“Get in,” Bà Ngo?i says. “You let Jamie know when you’re home.”
I’m at a loss for words, so I keep parroting, “Thank you.”
She pats my cheek. “You’re a good kid.”
I get in the back seat, rolling the window down, and Jamie comes closer. “Text me when you’re home?”
“Will do, Mango.”
He rolls his eyes, and I don’t know if the pink on his cheekbones is from the cold or something else.
“She’s amazing,” I say. “You take so much from her…H?i.”
His surprise turns into a wide smile, and I think of it all the way home.
In my room, I take out the sketchbook, opening a new page. I have the power to give Mama a different ending. I draw her walking into the sea. She’s halfway through, her arms and legs already dissolving, like she’s becoming a part of the sea, free to swim wherever she wants. Her yellow dress mingles with the sun’s rays reflecting on the sea’s surface, her face away from us, but she’s looking ahead. Her hair, raven black, is as long as mine. There is no harm on her. No pain. No ache. No regrets. No blood.
I close the sketchbook and go to bed.
Mauve Purple
I wake up earlyas dawn breaks, heart in my throat, and check all my social media accounts but find nothing. Just my old murals circulating.
I jump out of bed, pull on a hoodie, and grab the first hijab lying around before running out of the house and into the streets. I walk several blocks, not finding any hint of my painting anywhere. My hands are freezing, and my nose is runny from the late December air.
But everywhere I look, it’s all bare.
I come back home, heading straight to the sketchbook to find the drawing there. The sea, the jellyfish welcoming Mama home, the serenity.
But it’s not a mural.
My heart pounds painfully. Is the blessing fading away?
That can’t be it.
I look up to see Baba already dressed and slipping on his winter jacket. He turns to look at me, brows raised in confusion.
“Where were you?” he asks, glancing at the clock. “Are you okay?”
A thought comes to life in my mind. Quiet but clear—I didn’t draw the truth.
Mama’s death was not peaceful, and I tried to change that. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, shutting down anyone who asks or talks about it. I haven’t let my thoughts wander far away in case I relive that day over and over again.
“No,” I whisper.
Bà Ngo?i said one day I would wake up and the difficult life will have changed. But how can it change when I haven’t let myself think about the worst part of it? It’ll follow me until I die.
“Baba, what’s wrong?” he asks, coming closer.
My throat is dry, my stomach seizing, and I know the nausea is next. I’ve blocked that memory for so long that pulling it out is going to make me faint. “I was thinking about what happened to Mama.”
His expression becomes cloudy, gaze shuttering.
“I’m thinking how we don’t talk about it,” I continue, voice hoarse.
“There’s nothing to talk about now,” he says in Arabic.
“Yes, there is.”
