“Are you okay?” I ask.
“What?” Her eyes open. “’Course I am. So, your mother died. What killed her? Cancer? An accident?”
“This is morbid,” I say. “But it was cancer.”
She nods. “Vile disease. Had it twice in my long life.”
I dig into my backpack, praying that we’re done with this line of questioning.
“Your father isn’t dead, but how about anyone else?”
Christ. The wordrelentlesscannot be underused with her. “Since you won’t let this topic go,” I say with as little emotion as humanly possible, “my sister, Azizi, died in March 2014 in a car crash.”
I glare at her, but pity deepens the lines in her face. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I am, too.” I say this matter-of-factly, but the accuracy of my words could split the San Andreas.
“I thought the law made people wear seat belts these days.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, unsure of where she’s going with this even if coincidentally, she’s right. “Azizi had unbuckled her seat belt.”
In the corner of my eye, the glimmer that is Azizi turns.
“I was driving,” I blurt. “We’d been talking, and she reached in the back seat and—”
“You got hit then. After she took off her seat belt.”
“Yes, and what in the hell is your fixation on seat belts?” I rub my fingers over my eyes, careful not to push too hard out of frustration. “Do you mind if we change the subject? Can we go back to Oscar Micheaux?”
“I met him a few times, at parties, mostly. He was mighty loud. Always trying to get people to be in his films. That picture was taken by a neighbor outside the Dreamland Cafe.”
My ears are buzzing. Azizi is standing next to the bed with her feet in fourth position, torso erect, arms set, plié, and go—pirouette after pirouette, and the nightmare returns.
Hands on the wheel. Hands over my hands. Azizi lies on the side of the road, legs crushed, arms broken.
I can’t. I just can’t. I try, but my calves are cramping, and I nearly hit the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Honoree asks.
“Nothing, keep talking.”
“You’re acting strange,” she says, stating what I consider the obvious. “You keep staring at me, above me, around me, like you are lookin’ for something I should be saying, but you can’t find it or—” She pauses dramatically. “Is there someone in the room you want to talk to?”
A chill runs up my legs, caterpillars on the backs of dragons. How does she know? My vision tunnels, the room closes in, and I’m pulling barbed wire through my lungs instead of oxygen. Christ, I’m going to lose it. “Miss Honoree, can we talk about Micheaux tomorrow? I need to leave.”
“Where do you have to go? I thought you came here to see me.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could explain.” I grab my backpack.
“I’m not surprised you can’t keep a promise.”
I am halfway down the hall. I arrive at the elevator bank and punch the button. Okay. Okay. O-fucking-kay.
I am not losing it, and I won’t let them—Honoree or Azizi—defeat me.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside. My brain is humming, repeating my new mantra.
Honoree is the story. Honoree is the key.
