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That’s definitely old enough to form memories, yet I don’t recall this at all.
Oh, and it’s clear that these memories are coming to me out of order: birth, seven, now four.
“Come, dear ones,” the grandmother says.
The two little girls shuffle over.
“You can touch,” she tells them.
Grinning mischievously, the twins leave palmprints on the sides of the vase.
The grandmother smiles in approval and deposits the vase into the kiln.
Wait a second.
I know that vase.
I broke it years later, on Gomorrah.
Mom was sad when it happened, as if it had sentimental value. Yet she couldn’t have remembered this moment when the vase broke, not when the memory was locked in the black window.
Maybe these memories aren’t as locked away as I thought—or the vase was precious simply as a memento from the forgotten past.
When the grandmother gives the vase to Mom as a gift, the memory terminates.
This room is the one where Asha and I were born.
Mom is holding my father’s hand. Around them are a few adults I haven’t seen before, though one man looks vaguely familiar. At their feet, my twin and I are about six years old and playing with two boys of similar ages. One of the boys also reminds me of someone, in the same indefinable way as the older man.
“I’m sorry, Davu. I don’t think there’s a choice,” my father says to the familiar-looking man. “The prophecy—”
“Was vague,” says Davu dismissively. “If—”
One of the boys pulls on his sleeve. “Dad, can Bailey and I go to the garden?”
Davu nods, and little me and the boy race out of the room.
“Mommy, can Kojo and I also go?” Asha asks.
Mom smiles. “Of course.”
Giggling maniacally, my twin chases after the boy—Kojo—as if she were a werewolf and he a tasty hare.
As soon as they’re out of the room, the memory terminates.
“Where’s Bailey?” Asha asks Mom as they walk through alien-looking vegetation. Some of the enormous blue-green trees remind me of Earth’s baobabs, others of sea coral.
“She’s got an upset stomach,” Mom says. “Daddy is with her.”
With that, the memory ends, but another starts right away, a birthday party where my twin and I are playing with the boys from before, plus a dozen other children.
The next memory is of Mom tucking in the two twins, her face soft as she croons to us.
As I witness it all, I can’t understand why Mom would want to forget all of this. Unless… is this black window something someone did to her? But if so, who? And why?
The common denominator in all these recollections seems to be Asha, my twin.
The next memory is of Mom, Dad, my sister, and me on a hike through a forest with that same alien vegetation. This time, I catch a glimpse of the sky—and exhale in wonder. Up above, besides clouds, are forests and buildings. The ground seems to warp upon itself, as if the planet we’re on is not a sphere but an odd pretzel.
The next memory starts before I can puzzle out the strange geometry of the surroundings. It’s of the four of us playing some game with cards made of an exotic material that reminds me of ivory.
Another memory follows, where Mom and the twins are watching the same strange sky at night. Not surprisingly, the star constellations are completely unfamiliar.
The peaceful stargazing shifts into yet another memory—and as I realize what I’m seeing, the pit of my stomach turns to ice.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
My sister and I look to be about seven. We’re running through a clearing in the woods populated by the plants from the earlier memories.
Both girls are screaming in terror, and for a good reason.
Our parents are chasing after them with machetes made out of strange, non-shiny, ceramic-like material.
No. This can’t be what it looks like. Surely the machetes are just for clearing vegetation, and this is some weird game. But the girls’ terror seems all too real, and the weapons aside, something isn’t right with our parents.
It’s their faces. There’s a magma-like fire in their eyes and a complete lack of emotion on their features.
Still, could this be a game regardless? Something to do with a holiday like Halloween?
A whole crowd of people is chasing after my parents. In the front, I spot my grandmother, Davu with his wife and son, and Kojo and his parents.
“Stop!” Davu screams at my parents.
They don’t respond, just keep chasing the girls.
One of the twins trips over a root.
The other keeps running for a few moments, then looks back, panting. “Asha, no!” my younger self gasps and rushes to her.
Asha is crying.
Little Bailey tries to lift her.
The parents close in.
Our father faces the crowd while Mom raises her machete.
“Mommy, no!” little me screams.
The machete whooshes by little Bailey’s cheek and bites into Asha’s neck.
Blood gushes out of the wound, spraying little me all over.
Asha’s severed head rolls away.
