Chapter 14:

Christopher’s Gift

We stood outside the store, everyone gathered in a semicircle around the entrance to Mr. Mac’s. I felt sort of uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with myself. A memorial service? An hour ago I had been daydreaming about meeting Christopher. And now . . . I reached out to hold Daddy’s hand.

He squeezed my hand right back. “You doing okay?”

I nodded. I still felt the hard, cold aching inside, but I wanted to hold myself together for Mr. Mac. Daddy had explained that Mr. Mac requested me specially to attend the memorial. “He said it would mean a lot to him for you to be there,” he’d said. “And Ralph, too.”

“But . . . what am I supposed to do? Or say?” I had only been to a funeral once before, when my great-grandma passed away, but I was only three years old then. How was I supposed to act?

“I think you being there is enough,” Daddy had said solemnly. “Just be respectful and you’ll be fine.”

Ralph and I stood together, with Mom next to Ralph and Daddy next to me. Mom had come straight from work. As I looked around, I saw other people from the neighborhood: Mrs. Crespo, holding Cholula in her arms; Andre the bus driver, wearing his uniform. Miss Gina was rolling her father toward us in his wheelchair. Mr. Muhammad was there, and Zaid and Aisha. Aisha was holding a tiny bouquet of flowers. Lots of faces that I recognized, and lots that I did not. More people kept coming, and every time I saw a new person I wouldn’t believe that they could fit on the jam-packed sidewalk, but somehow they would. Despite there being so many people, everyone was hushed, murmuring to each other quietly or standing in silence. Some people held candles or notes or teddy bears. Just when I thought no one else could fit into the tiny space, I felt a brush at my elbow. I looked up to see the man who had come into the store with the map. He nodded and smiled down at me.

I leaned over to Ralph. “Ralph,” I said, my voice low. “Try that new visitor welcome sequence, would you? Number three.”

INITIATING VISITOR WELCOME SEQUENCE THREE.

Ralph turned toward the man and held out a hand.

BIENVENIDO, SEÑOR. ME LLAMO RALPH. EL NOMBRE DE MI AMIGA ES MAYA. ¿CÓMO SE LLAMA USTED?

The man looked startled at first, then extended his hand to meet Ralph’s and shook it. “Buenas tardes, Ralph,” he said politely. “Me llamo Señor Eduardo. Mucho gusto. Soy un vecino nuevo.”

Ralph turned back to me to translate, but he didn’t have to. Señor Eduardo’s kind smile spoke for itself. I shook his hand, and so did Daddy.

Finally, as the sun was hanging low and red in the sky, Terrance stepped out of the crowd. I remembered seeing Terrance on the day I found Ralph, buying his milk. And sometimes I would see him playing basketball in the summer at the playground. Sometimes Mom would try to pay him to help carry our groceries or put salt on the sidewalk in the winter. He always said no, insisting that he help her without payment. I’d seen Terrance lots of times. But now, as he moved to the center of the circle, Terrance looked like a different person. He seemed more important somehow, moving with a confidence I hadn’t seen, his head up high as he surveyed the people around him. He was dressed in crisp jeans, a pair of flawless Air Force Ones, and an airbrushed T-shirt. On the shirt it said, “In Memory of Christopher” in bright purple and green letters, and there was a picture of a young man. He looked like Mr. Mac, but with a rounder face. He had large, bright eyes, and he wore short dreadlocks. He had on a heavy-rimmed pair of glasses and he was smiling, but in an awkward way, as though he wasn’t expecting to have his photo taken and maybe felt shy about it.

As Terrance began to speak, Mom reached out and took my other hand. She squeezed it, and I squeezed back.

“Good evening,” began Terrance. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. Today we are here to remember my fallen brother, my best friend, a neighbor, a son, a beloved member of our community, Christopher Jeremiah MacMillan, Jr. On this day, ten years ago, Christopher was walking out of this store, his father’s store that he worked in so faithfully. And he was shot and killed and taken from us. He was only twenty-three years old. He was in graduate school and had a bright future ahead of him. That future was stolen from him.”

I inhaled slowly. I had heard gunshots before, sometimes late at night. My mom always told me when I heard them to count to ten slowly, to think of a happy memory, and to say a prayer for the safety of whoever might be in danger. I looked closely at Christopher’s face on Terrance’s T-shirt as he spoke. I wished I had a happy memory of Christopher.

Terrance paused for a moment and took a deep breath before continuing. “Every year in the United States, around twelve thousand people are killed by guns. That’s thirty-three people a day. And every single one of them had someone who loved them the way we loved Christopher. Someone who misses them. Someone who cries for them.” His voice began to shake. “Christopher was a scientist and the smartest person I ever met in my life.” When he said this, people in the crowd began to nod, offering side comments. “It’s true!” said one person behind me. “He sure was,” said another.

“Christopher believed in using his skills to make a better world. And that’s what we have to do. Each of us. In his memory.” Terrance reached out to where Mr. Mac was standing at the front of the crowd. I hadn’t recognized him, because he wore clothes I had never seen—a dark suit and a very formal dark felt hat. “I am now going to invite Mr. MacMillan, Christopher’s father, to say a few words.” He took Mr. Mac’s elbow and brought him to the center.

Mr. Mac stepped to the space in front of the door of the shop. He took a deep, heavy breath and slowly removed his hat, holding it in front of his heart. As he spoke, Terrance stood next to him. He reminded me of a bodyguard, like Mr. Mac was the king of the neighborhood and Terrance would do anything to protect him and keep him safe.

Mr. Mac stood there in silence for a while. He scanned the crowd, pausing his gaze at various people who he recognized and giving them a small nod. Finally, his eyes landed on me and my family, and he smiled. Then he began to speak.

“Good evening,” he said. “I am so grateful that you all came here tonight to help me lift up the memory of my son, my only child, Christopher. I tried to prepare a speech, but it was too much for me. So I’m going to speak from my heart.

“For the last ten years, not a day has gone by where I didn’t miss my boy. He left a hole in my life as big as the whole world.

“And for a long time, I didn’t want anyone to mention Christopher to me. I didn’t want to talk about what happened. I didn’t want to talk about him because hearing his name, thinking about him, made me feel like . . . I couldn’t go on. It made me feel hopeless. So I tried to go from day to day, not facing the truth about how I felt.

“Recently, that changed. You see, y’all, Christopher was a scientist, as Terrance mentioned. And he was a genius. I mean, smart. Even when he was a little bitty baby. And sometimes as a young boy, he struggled with that. Sometimes he felt lonely. Sometimes he had a hard time making friends, and speaking up for himself. And sometimes he wanted to try to be someone else. Someone different. But after a while, Christopher realized that he could never be anyone but himself. Oh, believe me, he tried! He tried to blend in. But he didn’t have it in him, that boy. He was too special. And so he realized that he had to be the way God made him. And furthermore, he realized that he had something to teach the world. He could use his gifts to try to build inventions that would help people.

“As many of you know, Christopher designed and built robots as part of his university studies. But he didn’t want to design robots to fight wars or work in factories. He made robots that could be friends to people in need. Robots that could comfort people in the hospital, robots that could help the elderly around the house, robots that could be a companion to a lonely child. He wanted to use his gifts to heal the world, to use technology to make the world a kinder place.”

Mr. Mac stopped speaking for a moment. A tear fell down his cheek. Terrance put an arm around him, and Miss Gina stepped out of the crowd to hand him a tissue. When he began again, Mr. Mac looked right at me.

“Recently, I realized that Christopher’s spirit is still with us. And if he were here, he would not want me to be quiet and silent and pretend nothing happened. He would want me to use his memory to teach, to inspire others. He would want his brilliance to shine on. And if only—if only he could see—” He cried, but he kept going. “If only he could see how his dream is still alive, he would be . . . he would be so happy. Just to see it live on.

“So I’m not gonna be silent anymore. I’m going to tell the world. I had a son named Christopher. I loved him. He was a shining light. And as long as a young person is true to their own spirit, as long as they use their gifts to help others, his light will shine on. His light will shine on.”

Mr. Mac stepped away. Terrance invited everyone to the front, and one by one, our neighbors placed their candles and their cards and their letters in front of the store. I hung back, crying. I looked around, wondering if Christopher might somehow appear and tell everyone that it was a trick, that he wasn’t really gone. I looked up at Mom, and she hugged me tightly. “Always remember, Maya,” she whispered in my ear, “being yourself is a gift to others around you. It’s a gift to the people who love you. And it’s a way to remember the people who came before you, who made you what you are.”

When she let me go, Mr. Mac was there. Both of us looked at each other, crying, and suddenly I felt very grown-up. Like for a second, instead of being a kid and an adult, we were two people who were sharing our tears with each other. I didn’t know what to say, but he spoke first.

“Thank you, Maya. Thank you for bringing my son back to me.” He looked at Ralph. Ralph’s eyes were whizzing and whirring as he looked around at the group of people leaning in close to one another and wiping tears away. He seemed to understand everyone’s sadness, and his mouth had become a series of blue, downward-turned lights. Mr. Mac waved at him, grabbing his attention. “Ralph . . .” said Mr. Mac. “Thank you.”

Ralph looked at me. Then he extended his arms outward toward Mr. Mac.

THANK YOU. CHRISTOPHER TOLD ME ABOUT HUGS.

The two of them embraced as the sun went down.