Our Missing Hearts (30)

Every day. Borrowing books, back when she was still writing her poems. Before she became the voice of the revolution.

The librarian laughs, a short laugh edged with bitterness. She closes her eyes and recites in a singsong.

    All our missing hearts

scattered, to sprout elsewhere.



Bird sits with this, lets it soak into him like rain into stone. Leaving a wet dark patch. Not just a book, but a poem, too, and a line in the poem as well.

I’ve never heard the whole thing, he admits.

The librarian settles back against the wall, hands at her hips. All those posters and banners with her slogan on them. Such good branding. All those viral photo ops.

She sniffs.

I guess it’s easier, she says, to write brave words than to actually do the work.

So that’s what you do, he says. You find the children and bring them back home.

The librarian sighs.

It’s not quite that simple, she admits. There’s so much fear around it all. Most people won’t even publicly say their children have been taken. People are told if they stay silent, they can get their kids back. But—

She stops, pinches the bridge of her nose. We try to convince them, she says. We keep a list: name, age, description. And if we hear about a replaced child, we try and figure out who it is. Sometimes the leads pan out, sometimes they don’t.

Unconsciously, her hand touches her sweater pocket, and the man’s note crinkles inside.

It’s risky, you know—a lot of people just don’t want to get involved. But we try to find people we can trust, here and there.

Like that man, Bird says, and she nods.

A lot of times no one knows where the children have been taken. Some of the younger ones, at least, are replaced. But some of them are given new names. Some are so young they don’t even know their parents’ names. And usually they’re replaced far away from home. Not accidentally.

Bird thinks of Sadie, the hundreds of miles between Cambridge and her parents in Baltimore. How impossible it would be for a child to retrace that distance alone.

Then what, he asks.

For now, then nothing, she says, and he can feel how bitter the words are on her tongue. There isn’t anything we can do yet, to actually bring them back home. Not as long as PACT is in effect anyway. But we’ve matched up a few and I think it helps the families, letting them know at least their children are safe, and where. We’re just trying to keep track. Of who’s been lost, and who’s been found. As much as we can.

We?

A handful of us, she says carefully. All over the country. We share notes. She half smiles. It’s part of our job, you know: information. Gather it. Keep it. Help people find what they need.

All this time a question has been flickering inside Bird.

But why, he says. When it’s so risky. Won’t they punish you, too, if they find out?

The librarian’s lips tighten.

Of course they could. Me, and everyone else who’s trying to find these children. That man and anyone else who passes us information. Of course it’s a risk. But—

She pauses, and rubs her temples.

My great-grandfather was at Carlisle, she says simply, as if that explains everything. Then at the sight of Bird’s blank face, she snorts. You have no idea, do you, she says. How could you? They don’t teach you any of this. Too unpatriotic, right, to tell you the horrible things our country’s done before. The camps at Manzanar, or what happens at the border. They probably teach you that most plantation owners were kind to their slaves and that Columbus discovered America, don’t they? Because telling you what really happened would be espousing un-American views, and we certainly wouldn’t want that.

Bird doesn’t fully understand any of these things, but what he does understand, suddenly, and with head-spinning force, is how much he does not know.

I’m sorry, he says meekly.

The librarian sighs. How can you know, she says, if no one teaches you, and no one ever talks about it, and all the books about it are gone?

A long silence unwinds between them.

I didn’t mean to make trouble, Bird says finally. Honest. I just—I just want to find my mother.

She softens.

I only knew your mother a little, she says. And a long time ago. But I remember her. She was a nice person. And a good poet.

But a bad mother, he thinks.

Only when the librarian replies does he realize he’s spoken out loud.

You shouldn’t say that, she says. Not about your own mother.

She puts her hand on Bird’s shoulder again—gently, this time. A tender squeeze.

I’m not saying there aren’t bad mothers, she says. Just that you don’t always know. What makes them do something, or not do something. Most of us, we’re trying our best.

Something in her voice makes Bird pause. A brittle sound. Something stretched too thin, more cracks than whole.

Do you have kids? he asks.

Two, she says slowly. I had two.

Past tense. Snipping the sentence in two: before, and after.

What happened to them, Bird asks.

My little girl got sick, she says. During the Crisis. We couldn’t afford the hospital, hardly anybody could. Then my boy ran out of insulin, toward the end.

Her eyes have drifted away from him, are focused somewhere just over his shoulder, on the wall beyond.