The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(85)
The elevator buttons pulsed for a moment.
“You’re all set. Your car will be here in approximately twelve minutes, and I made you a lovely reservation at the Owyhee Plaza Hotel in downtown Boise, Idaho. An itinerary with recommended dining and entertainment possibilities has been sent to your mobile device. Please drive safely, Ms. Moy, and enjoy your trip.”
Outside, Dorothy didn’t wait for the car. She hastened toward the nearest subway stop, took one last look at the horizon, which had become a wall of cirrus clouds, then descended the concrete stairs. While waiting, she whispered words of comfort and assurance to Annabel, who began to stir. “Shhh… just close your eyes, Baby-bel. Everything’s going to be okay.” Dorothy expected questions about where they were going and why Louis wasn’t coming with them. Instead she felt Annabel squeeze tightly, then relax as she exhaled. Dorothy felt her daughter’s breath on her neck.
On the speeding train, Dorothy slowed down long enough for fatigue to catch up to her. She sat in a rear car, her back to a window where she could rest her head against the cool glass, Annabel asleep in her arms. She regarded the other passengers, a sparse mixture of early risers heading away from the storm, suitcases and backpacks tucked between their legs, and those heading home far too late, from night jobs or Typhoon parties, looking like hangovers in human form. Dorothy avoided eye contact and stared out the opposite window, past the empty seats across from her, watching the flicker of advertisements and graffiti on the station walls as the train sped by, those images interrupted by semidarkness as the train slipped through sections of the subway where the lights were out. She appreciated each respite of shadow, then each refulgent return, imagining the back-and-forth moments as larger passages of time, tidal echoes of days and nights, years and lifetimes. Then in the long tunnel beneath Beacon Hill, she saw a woman about her age sit down across from her. She had dark hair, cut short with Medusa-like curls that framed her face. On her lap was a violin case. Dorothy felt oddly at home in her company. Maybe she’s running away as well. Growing up in a coarse carnival of group homes, Dorothy learned to trust her intuition when it came to the plight of strangers, runaways, and the discarded.
The woman smiled warmly as though in greeting, and then spoke with a British accent. “You have a beautiful girl there, that little lass of yours.”
“Thank you,” Dorothy heard herself say. She looked at the woman, trying not to stare, but there was something oddly familiar about her.
“Promise me you’ll look out for her when the time comes.”
Before Dorothy could reply the train emerged from the tunnel.
The woman was gone.
“I promise,” Dorothy said to the empty seat where the woman had just been.
Dorothy held on to Annabel and finally surrendered to the rhythm of the train, the motion, the white noise, the flicker of lights, which all conspired to bring Dorothy closer to the destination she’d been avoiding: sleep.
17 Zoe
(1927)
When Zoe finally slept, she dreamed of lying beneath a great, fruited tree on a sunny afternoon, her head in Mrs. Bidwell’s lap as her teacher brushed the hair from Zoe’s eyes. She looked up and her teacher was everything to her. She was warm. Her clothing smelled like summer. Her eyes were oases of contentment, blue-green and shimmering, too good to be true and too inviting to be believed. She leaned down, her lips drawing closer. Zoe’s heart was pounding.
That’s when Zoe opened her eyes and realized someone was banging on the door to the bedroom she shared with two other girls, Lily and Mildred. An orange glow peeked through the trees outside their window. She sat up as Mildred shouted, “Go away, we’re dead. Have some respect.” The knocking continued until Lily groaned and padded across the room in her pajamas and socks to open the door.
Three senior girls stood in the hallway, fully dressed.
“Step aside, we’re here for her.”
Zoe saw them pointing in her direction and froze, panicked that she’d been caught, seen last night in a moment of impropriety with her teacher. But we didn’t do anything. Zoe tried to calm herself long enough to formulate a defense.
The girls in the doorway smiled. “She’s been reassigned.”
“What?” Zoe sat up. “This is my room.”
“Not anymore. Get your things. You have five minutes.”
“Says who?”
“The new school marshal.”
Zoe groaned and rolled her eyes as she remembered last night’s meeting where teachers and student body had collectively decided to run the school as a fascist state, a weeklong object lesson in government. Her roommates shook their heads. Mildred pulled a blanket over her face, trying to go back to sleep.
“Are you seriously going to let them do this?” she said to her roommates.
Lily went back to bed and put a pillow over her head.
“Just do as they say and leave us out of it.” Then Mildred mumbled, “You’ll be fine, Z. Just play along. Besides, better you than us.”
Zoe pulled her suitcase out from beneath her bed. She sat it on the mattress and began piling her clothing and personal effects inside.
“No books,” the older girl said.
“What are you talking about?” Zoe asked. “These are my textbooks! I need these for my classes. How am I supposed to do my homework?”