Layla and Ruby spend a lot of time in my basement. It is their special place among the shadows and the boxes of old clothes and seasonal decorations. In my space they talk, laugh and fight as sisters do, even those who don’t share blood. The girls hold some intangible connection that, even after all my years of existence, I’ve yet to decipher. Though I do recall decades ago three girls who shared a similar bond.
These types of connections are ones fortified through merciless circumstance not games of jump rope or hopscotch. Perhaps girls, ones whose skin color defines them more than the depth of their character, unearth a reserve of energy and strength alien to those on the outside, and maybe only other girls who share this trait are able to truly understand one another in a way a city or nation or world at large cannot.
Maybe that’s why Layla and Ruby cloister themselves within my confines so others won’t intrude on whatever they share with each other. Like the first time Ruby told Layla about what Lebanon did at home. Layla didn’t comprehend at first because she’s only ten years old, but she recognizes enough to be quiet for once and listen to Ruby as she explained.
“It’s like he gets so mad and no one can get him to calm down. So Mom just makes me go in my room and tells me to not come out. That she’ll come get me. She says no matter what I hear, don’t come out of my room.”
Layla didn’t know what to do with this except to say, “I can tell my daddy. He can do something!”
Layla grabs Ruby’s arm to take her to her father because he could fix it. She’s sure of this, but Ruby won’t budge. And Layla pulls on her arm and tugs, but Ruby doesn’t move, and, finally when she’s had enough of Layla pulling at her, Ruby yells at Layla, “Stop!” And then she cries, it’s an ugly sound, one frightening Layla. All she can do is go to Ruby and hug her, and Ruby, with her skinny arms, holds Layla and clings to her until her tears won’t come anymore.
They sit down on a creaky old pew worn down from worship, and Layla offers Ruby a piece of candy which Ruby declines.
“If no one’s gonna protect you, I’ll do it,” Layla promises.
“Okay,” Ruby agrees. “I believe you.”
Ruby puts her head on Layla’s shoulder and there they remain on the old pew until Jackson finds them both and walks them upstairs.
There was a great shift in their sisterhood after that day, one Layla and Ruby recognized. The next Sunday, Layla begged for Ruby to come home with her to spend the night. She did so every Sunday afterward or whenever the girls saw one another. Sometimes Jackson and Joanna agreed and sometimes they didn’t. But when they did, she and Ruby slept in the same room, in the same bed and Layla clung to Ruby, and tried to think of a way they could both stay together, where Ruby could be happy and Layla could feel there was no longer a reason to keep holding her breath. But this feeling lingered, especially when Layla looked into Ruby’s eyes. And though Ruby loved Layla, she resented her for always believing she needed to be rescued, when all she needed was for someone to listen, not scheme or plot or plan, just listen because Ruby knew, one day, when she got older, she’d figure out how to escape. But Layla didn’t want Ruby to leave—not without her.
It’s no wonder off Layla goes again to save Ruby. Pull her to some kind of tenuous safety, like she did when they were ten-year-old girls, entombed in the light and shadow and dust of my basement.
And I hope Layla finds Ruby. For if she doesn’t, I dread to envision what could become of Layla, her family and, if selfishness is a thing for a conscious collection of brick and mortar, of me.