how’m I gonna check myself into the hospital and leave my girls? No, I haven’t told the girls about him. No, you can’t come down here. What if you get sick too? No, you can’t—”
I left the bathroom and staggered into the hallway. I went and stood in the kitchen, where I couldn’t hear anything at all. Not my ma, not Caro. I looked at the kitchen sink and began running water. I could wash the dishes, that’s what I could do.
Later Caro began whining that she was bored. I guess even she has a time limit for crayons and television. I pulled out a book I loved in fifth grade. I sat down and she sat on my lap. By the smell of her it was definitely bath time, probably for me too. I began reading Esperanza Rising but after five minutes Caro began to squirm. I get that. No pictures. Next time I’ll pick another book. I told her if she took a bath I’d play cards with her after dinner.
With the water running you can’t hear anything from the bedroom, but Ma was off the phone anyway. I tapped on the door and opened it. “How you doin’?”
She coughed a long time before she answered me, “I don’t want you in here, Mami. Close the door.” I did. She called after me: “You just put the food by the door, okay? I’ll get it. Don’t come in here, I don’t want you getting sick.”
For dinner I had another quesadilla and Caro ate the leftover canned ravioli. I guess she was hungry enough. We played Fish and I let her win three times, and then I decided it was time for her to go to bed. She argued with me. Of course she argued with me. “If you go to bed when I tell you, you can always have the top bunk.”
Deal. She tapped at Ma’s door and said, “Mommy? G’night!” I heard Ma’s voice answer her.
When Caro was in bed I cleaned the kitchen like I’ve watched Ma do dozens and dozens of times. I took a bath; the apartment was quiet. I brushed my teeth, I got a clean set of pajamas, then thought, Great, I’m gonna have to figure out how to get us clean clothes sometime. I tried watching TV but it was all so stupid. I watched the news, I heard about the virus, and my guts started churning. I came in here and tried to sleep. Then I heard the very worst thing: there were no traffic noises. Like everything outside had stopped, everywhere.
I heard my mom open her door and head down the hallway to use the bathroom, then go back to her room. I waited. I walked to her room, listened, heard her snoring, and opened the door.
Her phone was next to her.
I gently picked up her phone, and walked softly all the way to our sofa. I tapped in Dad’s number and held my breath. I could explain, he’d come and help us, things would get better. I was so nervous, I dialed a wrong number. I tapped again.
What? That didn’t make sense. Again. This time I made sure of every number and still I couldn’t believe it when the recording told me that the number had been disconnected.
I’ve already tried going to sleep once. Caro was asleep above me, I could hear her breathing. I lay down, hugging the mattress. I could hear my heart pounding and pounding. I tried and tried to go to sleep. Nothing. I got up again. Started to write here.
I feel like that time when I was ten, when I stayed up late. Something was gonna happen, I could feel it. And it did happen. That night we had an earthquake that woke everyone up except me, because I was already awake.
I’m just lying here, writing, waiting for the earthquake to arrive.
Where the Smoke Meets the Sky
by Nikolas Charles
South Figueroa Street
Olin’s heart raced as he crouched in the darkness watching the fire. What began as the small flickering flame of a match quickly grew into a furious blaze. A faceless fireman appeared in the doorway, the last one out. Before he could escape, the roof collapsed, crushing him under the weight of a thousand pounds. He let out his last gasp of air in a shrill scream expelling the devil smoke.
Olin awoke to realize the scream he heard was his own. By the time the morning siren sounded at 06:00 hours and the detention services officer announced rise-and-shine over the loudspeakers, his nightmare went silent. The same dream that played on the screen inside his head each night fell dark once more. He shielded his eyes as the fluorescents lit up the dormitory room where other male juvenile offenders snored and passed gas.