“Miss Honoree? Are you okay?”
Her eyelids flutter open. “Maggie White is your grandmother, you say?”
My jaw slackens, and I’m gulping air. I thought for sure Honoree was a goner, but, just like that, she seems fine. Clear-eyed. Breathing better—voice strong.
“Yes, she is,” I say finally. “Maybe I can jar your memory.”
She nods. “Go on.”
“You and my grandmother were neighbors. Her foster family lived next door.” I learned this from a letter I found in the box that Maggie wrote to a friend but never mailed. “From what I understand, her being an orphan and all, and her foster parents being kind of strange, the two of you became close friends.”
“Is that what she told you—that we were close friends?”
My grandmother told me nothing, but I don’t ask a lot of questions. I knew Honoree existed because of the things I found in a crate in my grandmother’s attic—a letter, a bill of sale, photos. “Yes. Close friends. BFFs. Why else would she pay your bills all these years?”
“I don’t remember much about those days,” Honoree said in a quiet voice. “How long ago was this, again?”
“Seventy-five years.” Which sounds weird. How in the hell is she supposed to remember ninety years ago, let alone seventy-five, when at twenty-five, I can’t remember yesterday? Then again, I can’t forget one second of what happened one night fifteen months ago.
“Where were we again when we were neighbors?”
“Louisiana.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”
“Come closer. I need to have a better look at you.”
I move in but not too close. “Better?”
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
I pull two braids away from my face and knot them behind my head. “They’re called dreadlocks.”
She scrunches up her nose. “You look like a girl.”
“Not a girl.” I point at my jaw. “Got a two-day-old beard.”
“Do you have a job?”
Whoa. Déjà vu. Maggie had asked me the same question Sunday mornings when Sunday mornings were ordinary. Before the car crash. Before Azizi died.
A glimmer in the corner of my eye draws my attention as the oxygen in the room evaporates. I can’t breathe. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and blink hard.
My sister, Azizi—excuse me, Azizi’s ghost—is suddenly standing next to Honoree’s headboard.
“Wake up, Sawyer Hayes! I asked you a question, boy. Do you have a job?”
My nerves are broken glass, my palms are damp, but seeing a ghost shouldn’t be easy, right?
“Yes, I have a job,” I say too loudly. Shit. I need to chill. The Azizi sighting has put me on edge. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. To answer your question, I’m a graduate student at the University of California, Berkeley, working on my dissertation for a doctorate in film and media studies.” I breathe in deep. “I also work for a production company, and I’m headed to Paris today to work on a film for my father.”
“Making motion pictures doesn’t sound like a job,” Honoree says. “You work for your daddy?”
“This has nothing to do with my father.” I try not to look at Azizi as I pace next to the bed. “I have some photos to show you, Miss Honoree. I also want to ask you a few questions.”
She raises a hand to the bed’s side railing, trying to pull herself upright, which I figure is a bad idea. Her arms are spindles made of bones and skin.
“You need me to adjust the bed?” I search for a lever or a button.
“Leave it be,” Honoree snaps. “I can do this.” She drags herself forward with one hand, but I can’t watch her struggle without trying to help. I go to the head of the bed and arrange her pillows so she can sit up.
