By Christine Novelero
1t Place, Prose, Create | Encounter 2024
“Look! An artist made this beautiful picture of Harriet! Her eye is open! She will always be looking to us for justice! She will be looking to be vindicated! She will be looking at us!”
–Kristin Turner, April 2022
? – LOOK
Eyes which would usually open to amniotic fluid perceive the walls of a plastic crib instead. It’s no substitute for the warmth of her mother’s womb, but it does just fine. Soft padding, mellow lighting, and a thin blanket patterned with angels are all that’s needed to keep her fragile body content.
Beyond the blur of plastic walls, a figure emerges. Blue. Harriet knows nothing: colors, shapes, letters, anything at all, but she knows this. Blue for peace. Blue for sky. Blue for the sleep from which she has awoken. It’s a lady. Not her mother; Harriet would recognize her mother anywhere. But she does have a motherly aura around her. She’s beautiful: not the kind of beauty discerned by human eyes, but an intangible radiance marked by love.
The figure bends down to Harriet’s level, her luminous hazel eyes piercing through the plastic. “Do not be afraid. I will do you no harm.”
Harriet cries. Not because of hunger, thirst, fatigue, or any physical need, but because of the weight. The sheer love contained in those words is palpable; they bear the blessed burden of billions of children to whom they have been spoken before.
“Shh…” As if compelled, Harriet’s cries fade into contented cooing. “Go back to sleep, my child. You have beautiful dreams awaiting you.” The beautiful blue lady walks away. Her motherly aura remains, but the blue morphs into another meaning. Blue for rain. Blue for sorrow. Blue for tears.
Harriet feels this, but closes her eyes before she can know what it means.
5 – AN ARTIST MADE THIS BEAUTIFUL PICTURE OF HARRIET
The sounds trickle in slowly through the blanket. The daycare worker’s exasperated voice. The chattering chorus of children at play. Plastic blocks clatter, wooden beads clunk, and the wheels of kiddie buses going nowhere grate as they spin.
An eager voice pierces through the wool: “Hari! Hari! Wake up! Look what I made!”
Harriet grunts softly and turns away from her friend’s pleas. Undeterred, [redacted] stomps up to the sleeping mat and pinches Harriet’s ear.
“Oww, meanie!” Harriet flails her arms, trying and failing to hit [redacted] back. “What was that for?”
“Sowwy,” [redacted] mumbles. Her pout quickly reverts to an unabashed grin. “But I wanna show you something! You’re gonna love it!”
Harriet takes [redacted]’s hand and climbs out of her blanket, albeit reluctantly. “My ear’s still ouchy, but okay.”
The two friends skip past castles, trucks, and empty apple juice boxes to the place where all the quiet kids go: the art table. Markers, glue sticks, and paper scraps are all strewn about in a lackadaisical mosaic. The colorful display is occasionally interrupted by white sheets with no more than nine lines drawn on them, discarded and forgotten.
Harriet and [redacted] silently examine the art table for several seconds before Harriet turns to [redacted], unimpressed.
“You said I’d love it. Where is it?”
[redacted] crosses her arms. “You can’t tell which one it is? Hmph.”
Harriet stomps her foot, but she takes a second look nonetheless. This time, her eye is caught by a drawing in the table’s center. She picks it up. Two girls, their features as meticulously drawn as a five-year-old could manage, hold hands inside a heart outlined in red pom-poms. A sunset surrounds the heart’s outline: an ombre of pink, orange, yellow, and blue. Cotton balls spread across the background like clouds. At the bottom of the page are these words, messily written in glittery ink: “Thank you for being my best friend :D”. Harriet stands there in silence, admiring the masterpiece before her.
The bubble of silence is broken by a beaming, expectant [redacted]. “So? Do you love it?”
Harriet sets down the drawing as if it were a glass mosaic, prone to shatter in the face of something solid. She throws her arms around [redacted] and squeezes with all the strength her little arms have to give. Her voice comes out muffled, buried in [redacted]’s shirt: “I love you too.”
15 – HER EYE IS OPEN
There is no pillow, no blanket to filter out the world. There is only the hard wooden desk, the warm shadow beneath her hoodie, and the dull whir of a venting computer.
Harriet jolts awake. Following muscle memory, she presses the computer’s power button. The time is 2:15 AM.
Damnit Harriet, this is the third time you’ve fallen asleep at your computer this month. And you still have half a month to go. Anyway, what assignment kept me up this time?
The answer appears as a digital pamphlet on Canvas, in progress. The blinking cursor taunts Harriet in its usual fashion: “You’re not even done.” Harriet rolls her eyes, then glosses over the pamphlet’s text.
“22 months is the average length of stay in the foster care system,” “Children aged 1-5 account for more than half of foster care adoptions,” “Systemic problems the foster care system faces include resource shortages, high caseworker turnover rates, adverse outcomes for emancipated young adults…” Oh yeah, my Social Justice Writing project. Now I feel bad because if there’s one assignment I shouldn’t have fallen asleep on, it’s this one. I feel like Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane; I fell asleep when someone else needed me the most. Well, I might not personally know any foster kids, but still. Staying awake is the least I can do after everything some of them—
Harriet’s train of self-reproach is interrupted by the glow of her phone’s lock screen. It’s a text from [redacted]: “you still awake? please call me.”
Harriet takes one glance at the lock screen and immediately picks up her phone. Okay, something’s gotta be wrong. [redacted] never sleeps past 11 PM. She never puts a period at the end of her texts, like, ever.
Right on cue, another text banner pops up. “i won’t hold it against you if you’re asleep, but i really need someone to talk to right now. Please.”
Aight, that’s it. I’m picking up. Harriet taps the text banner, then the “FaceTime Audio” button in the upper right corner.
The phone dial has only rung for three seconds when a voice breaks through. It’s not a voice though; it’s the wet, furious lament of a nose blowing into Kleenex. This nasal cry is followed by quivering breaths and a barely audible “Thanks.”
Usually Harriet would open this conversation with something like, “Damn girl, you good?” But she decides against it, seeing as [redacted] is evidently everything but good. “What happened?”
[redacted] blows her nose again. “Oh my God, now I don’t even wanna say this out loud but…” She inhales and exhales deeply. “Sorry, I…”
“No, no, don’t apologize to me! Clearly you’re going through something, but it’s not my place to ask what it is if you don’t wanna share. You take all the time you need. You don’t even need to tell me anything if it’ll make you feel worse, we can just sit on call together if that’s—”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got it. I’m the one who asked you to call and it’s 2—well, more like 3 AM, so I might as well get it out.” [redacted] coughs. “My mom’s gonna die.”
Harriet’s not sure whether to be more stunned by what [redacted] just said or the abruptly dispassionate tone with which she said it. “That’s… damn. That’s even worse than what I expected. Not that I knew what I was expecting, but… really, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry. And… I know I said it’s not my place to be asking things. But if you’re okay with sharing, how?”
[redacted] drops the dispassionate tone; cracks can be heard in her voice. “Stage four pancreatic cancer.”
“You said stage four cancer?” No audible denial or confirmation. Harriet takes that as a yes. “Well, thank you for trusting me enough to tell me all this. I can’t possibly imagine how hard the diagnosis must’ve been for everyone in your family.”
At this, [redacted] breaks down into sobs. Harriet opens her mouth, panicked and prepared to apologize profusely. But [redacted] speaks up first, the words spilling out of her without so much as a breath. “You don’t even know the half of it. I’m so scared, Harriet. I’m so scared. It’s not even my mom dying that scares me, it’s everything that comes before it.
“All my grandparents are really healthy, so Mom’s the first one in our family to go through it. Chemo, I mean. I’ve read about all the side effects: hair loss, vomiting, mouth sores; you can’t go outside because you’re gonna get sick, and you’re too tired to go anywhere anyway. That’s bad enough if you know you’ll eventually get cured, for the ones who are ‘lucky’ enough to catch it early.
“But my mom is stage four. Stage four. The doctor said there’s not even a 10% chance that she survives past this year. My mom has to suffer all that and we don’t even get a promise that she’s gonna live—” At this, [redacted]’s voice breaks. “Oh fuck. Wait, no, you did not just hear me drop the f-bomb but that’s not the point. Damn it [redacted], how could you say that, you sound just like him…”
“Sound just like who?”
“Right, I didn’t mention that.” Harriet somehow gets the feeling that at that very moment, [redacted] is looking over her shoulder. “The doctor. He… started talking to my mom about assisted suicide. He’s probably why I’m so scared; he wouldn’t have suggested that unless he thought the suffering my mom would go through just wasn’t worth it. Whether she got treatment or not.”
Harriet is speechless. Despite [redacted] being the one in need of comfort, Harriet hears these words from her friend’s mouth: “Harriet? You there? You okay?”
“You’re telling me the doctor told your mom to kill herself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s not like he told her to kill herself, he just… gave her the option. Oh God. When I put it that way, it sounds just as bad.”
Harriet’s indignation radiates through the phone. “Yeah, well I thought killing people was the complete opposite of healthcare! What happened to the fucking Hippocratic Oath? What happened to modern medicine, to preserving people’s lives instead of putting them down like fucking flies because keeping them happy and alive is too much work? I’m not trying to discredit the suffering your mom or any other cancer patient has to go through, but what doctor in his right fucking mind would just tell someone—”
“Harriet, Harriet, it’s okay. Well, scratch that, it’s not okay. I appreciate that you care enough to be even more upset than I was, but you can calm down. Please. My mom is not going to kill herself. I’m ashamed of myself for even considering it, that death would be a better alternative to whatever’s on the road ahead. For her and all of us. My mom said she would never do it. My dad certainly wouldn’t let her; he actually told off the doctor and recited the last part of their wedding vows. ‘In sickness and health, in good times and bad,’ am I right?” At this, [redacted] chuckles desperately.
“Right.” Harriet turns over everything in her mind as the two of them sit in silence.
An eternity and one minute pass before Harriet breaks it. “Well, I’m certainly in no position to tell you what your family should do next, and I haven’t got it in me to ask any more questions. And I’ve got an AP Bio test this morning, so I should probably be clocking out anyway. But just know that whatever comes next, I’m here for you.
“If you want to give me updates about your mom every day, I’m all ears. If you never want to speak about this ever again, we won’t. And I promise, no one else will hear about this from me. You trusted me enough to lay your heart out on the floor; I would never repay you by stepping on it.”
[redacted] blows her nose. “Thank you”—the mucus comes out drier this time—”so much. You don’t know how much this means to me. How much you mean to me.”
Harriet smiles softly. “You too.”
29 – SHE WILL ALWAYS BE LOOKING TO US FOR JUSTICE
There is no blanket to filter out the world, nor hoodie under whose warm shadow Harriet can hide. Even her hair is helpless, restrained in a ponytail, to shield her from the cold laminate. The suit wears stiff against her skin, creases hardened by the chilly, late-night diner air.
The air conditioner’s chill even numbs Harriet to the tap on her shoulder, from a finger not her own. “Hattie? What are you doing here?”
Harriet turns her head slowly, both relieved by the voice’s source and too drowsy to care regardless. “Huh? [redacted]? Why are you here?”
Standing over Harriet, [redacted] scoffs. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? And that’s not even the only question I should be asking. You’re still in your suit, it’s 3 AM, and this is a Waffle House. Well, you only come to this specific spot when you’ve gotten your ass whooped in court, so that’s one question answered. But I heard you got that foster kid acquitted, so that can’t be it. So… what are you doing here?”
Harriet lifts her head off the table with some difficulty. “Yes, you’re right, I did get that foster kid acquitted. But it's not just about the win, [redacted]. You weren’t there in the courthouse. You don’t know what that girl told me.”
[redacted] slides into the booth across from her. “Well then, care to enlighten me?”
“Tell me what you’re doing here and then I might.”
“Definitely nothing as serious as you, that’s for sure. I was just craving a hashbrown bowl, that’s all.” [redacted] grabs the menu beside her for good measure. “Your turn.”
“Oh, fine.” Harriet’s eyes shift to the white tile wall, deep in thought. “Up until the trial, I could hardly get her to open up. Even worse, I could never really tell how she felt. She wasn’t quite scared, or sad, or even upset. She just had this look in her eyes that said she’d been through so much. But when they said not guilty, she got up and hugged me so tight. She said…” The next words fall out like a torn butterfly’s wing: “...that I was the first person who’d ever fought for her.”
[redacted] answers without a pause for thought. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Harriet sighs, somewhat exasperated at [redacted]’s seeming lack of empathy. “[redacted], please. It might’ve been good for my ego, sure. But this isn’t about me, it’s about her. 18 years, and I was the first person who’d ever cared about her. 17 years of being abandoned by everyone: her parents, her relatives, her teachers, her friends, the system that was supposed to protect her. I might’ve gotten her justice in the courtroom, but who will give her justice outside of it?”
“And I’ve done research on the foster care system. I’ve read about the foster care to prison pipeline. She’s not the only kid who’s been broken then blamed for slicing others with the shards.” Harriet slumps back into the seat cushion and looks up. “I… I feel hopeless. Knowing that she might never get the justice she’s waited for her entire life, and so many others won’t either, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
[redacted] doesn’t miss a beat. “How do you know that?”
Harriet sits back upright. “Know what?”
“That she won’t get the justice she deserves. That there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re one person out of eight billion. Who are you to say that no one else will fight for her like you did? And don’t tell me that there’s nothing you can do about it because you’ve already done something about it. You’re one person, which means you can’t do everything. But it also means you can always do something.”
Wow. Just… wow. Harriet’s mouth is agape; she certainly wasn’t expecting that from her brash senior colleague. Tears silently well to her eyes, and sniffles follow suit. Conscious of her public emotional display [redacted], she lowers her face to wipe her tears.
[redacted] hands Harriet a table napkin. “Did I make things worse? If I did, I’m so sorry—”
“No, no, you didn’t. Just the opposite, actually.” Harriet blows her nose, eliciting a grimace from [redacted]. “It’s just… damn. You said exactly what I needed to hear. And you, out of all people.”
[redacted] raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, out of all people? Are you saying you thought I was dumb? If so, I’ll have you know that—”
Harriet takes another table napkin to blow her nose, then chuckles slightly as she sets it aside. “No, of course not. It’s just, you know, we haven’t talked in a while, and you’ve always been more… action-oriented? Sorry for my lack of a better word; I’m usually snoring away at this hour. What I’m trying to say is that I never knew you gave such good advice.”
“Neither did I, to be honest. And I never knew you cared so much,”—Harriet opens her mouth as if to say otherwise, but [redacted] holds out a finger to shush her—”which is a wonderful thing. I’ve seen for myself what usually happens to attorneys who take those kinds of cases. They numb themselves; they lose the fire that made them want to fight for justice in the first place. Hold on to your fire for dear life, because Lord knows the world needs your warmth.”
“Thanks, I’ll… I’ll try. But good grief, since when were you a motivational speaker?”
A smug grin fills [redacted]’s face. “Since 3 am. Or since I stepped into Waffle House. Or both. Going to a chain diner at ungodly hours of the night puts you in a mood, you know?”
“Speaking of mood, I think I’m in the mood for food.” Harriet stretches her arms like she’s just now waking up. “I’ve cried enough tonight, and in front of my senior colleague to boot.”
[redacted] slides a second menu across the laminate to Harriet. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear! Let’s get ourselves that hashbrown bowl, shall we?”
“Absolutely. But… there’s one last thing you should know about me. I’ve always been a stickler for closing remarks. And I think what you said earlier is important enough for that principle to apply here. So, thank you. I’m glad that we were able to meet up like this. I’m glad that you’re here.” Harriet extends an open palm across the laminate.
[redacted] accepts the invitation. Ten fingers intertwine, if only for a moment. “Me too.”
45 – SHE WILL BE LOOKING TO BE VINDICATED
There is no sound; only color, shape, and warmth. The vibrant violet sky of a cityscape—her TV’s screensaver—seeps through her eyelids, reflected by a blank computer screen and two empty cans of Celsius energy atop the coffee table. A thick blanket carelessly draped across her frame, her body bent like a woman who never stops running, even in her dreams. Faint dampness on her cheeks, the trail marks of tears that ran hot.
Her dream self crashes into a brick wall; her eyes flutter open. She reaches out to the coffee table for a tissue and wipes away the trail marks on her cheeks.
“Not again, that’s the third time this week…” Harriet groans and sits up. “And this case isn’t even as bad as last month’s. This will be the last time, and this time I mean it. You petty workaholic, why can’t you ever sleep when you’re supposed to and wake up earlier? Maybe then you’d be able to take your kid to school and your hubby wouldn’t have a reason to—”
Harriet’s soliloquy is interrupted by the creak of a door opening from down the hall, followed by soft shuffling. [redacted] enters the living room, hugging a Clifford plushie. “Mom, I can’t go back to sleep. It’s been an hour and I can’t go back to sleep…”
Harriet motions him to the couch and pulls him in for a hug. “I’m sorry, baby. Do you want a warm glass of milk?”
[redacted] nods; Harriet places a hand on his shoulder. “Just wait for me here, I’ll be right back with your milk. You can lie down with my blanket if you want. Maybe you’ll already be asleep by the time I get back.” She throws off her blanket and heads into the kitchen.
Before sitting down, [redacted] gently sets down Clifford on the couch and pats him on the head. He settles down beside his fluffy red friend and wraps himself in his mother’s blanket. Then he notices the pile of used tissues at the foot of the couch.
“Was Dad mad at you again?”
The microwave beeps. Harriet opens it and takes out the glass of milk.
“Mom? Was he?”
Harriet halts in front of the microwave, not facing her son. “It’s… It’s fine. It’s nothing I don’t deserve, really.”
“It sounds like you feel bad about yourself.”
Harriet sets down the glass of milk. “I— well…”
[redacted] takes off the blanket, pats Clifford on the head, and walks up to his mom in the kitchen. “You go back to the couch, Mom. There’s something I wanna make for myself.”
Harriet tries to hand him the warm glass. “Don’t you want your milk?”
[redacted] gently pushes it back toward his mom. “Yeah, I’ll drink it, but there’s something else I want to go with it. And I wanna make it.”
“Oh. Well then, you do that. I’ll be waiting for you with your milk.” Harriet heads to the couch and plops herself down beside Clifford, cradling the glass like a bejeweled chalice.
She watches as her son grabs a mug, a small plate, two slices of bread, two cheese slices, and a carton of milk. He fills the mug with milk and tiptoes to put it in the microwave. While the milk is being warmed, he lays out the two slices of bread, places the cheese between them, and presses the sandwich flat.
The microwave beeps. [redacted] grabs a butter knife from the silverware drawer and slices off the bread crusts. He eats one crust, leaving the rest on the plate. He places the now flattened, crustless sandwich into the toaster.
Harriet notes that her palms aren’t as warm as they were merely minutes ago. “[redacted], are you coming? Your milk is getting cold.”
[redacted] turns to answer with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m coming!” He takes the mug out of the microwave, carefully so as not to let the milk spill, and presents it to his mom.
“You made me some warm milk too?” Harriet sets her son’s glass down on the table and accepts this new offering. “Aww, thank you [redacted], you didn’t have to…”
“There’s another thing I made, so give me a minute and I’ll get that too!” The sandwich springs out of the toaster, perfectly crispy and brown. [redacted] tears the sandwich in half with his bare hands and places the halves on the plate. He eats another one of the crusts, then walks up to his mom with the grilled cheese.
“I make this whenever I’m sad and you’re at work and Dad’s not here. It makes me feel a little better. It might do the same for you. Oh, and I cut off the crusts because I think it’s really fun to dip them into milk by themselves.”
Harriet turns away from her son and grabs a handful of tissues. “Whenever I’m sad and you’re at work and Dad’s not here…” How many times has that been? How many times have I been missing when he needed me most? How many wonderful moments have I missed? Hell, I’ve never seen my own son make a grilled cheese. What kind of a mom does that make me?
She buries her face in the tissues, tears and nasal mucus slowly staining the softness. “How did I ever deserve a son like you?”
[redacted] sits down and pats his mom on the back. “What? I just made a grilled cheese, that’s nothing special.”
“And you don’t even know how special you are…” Harriet blows her nose with all the strength of a mourning elephant.
[redacted] grabs another crust from the plate and dips it into his now lukewarm glass of milk. “Neither do you.”
Harriet looks straight at her son with swollen eyes. “[redacted], please don’t, I know you’re just trying to make me feel better.”
[redacted] throws his hands up. “I’m not, I’m really not! I might lie about little things sometimes, but I would never lie to you about this. You really are the most special mom I could ask for.”
“How?”
“No one tries as hard as you do. Sometimes I get sad or upset that I don’t get to spend a lot of time with you. But there’s something else that makes me feel better that isn’t grilled cheese. Wanna guess what it is?”
Harriet absentmindedly places Clifford in her lap and starts stroking his polyester fur. “What is it?”
Having noticed his mom petting Clifford, [redacted] smiles. “Your stories. When I think of all the stories you’ve told me, all the people you’ve helped, I don’t feel so bad anymore. Not only that, but you could never help so many people unless you were always trying. And I think that’s what makes you special.”
“That I try?” Harriet quietly scoffs. “Everyone does. That’s all life is, really.”
“Well, maybe everyone is always trying at something. But no one can try the exact same way you can.”
[redacted] pauses, having noticed his mom’s motionless hands and mouth agape. “Am I right?”
Harriet grabs another tissue to dab beneath her eyes. “Baby, it’s not about being wrong or right. Yes, you’re right in saying that I try in my own way—or at least I try to try, like everyone else—but that’s not the point. Or at least not the point I’m trying to make. I was trying to make you feel special and loved, and here you are making me feel like that.”
[redacted] beams. “I’m happy to know I made you happy, Mom.”
Harriet places both of her hands on [redacted]’s shoulders and stares him straight in the eye, flushed face and all. “I hope you know this: no matter what you think it is that makes me special, nothing has ever been more special than being your mom.”
She wraps her arms around [redacted] and squeezes with all the strength a mother has to give. [redacted] does the same, although perhaps not quite as tight. Eventually, he pulls out of his mother’s embrace.
Harriet looks at her son longingly, somewhat disappointed that he left the hug so soon. [redacted] grabs the last crust off the plate, dips it in his glass of milk, and—to Harriet’s surprise—pushes it toward his mom’s mouth. She furrows her brows for a moment, then opens her mouth in acceptance.
“I love you, Mom.”
In return, Harriet takes one of the grilled cheese halves and dips the edge of it into her own mug of milk. She pushes it toward her son’s mouth, which bites down contentedly.
“I love you too.”
71 – SHE WILL BE LOOKING AT US
Nature, in all its understated beauty, encapsulates everything past her eyelids. The melody of mockingbirds. The rustling of autumn leaves. The breeze caressing the wrinkles and folds of her face. The oak planks upon which her back rests, while her body rocks back and forth.
The sun beams off the horizon as it begins its descent, the light prying open her eyes. There is no surprise or self-beratement, only serenity. She’s been here a while. She’s done this before.
Harriet picks up where she left off, sifting through a kaleidoscope of patterned papers which rest on the table beside her. She decides upon one with clouds lined up across a pink sky. Paper in hand, she retrieves the scissors from their rest atop the open scrapbook in her lap. Cutting, gluing, measuring, taping—she does it all with the quiet conviction of a woman determined to leave something behind.
Having completed two more pages, she flips back to look at the ones before. Her son in cap and gown, holding a certificate from DC Community College. A spontaneous picture of him as an eight-year-old, laughing while lying down in the grass. A washed-out selfie, a gift from a girl whom Harriet once cried over in a Waffle House. Two bracelets: one of threaded pastel, and one of purple rubber with the words “Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month.”
Two pages are occupied by a drawing she’s kept for several decades—a drawing of two girls in the middle of a sunset, just like the one coloring the sky at this moment. The outline of a heart is visible if Harriet squints, but the surrounding ink is so faded that it’s hard to tell. The words “Thank you for being my best friend,” still sit at the bottom of the page. A singular cotton ball remains in the drawing’s upper right corner. Harriet had considered peeling it off when she first placed the drawing in her scrapbook, but ultimately decided against it. It will fall away in its own time. Even if it is just a cotton ball, it’s not your job to do that.
As she’s flipping ahead to a new page, [redacted] emerges from the back door. He takes one look at his mom and sighs. “Outside again? It’s so chilly! You really don’t want to do your scrapbooking inside like a normal person.”
Harriet turns to him with a serene smirk on her face. “And everyone says I’m supposed to be the forgetful one. I’ve already told you how much I love sunsets, haven’t I? Especially now, when heaven knows many more I’ll get to see. I love chilly days too. The breeze reminds me that I’m alive.”
[redacted] scoffs lightly. “I’m glad you are.”
“Me too.” Harriet yawns, extending her arms to catch the breeze, then brings them back to her side. “I’ll be taking another nap, I think. Let your old woman sleep in peace, would ya?”
“Sure thing. Love you, Mom.” [redacted] turns back to the door.
“I love you too, [redacted].” Harriet jerks just as she’s about to nod off, having remembered the thin paper scraps beside her. “Wait, one last thing.”
[redacted] turns back toward her. “What is it?”
Harriet balls up the scraps in her fist and holds them out to her son. “Could you throw these scraps in the tra— ash…”
As soon as her tongue tastes the word “trash,” she passes out.
? – TO KNOW
Blue. There is no touch, no taste, no smell, no sound, only blue. There is no bed, no couch, no chair, no floor, but Harriet rises to her feet.
I remember now. The beautiful blue lady. She told me to go to sleep. Am I dead? Is this heaven? Was that my entire life? Was it just a dream? Was it both? It feels… empty, somehow. Incomplete. Maybe this is what usually happens when you die, but it feels like there’s too much I’ve forgotten. I remember the scrapbook. I remember the sunset. I remember my son, [redacted]—
Wait, what’s his name? Why can’t I remember his name?
Okay, let me try someone else. My best friend, [redacted]. Oh my God. I can’t remember her either. This isn’t right. I can’t be dead. Somebody please tell me what’s going on. And why am I alone here?
“Blue lady? God? Mom? Somebody, anybody, help!” She looks right and left, in front of and behind her, but there is nothing.
Until there is. Harriet watches as the blue emptiness in which she stands fades into the front of a building, built of red brick and black glass. Standing in front of it is… her mom. A moment and a lifetime ago, she said she would recognize her mother anywhere. Her back is turned, heedless to Harriet’s cries. Harriet’s mom opens the door to the building; it slams shut behind her.
“Mom? Wait for me!” Harriet rushes into the building after her mom, not thinking about what comes next.
X - THE ONLY LIFE SHE’LL EVER KNOW
Her right eye opens to amniotic fluid, like it should’ve from the beginning. I finally found you, Mama. At least, I think I did. Am I inside you? I can feel you holding me. Harriet struggles to open her left eye, but it’s okay. She can let down her guard here. She’s safe.
She kicks at the crib of flesh surrounding her, hoping for a response. A word, perhaps. Even a vibration, a patting from her mother would suffice.
Harriet’s hopes are answered; her mother speaks. But… it doesn’t sound anything like what she thought she would hear.
“It’ll be okay. It’s only a clump of cells.”
At her mother’s words, Harriet’s crib of flesh fades into the blue emptiness from which she came. But the blue is no longer empty; in its center is a rusted red incinerator. Red, the beating of her already vigorous heart. Red, the flame that awaits her disposal. Red, the blood that seeps out from the ashes.
A nitrile-gloved hand throws a drawing—two girls encapsulated in a heart and surrounded by a sunset—into the incinerator.
“She won’t feel anything.”
Two bracelets—one of threaded pastel, one of purple rubber—are fed to the flames.
“Better she goes through a peaceful death than a life of suffering.”
A foster kid’s washed-out selfie, in which she is smiling for the first time in several years, is charred into oblivion.
“I can’t be forced to be a mother.”
A District of Columbia Community College certificate with a blurred name is reduced to ashes.
“This is the only choice I can make.”
Mama? I’m scared. Why is everything burning? They won’t burn me too, right? You won’t let them burn me, right?
The crib closes in on Harriet: not crushing her, but pushing her out. Out towards glaring lights, frigid air, and noise. The words return. With no crib of flesh for a shield and no amniotic fluid to buffer the blows, they are deafening.
“IT’LL BE OKAY. IT’S ONLY A CLUMP OF CELLS.”
Harriet smells the scalpel before her right eye sees it. She doesn’t know what death smells like, but she’s certain this is it. They’re going to throw me into the fire. Mama, please don’t let them.
“SHE WON’T FEEL ANYTHING.”
The scalpel encroaches on the cord connecting Harriet to her mother. Blood spurts from the cut, and her one eye can only watch as it flows. Cold metal clamps close in on her skull, and the next thing she knows is pain. Her head out in the open, her feet in the amniotic fluid, and her arms confined in the canal between, she is trapped. The clamps keep pressing and pressing and pressing and pressing and pressing. Make it stop make it stop make it stop—
“BETTER SHE GOES THROUGH A PEACEFUL DEATH THAN A LIFE OF SUFFERING.”
Bone cracks. Harriet’s eye, unable to close, watches in horror as a tube reeking of rot draws nearer. The whirring noise accompanying it sharpens into a mechanical scream; air comes at its beck and call. Mama, where are you? I’m right here. I’m right here. It aims at the crack in her skull, her head growing light as its fluid drains out. Everything goes black.
“NO ONE CAN FORCE YOU TO BE A MOTHER.”
But the pain does not end. Exiled from her own broken body, Harriet watches as a man with nitrile gloves stuffs her into a plastic container labeled “TRASH.” She tries to find her mother’s face but only sees her legs, spread apart and lifted high. Mama, they’re going to burn me. Mama, why can’t you see? Dragged along as her body is taken away from her mother, she watches as they drop her inside a box labeled “CURTIS BAY ENERGY - MEDICAL WASTE.” There are more plastic containers—more bodies—inside.
Amidst the stain of red, Harriet suddenly recalls the blue. Blue lady, is that why your words were so heavy? Are these the children who have heard them before? Blue lady, is that why you walked away in tears? Did you already know our end?
“THIS IS THE ONLY CHOICE YOU CAN MAKE.”
[redacted], [redacted], [redacted], I’m sorry I never got a chance to learn your names.
Mama, I’m sorry that I never got to see your face.
To everyone, I’m sorry that I never got to say “I love you.”
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