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For a moment, I’m thinking I have just seen my sister. I’m thinking I’ve just seen Jessica.
The lady walks up to Mrs. Harrington, sitting beside her on the sofa. She leans closer to her, whispering something into her ears. Mrs. Harrington turns to look at me, the lady’s eyes turning with hers too.
“Oh,” she says, startling me from my thoughts. “Sorry for interrupting, just give me a minute.” she adds amid a calm smile, raising her index finger.
After a short while, she stands up and pats Mrs. Harrington on the shoulder. Both of them smile at each other. The lady walks toward the door and waves at me. I smile at her and raise my brush. She smiles back and closes the door behind her.
“That’s Emily, my second daughter. She stays in Brooklyn. Comes over here once in a while.” Mrs. Harrington is seemingly proud of her daughter. I never know if mine ever feels a thing for me. I am slowly growing numb to any emotion that strings the distance between us. Probably, the only thing that holds us together is some conscience, and blood. My mother definitely doesn’t have the first.
I smile at Mrs. Harrington, raising my brush to continue painting. The sight of Emily pulls my thoughts to that night. I keep painting, but all that keeps ringing in my head are the screams of passers-by, the wail of an ambulance siren, and my throbbing heart.
It was a cold Thursday night in February. The day had been a long day, much like this one, that evening. The sun had set, casting the city into a twilight hue, and I was finally winding down. I had just left my art studio, arriving home. Jessica was out, baby Alex was in bed, and my mother left as soon as I returned. I fetched myself something to bite, I had a wash, and was about to fall into some peaceful sleep.
But then the call came, piercing through the tranquility. The voice on the other end was frantic, urging me to come quickly. Without thinking, I rushed out of our apartment, downstairs. I hailed a cab, the night air rushing around me as I sped toward the destination. My heart raced, anxiety gnawing at my insides.
The cab dropped me off a few blocks away, and I hurried to the scene. The cacophony of sirens grew louder with each step, and I could hear the anxious murmurs of the crowd. My steps quickened, my mind racing with apprehension.
The scene of the accident was a surreal nightmare. Mangled metal and shattered glass had littered the road. A severely bashed vehicle lay on its side, its form distorted beyond recognition. Passers-by stood in shocked silence, their faces pale under the glare of the flashing emergency lights.
I kept hoping it wouldn’t be what I feared. The report had mentioned two victims, a male and a female, both in their early twenties. My heart sank as I spotted Tauren, Jessica’s baby daddy, lying on the asphalt. He was barely recognizable, his face a mask of blood and pain. His eyes were still open, and he heaved with shallow breaths.
And then I saw her, Jessica, my sister, or what was left of her. She lay motionless, her once vibrant spirit silenced forever. Her body was a tableau of agony, her face obscured by her matted, blood-soaked hair. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t comprehend the enormity of the loss.
I knelt beside her, trembling fingers reaching out to touch her. Her skin was cold, her body unyielding. She was not breathing anymore. I cradled her in my arms, tears streaming down my face as I whispered her name over and over, as if calling her back from the abyss.
Then the ambulance arrived, the paramedics rushing to the scene with an urgency that contrasted sharply with my numbed despair. They examined Jessica’s body, their faces grave. I watched in a daze as they gently lifted her onto a stretcher, her lifeless form disappearing into the back of the ambulance.
In the midst of the chaos, I realized that she had left behind a piece of herself, a piece that was now my responsibility. Jessica’s son, Alex, was at home, his innocent eyes closed in some peaceful sleep. They would never see his Mama again. But it was now my responsibility to make sure he wouldn’t lose a chance at a loving home too.
That night was the longest night of my life. And till today, almost four years later, I shudder each time the memories beckon me.
I made it my mission to ensure that Tauren paid his paternity dues, and we made it legal. I wasn’t going to let Alex be shuffled into foster care, lost in a system that couldn’t replace the love of his mother.
Now, I look at Mrs. Harrington who’s dozing off on the sofa. I’m almost done painting when a memory flashes through my mind. Alex. Oh my! Had Mother gotten him from school? I dart my eyes to the big grandfather clock above the cushion on the wall opposite me. Almost four o’clock. Dang. I reach into my back pocket to pull out my phone. I dial my mother’s line. She doesn’t pick up on the first dial. I dial again. She then answers the call.
“Amber, what’s up?” she asks as soon as she comes up on the line.
“Good afternoon, Mother,” I respond, trying to sound courteous. “Did you get Alex from school?”
There’s a silence in the air. I turn to see Mrs. Harrington scrubbing her eyelids with a folded fist. I am probably disturbing her.
“Huh? Are you still there?” I ask, finally concluding that she had forgotten to go pick Alex up.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot. I had some stuff to do, so. . .”
I hang up.
Alex’s school had closed since two-thirty. That had been almost two hours ago. I quicken my pace as I round off the painting. Now, Mrs. Harrington is wide awake. I turn the canvas to her to have a look. Her jaw drops. She’s in awe. She loves the painting so much and keeps going on about how beautiful it is. I pack up quickly, telling Mrs. Harrington that I have to be somewhere soon. She smiles and says she has sent my pay to my account already.
I rush out of her mansion and to the street. I will have to walk down the street till I see a cab. Luckily, one drives by, and I flag it down. I already feel so bad for Alex. I tell the driver to speed up a bit.
In fifteen minutes, I am at Alex’s school. He’s sitting outside on the porch of the entrance with two other kids and a teacher. As soon as he sees me, his face lights up and he dashes toward me.
As soon as he closes up the distance, I hunker down to his height and give him a scooping hug. I rub his auburn hair and pull him out of the hug to give him a peck on the cheek.
“Anata, gomen’nasai,” I tell him, as I stare apologetically into his eyes.
He nods, affirming his acceptance of my apologies. We learn a little Japanese around the house. And over time, he has shown interest in doing so.
