Mom is already awake when I come downstairs in my spandex shorts and sports bra. She stands in the center of the room surrounded by boxes, holding an old book in one hand and her glasses in the other. Oh hi, sweetie, she says when she looks up, Dad and I didn’t want to wake you, you were just passed out on your covers. Her eyes drop to the silver bar in my belly button and her jaw tightens. I pierced it the summer before my senior year of high school and it has been a sore point ever since. Mom can’t articulate why she doesn’t like it and I can’t say why her discomfort pleases me so much, but we have learned to live with each other. You’re up early, I say. She spreads her arms wide to the room and says, so much to pack up, so little time. I thought that’s what you pay movers for. They can’t decide what you take with you, what you put in storage, and what you throw away, she says. She folds her hands over her stomach. Her ring catches the light while her glasses hang loose from her fingers. She has more splotches on her arms and more wrinkles now despite the creams and cleansers she uses. Everyone says I look exactly like her when she was my age, the same large eyes, the same dark hair, the same skinny, long-legged frame, but we can’t be more dissimilar. We are an experiment in nature versus nurture. She is from Texas. I am not. She has five siblings. I do not. She paid her way through college and law school. I did not. She is methodical. I am not. We used to snap at each other without end, criticizing and reacting until Dad made jokes about being Switzerland. Now we agree that distance is better for some relationships. Mom says, you’re sure it’s not too cold outside, the mornings are still a little chilly. I’m going for a run. I know but—Mom I’ll be fine. She opens her mouth and sighs. I can feel her eyes on me as I slip out of the front door and down the front steps.
The streets are empty and quiet this early in the morning and I can hear my own footsteps as they fall. I can never forget the imperfections in these brick sidewalks, where they rise and dip around tree roots, where loose segments can make you stumble and fall. Mom is right, the morning is cooler than I expected, but I am committed to the cold air sting that will soon turn to an unbearably soggy heat. Such is the way of a city built on a swamp. My boyfriend doesn’t understand my obsession with running and I can’t explain to him why I take a pair of running shoes with me wherever I go. He used to pout when I told him that I like to run alone. He said, you don’t think I’m fast enough? No, I said, but we ran through Central Park together all the same and I purposely pushed the pace to prove my point. Abuse is what he has called it and it wouldn’t be too strong a term, but I crave the feel of burning air struggling up my throat, the feel of my heaving chest. I pay special attention to each breath. He understands now and settles for kisses before I leave and when I return, but he always wants more. He says he will train for the New York City Marathon this year. He wants me to run with him.
In this section of the city, all the streets are corridors between pretty houses sloping towards the Potomac River. I peek into first-floor living rooms and kitchens and the lives just beginning at this time of day. That my parents are leaving, that they have sold their house, is all the more remarkable in a zip code where people cling to even the smallest property as their lifeline to relevance. It’s a statement about how things have changed. This was once a city of possibility and hope. Now it’s a society of fear no matter how colorful its row-house faҫades. I run to the sundial at the end of Thirtieth Street and watch the river churning this early morning. I love the Georgetown waterfront in the summer—especially the mornings when the only other people here are die-hard runners hell-bent on exercise before work. I follow the water’s edge as the sun rises over Mount Saint Alban and flashes against the skyscrapers in Arlington on the Virginia bank. I run past the empty outdoor tables at the Sequoia and the Washington Harbor, thankful for the quiet and the cool breeze off the silver-blue water. Farther up, the river gurgles and makes petty rapids against slick rocks where small sticks struggle to keep above a white froth. There is already traffic on the Whitehurst Freeway heading from Maryland into downtown. It provides a steady background hum to which I time my breathing. I can feel the breeze against my stomach, and my thighs. My legs feel stiff and they tingle but I push forward towards the C&O Canal.
The first time we ran here Niru and I made plans to meet halfway between our two houses. It was a weekday in June the summer before senior year, long enough after the end of school that the novelty of boredom was wearing thin. That’s like more than six miles for each of us, I said. You scared, slacker, he texted me. I hated his taunts. He said, you don’t think you can make it, do you? Oh I can make it. Well prove it. I ran faster than I should have through the streets to the crushed-pebble path along the canal. At the ancient locks, water poured over carefully placed stones smoothed by centuries of flow. In the long stretches between, the water became stagnant and covered by a film of bright green algae. The sun that day was unrelenting. I wanted to stop but I pushed because Niru wouldn’t stop halfway, and he wouldn’t let it go if he overran me. He was the perfect partner during track season, always pushing the pace but making sure that his legs matched my legs stride for stride as he pulled me along by some invisible tether. I’d become a better runner because of our friendship, maybe even a better person. That was one of the things I’d written in the letter I’d planned to give him at graduation. But that never happened. As I ran farther into Maryland I picked up speed and brushed by other runners, people in pairs or with animals on leashes, all moving at a slower pace. I could feel my legs grow tired, but I kept pushing, my steps timed and rhythmic. I think up a song, Niru told me when I asked how he ran so steady, how he ignored the pain, and I play it on repeat in my head until I can’t think of anything else. Then I don’t feel and I’m free.
You tried, Niru said to me when I finally reached the halfway. He sat on a log by the path in the small shade of a scraggly tree. Here, drink up, he said and he gave me a bottle with water sloshing around a frozen ice core. You ran here with this, I said. Of course he did. Sometimes being friends with Niru was annoying. His deliberateness and conscientiousness stood in such stark contrast to my impulsivity that I had to remind myself that we were actually the same age. That’s when I realized I’d left the house without my keys. Those who forget are often forgotten, Mom would say to me in the multiple text messages she used to send to make certain that one thing or another was completed at the house. I hated proving Mom right, but more often than not I proved Mom right. You can just come to mine, Niru said. He had never asked me to come home with him. My house was so much closer to school, and my parents were almost never around, so we had the run of the house most of the time. We sat at the kitchen table drinking juice and crashing through homework. Sometimes we watched YouTube clips on our phones—Niru liked Thug Life Animals—that was the only thing that could reliably get him to break focus. When my parents came home, they treated Niru with the politeness of functionaries used to meeting people they wouldn’t remember but knew they would see again. He responded in kind with a timid formality, never speaking unless spoken to, and then mostly in Yessirs and Yesmaams before quickly slipping out the front door. I met his parents briefly after an orchestra concert where they sat in the front row with their eyes intensely focused on Niru and their arms folded tightly across their chests. His mother wore a loose blue Nigerian dress with elaborate gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar. His father wore a suit and tie. I didn’t bother to search the audience for my own parents because I knew they wouldn’t be there. After we finished, they congratulated us on playing as we stood together by the table of cookies, pastries and plastic cups of sparkling water, sparkling cider and juice. Niru’s mother’s eyes were half-closed behind her glasses. His father smiled at everyone but generally kept his conversations short. Your parents couldn’t make it, Niru’s mother asked when I followed them to their car after they offered to drop me at home. Will there be anyone at home with you, his father asked when we pulled up in front of my house. It was the only building without lights on. I could hear real concern in his voice. I liked him immediately despite Niru’s tales of his strictness and intransigence. Your parents pay attention, I whispered to Niru. He shrugged.
We walked back to his place from the canal and I forgot my fatigue as soon as I saw the swimming pool in his backyard. I dashed to the wrought-iron fence, swung through the gate and catapulted myself towards the water. The cold made me gasp, but it felt good to have something wash away the film of sweat and salt from my skin. The chlorine stung my eyes and nose and my running shoes grew heavy with water. I kicked to the pool’s edge and pulled myself up against the warm brick edging. Niru’s bare feet hopped on the hot pavement before my eyes. You’re crazy, he said. Then he jumped in.
We chased each other around in the pool despite our fatigue and dehydration. We splashed each other and took turns trying to see who could hold their breath for longer. We challenged each other to see who could lie for longer on the sun-heated bricks. I don’t have sunscreen, I said to him. I don’t need sunscreen, he said. We laughed and dripped from the patio to the basement bathrooms where Niru pulled large plush towels from the linen closet. We wrapped ourselves up to dry against the blasting cold from the central air. His house was immaculate with thick carpets on the stairs and brightly polished wood floors and wood cabinets in an expansive kitchen. Piles of mail stood in neat stacks on a low kitchen counter next to small picture frames of his family in various places around the world. He scurried about nervously, adjusting this and that to make sure everything was in its place, sweeping a plate of uneaten toast into the sink, replacing an orange that had rolled off a stacked fruit bowl. I lifted lids from the two pots still on the burner. One contained rice and the other a thick vegetable stew that smelled of fish. Niru pounced and covered the pots. Then he lifted the stew and carried it to the stainless-steel fridge. Yo, I’m hungry, I said. You wouldn’t like that, Niru said, we can just order a pizza.
You have a very nice house, I said to his mother when she came home from work. The artwork is beautiful. I ran my fingers over the embroidered tablecloth on the kitchen table. This is very cool. Niru’s mother chuckled and smiled. I like her, where did you find this one, she said to Niru, who stood awkwardly by a small indoor tree fiddling with its leaves. On the path by the river, I said, we went for a run earlier. People’s parents always liked me. I knew how to charm adults. Because I’m an only child, I told Niru, because I’m more sophisticated. I loved the political conversations that swirled around Mom and Dad’s dinner parties. I would lodge myself at the top of the stairs when their friends stopped by and listen to them talk about their marriages and divorces and mortgages and second homes.
You must join us for dinner, Niru’s mom said as she retrieved pots and pans from her cabinets and vegetables from the fridge. She wore shiny red flats with her long light blue skirt. She had a playful band of colored hearts on her right wrist. When Niru’s father came home, we all sat at the kitchen table and ate large plates of jollof rice and plantain. I was hungry so I dished myself a second helping, careful not to spill anything from the platter onto the deep-purple tablecloth. His father was astonished. It’s not too spicy, he asked. He removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His mustache held on to tiny drops of water from his glass. Niru shifted in his seat when his father asked me about my father and the president. He stroked his beard when I talked about the Oval Office and the White House grounds. Niru’s mom offered me more water and asked if I wanted ice cream. I always wanted ice cream so we ate dessert while the sun unraveled above the shifting trees in the backyard, until Niru’s father asked, do your parents know you are here? His shirttails had slipped out from his pants. I said, no. I don’t have my phone, I said. Niru’s father shot a glance across the kitchen. Ngwanu, give her a phone so she can call her parents, he half shouted. It’s getting late, Niru can take you home. I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t want to leave.
How have I made it this far? When I stop, I feel the full force of my breathlessness. I know these streets but I am unsure of how I arrived here. Each house on this tree-lined cul-de-sac stands as an island in a sea of impossibly green impossibly level grass, except for one at the very end where yellow dandelions pop up in random spots and clusters. I place my hands on my knees as I search for breath. My legs vibrate and my joints throb from the run. I should turn around and go home, or find a shaded spot where I can sit and wait for an Uber, but my feet move me forward, slowly. There are water marks in concentric parabolas on the white paint underneath the gutters and the black paint on the shutters has faded and peeled. Blinds cover each window. From where I stand, I can see the front door is ajar. I freeze in place as a man emerges with his chin tucked to his chest. His unkempt hair is completely white and frizzes like a halo around his head. He walks a few hesitant steps to the Range Rover idling in the front drive, opens the door and steps a foot inside while holding himself steady on the frame. Suddenly he leaps out and dashes back to the house, then back to the car which he finally backs slowly down the drive. It abruptly stops and he dashes to the house again, fumbles at the lock, disappears inside and closes the door behind him, leaving the car running. It sounds like it needs servicing.
Six years have passed, but I can still feel the police car vibrate beneath me. I feel things more than I see or hear because I don’t want to see and I don’t want to hear over and over the pop, pop, pop, pop—yes four—his hands slapping the pavement, his horrible, rasping breath. I don’t want to see that officer’s shell-shocked but determined face. I feel so cold, then hot, and I feel someone’s jacket on my shoulders and a wet towel wiping my mouth. I feel my fingers stick together with blood that is not my blood and stick to a phone that is not my phone even though I hold it like it’s my life. I feel the voices as they try to comfort me. They ask me if I’m hurt. They say an ambulance is on the way. They ask for identification but my card says I am Amy from Maryland. They keep repeating Amy as if saying that name will make me feel less alone. But Niru is no longer with me and I am very alone. This world is flashing red light and blue light and menacing silhouettes. I want to scream as they take me away from him. Instead, I close my eyes.
Then I cannot open them fully because the light is too bright. It makes my head hurt especially where Niru slammed me against the brick wall. I see people as blurred shapes swimming around in a shower of fluorescent light. I focus on voices and touch, slowly parsing this blip from that bleep, curtains sliding on aluminum rods, and footsteps from nurses whose sneakers squeak differently from physicians’ clopping shoes. I hear different flavors of Caribbean accent and think of my childhood nanny Ms. Simpson who always smelled of cinnamon and roses, who wiped my nose in a way that made me sneeze. I hear different flavors of African accents that Niru’s friendship has made easier to discern. Where is he, where is he? I ask the various people who enter my pod. They respond with some version of the same platitudes—everything will be okay, you’re safe here—before busying themselves with the cold compress against my forehead and the different machines and monitors around me. They say, get some rest but when I lie back I can’t breathe. When I sit up, I can’t think. My stomach fights against my lungs and my throat burns deep in my chest. There is a tube in my arm secured by white tape. My legs rest beneath a white hospital blanket. I have no shoes. If there were ever a time to cry, that time is now, but I can’t figure out how.
Where is he?
I know one answer, that he is not behind the next curtain, a drunken shout away, and that means something very bad. It means I didn’t get to say, don’t close your eyes, please hold on, stay with me, as people who are close to people say in all the movies. It means I will never tell him how much I love him. I didn’t know a person could bleed out so fast but I never knew how fast people bleed when shot. I remember an Iraq war veteran who spoke to us at a school assembly. It’s not like the movies, she said. She wore a black, formfitting mini dress that revealed a titanium prosthetic attached to a muscular leg amputated just above her knee. I got hit in the back too, she said and turned around to reveal a mottled budge of scar tissue in the deep scoop of her backless dress. There is no describing that pain, she said, all you want is to close your eyes and have everything be over.
A nurse says, this has been ringing. Her name tag reads Moyo and she hums religious praise songs while she works, taking vitals, inserting lines. She holds up a clear plastic bag with a few accessories, my small black purse, my iPhone with a freshly splintered screen and Niru’s black Nokia that sings Satie. I look at the screen. It says Daddy. I answer because the word makes me feel calm. Who is this? Meredith. Oh Meredith, hi, how are you, Niru’s father says, trying to sound normal, but I can hear worry and rage inside his extreme calm. I want to speak but can’t find words. My lips stay closed, sticky with my own dried saliva. Meredith, are you there, okay good, where is Niru, is he there with you? I struggle with the sound of his voice as I push my brain to do the work necessary to open my lips to give the right response, any response. Are you there, okay well if he’s there with you, tell him that we really need to speak with him, his voice cracks and I can resist no longer. I clutch at my hair with a free hand forgetting the spot where my head hit the wall and wince. Nurse Moyo catches the phone as it slips from my hand, ever ready as if she’s been through this moment a thousand times before. Sir, she says, your daughter is here in the GW emergency room, she’s in good hands, and she will be fine. I can’t say much more but it’s better that you come. Her face crunches, your son, hmm, I’m not, I don’t know, hello, hello? She looks at the phone for a moment and places it on the bed next to my legs. She says, he’ll be here soon, I’m sure. I hug my knees to my chest and struggle to catch my breath.
Then he is here, all of him so very present. He is not calm. He does not wear a suit. His navy-blue golf shirt has large pink wounds from an encounter with the wrong kind of laundry detergent and it is only half tucked into wrinkled khaki pants. They have already told him. I know because he can’t breathe. He gasps for air as he stands supporting himself with one hand against the wall that flanks the bay where they placed me. I struggle to slide upwards against the angle of the bed and the pillow behind me. Niru’s father fluctuates in size and is sometimes more an abstract shape than an actual thing and that is just fine. A clear view to his shattered face patched and held together by sheer force of will is too much in a situation that already surpasses superlatives.
What have I done, I think. I clench my teeth and bunch the sheets in my hands. Meredith, he manages to say before he slumps against the wall and crouches down to the floor. He starts to cry and pound the wall with his fist. I listen to him and try not to watch because it hurts to look at things for too long and because Niru would have found this show of weakness unbecoming.
What do you say to a grown man in tears? Dad cried when his candidate lost the election. That is understandable—all the tense hours, all the sleepless nights, the thought that such devotion nearly cost him his marriage. Mom held his hand and I hugged him around his waist while we sat with a would-be senator that I wouldn’t have voted for even if I had been able to vote. It’s okay, Dad, there’s always next time, I said.
With death, there is no next time.
It’s all my fault, I say softly. If Niru’s father hears me, he gives no sign. His shoulders shake. He clutches the back of his neck. It’s all my fault, I say unsure what to do next, this is all my fault.
When he finally turns to face me with red eyes and a shining face, he asks, do your parents know you are here? I shake my head no. Well I guess we’d better tell them, he says, but he doesn’t move.