Issue #5 October 2024

Eggplant

By Jos Joseph

I had never heard that word before, but I knew it was racist. Being in the marching band was one of the lowest orders on the high school social hierarchy, and I was at the bottom of that group. There were several reasons for that, but one had to do with uniformity. It had been made clear several times to me over the years that I hurt the uniform look. I stuck through it. I needed extra curriculars to make up for my “meh” GPA and I really liked playing music. And most of the kids weren’t like this. Just enough to make me not love it.  A couple of guys decided that being in the marching band wasn’t dorky enough, they wanted to give everyone nicknames. They went through the roster opining, arguing, laughing, and settling on names. I was sitting off to the side, eating my sandwich. I usually ate in the band room because it was less hectic and closer to my next class. But I also had to listen to them babble about how wonderful band was all the time. And I heard as they went through giving themselves “cool” sounding nicknames, giving girls nicknames based on their attributes or their weight, and finally they got to me. “What about Joslin?”  There was silence. I looked over at them. I had to hear this.  Maybe I would get a cool nickname.  But then I saw the sneers, heard the snickers, and felt their evil eyes on me. One of them said it. “Mulignan”. They all started laughing under their breath. I knew but still asked. “What does that mean?”  The reply, “nothing, just means a guy”.  I knew better.  I always did.

When my parents first forced me to take piano lessons, I had no idea that Mrs. Baldini would eventually become the grandparent I never really had. She was in her 80s, walked with a cane, and yelled and screamed if you made the simplest mistake. My sister was the one who wanted lessons. I was a “package deal” and had to take lessons as she gave my parents a special rate for two students. Over the years, my sister got better and better while I remained stuck on elementary Mozart. I got yelled at a lot but over time, I really bonded with her. It turned out that an Indian kid growing up in the 80s and 90s had a remarkably similar experience to an Italian kid in the 20s and 30s. So over time, our relationship changed from getting yelled at for not mastering Beethoven to learning Billy Joel and talking to her about things I wouldn’t even bring up to my parents or friends. The Friday after the incident, I was plucking away at “Uptown Girl” while she was pointing out all the sharp notes I was missing. I suddenly stopped and asked her, “Hey, what does mulignan mean?”  I got an immediate wack upside the head. “Where did you learn that word? Did you call someone that? I am going to whoop you and then tell your paren…”  I interjected quickly. “No!  I didn’t use that word.  I… uh… heard it”.  She understood immediately. Now I had talked to her about racism before. She told me to ignore it, be the bigger person, or walk away if it was words.  If it was physical, throw punches.  But this time, she sat back in her chair and looked pretty upset. She said she would call the school. I begged her not to. She talked about how bad Italians had it when she was a child and now their grandkids were acting like they owned the place. I asked her again what the word meant. “It comes from the Italian word for eggplant. It’s a slur used toward black people. It is like the n-word”.  My neck started burning. These mother fuckers….. She said “I know you don’t like to talk to your parents about this, but you should say something. These boys don’t realize how good they have it.”  I looked back at the sheet music. That was it, that as how I was going to fight back.

My parents had always taken a Jesus/Gandhi approach to racism which is why I didn’t bring it up to them anymore.  Just ignore it, move on, and don’t let it get to you. They were right.  I did view racists as mentally weak and shouldn’t have wasted my time wanting to fight them. But it also irked me I didn’t fight back. Maybe it was a macho Jersey thing. Maybe I was just an idiot. Maybe every teen boy is like this.

But, around that time, two figures came into my like. The first was Malcolm X. I stumbled across the Spike Lee joint by accident when it was on TV and became enamored. This was a guy who went thought way worse than me but fought back… with words. I tried to check out his autobiography from the library, but they told me it was inappropriate for a minor and called my mom. When the librarian explained the book would teach me to hate white people, my mom took me to Waldenbooks and bought me a copy. Not because she wanted me to hate white people, but because if it spooked someone that bad, there was probably truth in it.  I poured over it and learned how to speak up. Also, at the same time we started getting a random channel on our antenna tv called Classic Sports. And that’s how I learned about Muhammad Ali. They had to fill up time, so they just showed Ali highlights, but also interviews. He could knock you out with a punch but would kill you with his words. I was awestruck. The man was the greatest fighter in the world but was more devastating with his words. I learned a new way to fight back.

The following Monday that opportunity came fast. I was back in the band room during lunch chowing down on a sandwich and sipping my Arizona iced tea, when one of the guys in the group looked up from their huddle and yelled, “Hey mulignan, what are you eating?”  I took a breath and looked around. No one reacted, they had no idea what the word meant. Mr. Gordon, the band director, was working away at a marching drill, and didn’t hear. I looked back at the kid who said it. “Aren’t you trying to go to Rutgers next year? For music? And don’t you need a letter of recommendation?” He didn’t respond. I looked at Mr. Gordon.  “Mr. Gordon, can you help me with an Italian word?” Mr. Gordon looked up. The racists got even whiter. “Now you know I ain’t Italian”, Mr. Gordon said in his Arche Bunker cadence. “But Mr. Mannino is. Go ask him. He loves to talk Italian.” I smiled and looked back at the crew. Their collective waste of their future lives was passing in front of their eyes. Mr. Mannino was our new Vice Principal. “Thanks Mr. Gordon, I think he will love what I have to ask.”   I looked back. Their heads were down. “Please don’t.” One of them pleaded. “Please don’t what?” asked Mr. Gordon who was finally in tune that something had happened. I looked at the crew. This was the end. “Nothing”, I said.  “They just had a misunderstanding on who I am.”  Mr. Gordon stared for a minute and then let it go. He went back to his drills.  I looked back at the group. “Don’t ever fuck with me again.”  I would like to tell you they didn’t. But I still had senior year left to go.

The Toaster

By D. L. Savage

We never had one when I was a kid because Mum was British. Well, my grandparents were British, Mum was born in Charleston, South Carolina. But she picked up the accent at home and worked hard not to lose it. She would say things like loo, and carpark, and petrol. So, when my father came home from the bank with it under his arm, Mum was less than pleased.  

“I won’t have that contraption in my house,” she said, dismissing him with a flick. So, he did what any man who values a happy house does; he took it to the garage and placed it next to a Folgers can filled with odd nuts and bolts on the shelf above his workbench. And that’s where it sat, for a while at least.

“A hot pan and butter are all you need,” she said as the crispy edged, golden crusted slice of toast, slid from the black iron pan to the paper plate clutched in my ten-year-old hands. “A hot pan and butter.” I folded the toast in half and pushed two links of Jimmy Dean in the little pouch I created, one for me, and one for Papa.  And I ran off to take Papa his share.  

Papa was in the bathtub, crouched over in the soapy water, chrome toaster floating proudly by his head.

Mum and I dressed in black, we buried Papa, we ate casserole, and we let everyone tell us it would be okay. We even let ourselves believe it. Papa’s life insurance paid off the house, but that was about all. So, mum got a job as a waitress at the Waffle House, and we got along okay, for a while at least. 

The summer I turned fifteen, Beatrice Maxwell moved in with us. She worked at the Waffle House with Mum and needed a place to stay after her boyfriend beat her up and cut off her ears with a hunting knife.  

“Where did that come from?” Mum asked me as I stood in the kitchen with my arms hanging at my sides staring at it. 

“Beatrice.”

“It’s okay, it’s just a toaster,” she said. Two days later I came home to find police cars and an ambulance in front of our house. Beatrice was sitting cross-legged in the front yard, sobbing madly. Her crimson hair stuck to the salty wet streaks on her red face. That poor girl always had her hair in her face. 

I watched as they rolled Mum’s grey body out the front door. She was followed by an officer in blue carrying the toaster by its cord, leaving a trail of incriminating bathwater drops on the porch.

Again, I dressed in black and ate casserole.

I stayed with my grandparents until I graduated high school. And then, thanks to a fundraiser put on by the Charleston Fire Department and a local motorcycle club, I went to college. I graduated, got a good job, and met Jane. We dated for a little over a year and we were married yesterday.

The ceremony was beautiful; all our friends and family were in attendance. We sang and danced, they wished us well, and they gave us gifts. We got a blender, a microwave, and a vast array of gadgets and trinkets for our new life together. And two toasters. One for each of us.

Exile

By Victoria Penn

The movie house was not nearly as crowded as Alice had hoped it would be. She glanced
around at the few clusters of people littering the lobby. Some stood near the snack and popcorn
counter; others hovered across from the ushers, waiting for the okay to head to their theater.
She shifted, the faded red and orange and yellow carpet crunching lightly beneath her
shoes. It’d been irreparably sullied by years of butter and kernels and soda. She shoved her hands
into the pockets of her jacket and dug one toe further into the mess. Their movie began in half an
hour. Too much time, too early, as all last minute decisions were.
Over her right shoulder she felt someone approach, and lifted her eyes up and around.
Her date stood a half-step away, grinning, arms full of popcorn and drinks.
“Two sodas, two straws, one popcorn,” he said. His face was alight with pride.
Alice offered him a small smile. “Thanks.”
It was their third date, but Alice was already feeling smitten with the guy. He was kind,
warm, and had the best laugh.
He handed her one of the drinks and a straw. “Should we go get seats?”
Alice nodded. “Sure. Near the front.”
He put one arm around her waist and tugged her closer. “We could sit in the back.” His
tone was suggestive. Alice laughed and turned her head, looking down.
Her eyes found a pair of black shoes across the lobby, as familiar as the skin on the backs
of her hands.

All Jesse wanted was to sit in the dark coolness of a theater, surrounded by people he did
not know, and forget for two hours.
He’d planned it out perfectly. Heard from a friend of a friend she would be out and about,
most likely not at the theater, and therefore it was safe. How stupid of him. It wasn’t safe
anywhere in this town.
As he paid for his popcorn and overpriced water, he felt his shoulders relax. Knots and
ropes had formed between his shoulder blades over the last two months. Fear of opening up an
unhealed wound had kept him at home.
It would be nice to check out of reality for a while, he thought.
Until he heard the voice that formed a pit in his stomach. He swallowed, took his change
with a nod, and cradled his purchases, that quiet “Thanks” echoing between his ears.
When he turned around, Jesse’s heart sank to his stomach. It wasn’t that she was five feet
away from him for the first time in months. Or the mix of horror and longing in his chest as she
stared at his feet. It was the arm that was not his, where it shouldn’t be—around her waist,
touching her. Holding her.
Heat rose to his cheeks; his body warmed. For a moment he forgot how to breathe, the air
catching in his throat while her eyes raked up the length of his body and stopped on his. It was a
hair’s breadth of time he allowed her to hold his gaze, but it was long enough.
He felt the intensity boring into his neck as he turned on his heel and strode towards the
lobby doors. His purchases he dumped in the trash bin beside the exit, throwing them to their
death with a satisfying thump. Through the doors and out into the sunshine. It was August. It was
hot. He wondered why she was wearing a sweater.

Pinpricks skimmed over the surface of Alice’s arms, up her shoulders, down her back
The arm around her waist suddenly felt cold. She twisted away from it, repulsed, reaching for the
phone in her back pocket as an excuse.
She had barely glanced at the screen—and not at her date at all–when she said, “Oh,
crap, it’s Mom. I just missed her call. Do you mind if I just…” Alice gestured towards the doors
with her phone sheepishly.
Her date took a moment to process. “Wha—oh, sure! I’ll, uh, grab us seats. It’s theater 7.
Hope everything is okay.” He cupped the back of her head with his hand, kissed her forehead,
and headed to the ushers.
“Thanks,” she muttered, already on the move.
The lobby doors weren’t quite closed yet when she pushed them open again.
At first she didn’t see him. Her phone was in her hand still. She made to glance over her
shoulder—just in case her date was watching—and saw him against the cement wall.
The sight of him sucked the breath from her lungs. She stood there, enraptured, feet
rooted to the ground. He looked exactly the same as when she’d left him. Unkempt dark hair,
faded white band t-shirt, his jaw dimpled with anger.
“Jesse.”

“Jesse!” Alice’s voice was brimming with shock.. Frustration. A dozen other unnamable
emotions. Both her arms wrapped around his left bicep and pulled, a counterweight to his
drunken, wild eruption. Fury radiated from his body, directed at a man who had slammed himself
back against the bar.
But the sound of his name, of her voice, had an immediate effect. Jesse fell back into her
pressure. Alice remained steady against his weight.
“He touched you,” he breathed.
“I’m okay.” She loosened one arm and wrapped it around him. “Dont, Jesse. Let’s go.”
He allowed her to push him forward. She turned quickly to glare at the man against the
bar, the one who had had the audacity to put his hands on her. Despite what he deserved, she was
relieved Jesse would leave him alone.
It wasn’t a week later she learned Jesse went back that night for him and broke his nose.

“Jesse.”
The feel of his name on her lips released Alice from whatever held her to the sidewalk,
and she found herself rushing to Jesse’s side.

He knew she was there. He always knew, because he could feel it down in his bones each
time she looked at him. He kept his eyes closed, trying desperately to count to ten the way she
had once begged him to. His hands fisted at his sides.
And suddenly she was flying into him, her body pressing into his middle. On instinct
Jesse caught her.

There were flowers waiting for Alice outside her apartment door. Attached to them was a
man, watching her from the corners of his eyes. She reached for him, for the flowers clenched in
his fist, and when she wrapped her fingers around the stems, his free arm pulled her to him. She
nuzzled her face into the center of his chest; it fit there as if it had been made only for her. She
couldn’t imagine a better place to be.
“You’re home,” she said softly.
“I’m home.” His voice was all warmth and honey.
“You weren’t supposed to be back yet.” Alice breathed in the scent of him.
Jesse’s quiet laugh rumbled against her cheek. “I decided to leave early. The others can
handle it without me.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back, his eyes taking in her
face. She knew she was a mess—sweaty and dirty and clothes rumpled–but beneath his gaze she
never felt more beautiful.

Alice pressed her face into Jesse’s chest, her fists balled up near her chin. Her body
melted as his arms wound around her. For the first time in months, the ropes around her lungs
loosened and she could breathe.
That was how he’d made her feel from the beginning. The presence of him filled her
lungs with air and pulled her to the surface. No matter how deep she fell, Jesse was her lifeline.
She never wanted to leave his arms again.

“Alice,” said Jesse, worry knotting in his chest. “Jane called and said you were having a
rough day. Are you okay?”
Jesse had just been off the phone with Alice’s mother, Jane, who’d called in a small
panic. Her last phone call with Alice didn’t “seem right.” He was already in his truck driving to
the apartment.
Alice was silent on the other end of the phone. Jesse felt sweat beading along the back of
his neck as he stopped at another god forsaken redlight.
“Alice, talk to me, honey.”
“I don’t know.” She sounded small. He could picture her curled up on the couch or on the
kitchen floor, falling in on herself. The light turned green and he sped through the intersection.
Just a few more blocks.
“I’m almost there.” He kept his voice as steady as possible. He was grateful Jane had
called. It terrified him when Alice slipped like this, when the depression reared its ugly head
again. She probably didn’t take her meds; why did she always refuse to take her meds?
He pressed his foot against the brakes and turned left, into the apartment complex. As he
leapt out of the truck at a near-run, he wasn’t sure if his heart ached from worry, or from
disappointed frustration.

His hand found its way to the back of her neck, fingers lacing into her hair. It was tangled
like it always was when she took it down. He had always loved the way it looked when it was in
a bun with those wispy pieces framing her face. It must have been recent that she’d started letting
the curls free.
He never thought he’d get to hold her again.
“Alice.” Her name came out as a whisper. “Oh God, Alice.”
She pulled away then, and when Jesse looked down at her face, he saw wetness behind
her eyes. “Hi.”
Jesse opened his mouth to speak, but the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat.

“I can’t do this anymore!” Alice had flung herself onto the couch and put her face into
her hands. Her fingers pressed against her eyes as if to stop the tears from coming.
Jesse had had to be picked up at the bar again. He wasn’t drunk when she arrived, just
fuming. She almost wished he was drunk. It was better than this alternative.
“Alice,” he said, kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa. His hands went to her knees.
“Alice, please.” He only ever called her by her name, never ‘Al’ or ‘Leece’ like her friends. Just
Alice.
Her hands shook. “Why do you keep doing this? I told you, I asked you.”
“I haven’t done anything,” he said quietly. “I didn’t drink, Alice. I swear it.”
“Then why did Marcus take your keys?” she snapped. She slowly pulled her fingers from
her face.
“Ask Marcus.” A touch of anger was rising from his chest. Why wouldn’t she believe
him? “I haven’t had anything to drink in weeks. I promised, Alice. I don’t break my promises.”
Not anymore, at least.
“Why should I believe you?”

Jesse didn’t know then, and didn’t know now. And despite how desperately he wanted
her to see it, he was sure she never would.
“Jesse,” she said again, sending a thrill through his veins.
“What are you doing?” he said finally. He still hadn’t let go of her. Yet.
In truth, Alice didn’t know. She hadn’t had a coherent thought since she’d turned to see
him standing there, pained and cradling his movie snacks. The only thing driving her forward
was pure instinct. Yet now that they had been satiated by his nearness, she was left unsure.
Here he was, the man who’d filled her dreams since the moment they’d met, been the
subject of her nightmares since they’d broken up. Running, always just out of reach, calling her
name down an empty hallway. Alice, Alice…
Jesse was touching her again. Staring down at her again. She was afraid to admit how
easy it would be to slip back into the folds of their relationship. He’d be there in her bed again,
making coffee for them each morning, and she’d watch him over the kitchen island as she
prepared dinner. Maybe this time it wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe this time her trust wouldn’t be
unwarranted.
Oh, god.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Alice missed him. There was no doubting that. Hollow spaces filled her apartment where
he used to be—the closet, the kitchen, the coffee table. It wasn’t his leftover things that reminded
her of him, but the absence of them.
When her friends called she swore she was fine. She was glad to have him out of her life,
she swore it.
She reached across the counter to the small burnt-orange bottles resting against the wall,
grabbed the first one, and shook out a small white and orange pill. She popped it in her mouth
and swallowed it bitterly. He’d always been on her about taking care of herself. Wouldn’t he be
so proud now.
“I promised.” The words hurt even weeks later. They were a lie, of course they were a lie.
But…perhaps they weren’t.
Had she been wrong?

God, it was easy. Being near her, holding her, pretending nothing had changed. And
maybe it hadn’t. Maybe this time…
He had ached for months missing her. Sad the relationship was over. Worried she wasn’t
taking care of herself. Angry at her for not believing him, angry at himself for being
unbelievable. Because when they were good, they were great. Because the pickups from the bar,
checking her medicine, the arguments over both…how much did they truly matter?
They loved each other. That was what mattered.
Right?
But he knew better.
He stared into her face. Tears were threatening to spill out of her eyes and he knew the
moment they did he would crumble.
And then Jesse did the most painful thing he had ever done. He wrenched his hands away
from her, his palms cold where she once was. They fell limply to his sides. He forced himself to
look at the small “o” shape her mouth made, listen to the bewildered gasp coming from her lips.
He hated himself for what he was about to say.
“We can’t.”

Who, Me? Yes, You!

By Karen J. Birdsell

I didn’t know it was called “mercy.” 

Growing up, my parents worked a lot. They were both educators which meant all of us spent our days in a classroom. Mom had started to move up to administration, so she not only taught during the day but at night as well. She also decided to work on her doctorate. Sure, she’d asked the family if it was ok with us but, if you know my mother, you know better than to tell her, “No.” 

My mom and I didn’t coexist much and I lived in fear of her. Her silence was torture and her disappointment was a death sentence. Whenever I’d start acting up at school, all a teacher had to say was, “Am I going to need to talk to your mom?” and you’d instantly have a child who had all the etiquette, demure, and obedience of a nun. The classic game my dad, brother, and I unintentionally played at our house was “Not It” when it came to who would greet her first when she got home. I’d hear the garage door go up and hear her business heels striking the concrete, looming closer and closer to the door. When I heard that, I’d find an excuse to be in my room so I didn’t have to face what kind of day she’d had.

My mom was distant and when she wasn’t distant, she was all business. Of course, I knew she loved me but I don’t think she liked me much. I wanted to earn her approval but instead, was presented with the feeling that I’d met expectations instead of exceeding them. Whatever the reason, the distance, the business, the bad days, there was no one I feared more than my mother. 

With Mom climbing the ladder and Dad having open houses or staff meetings, I was left to Barbie Flinn. She was a friend’s mom and to me, she was a paradox. My mom got up early in the morning to watch the headlines and read the paper so she would be up to speed on current events; Barbie woke up early to make everyone breakfast and braid her daughter’s hair. My mom worked in an office with deadlines and people breathing down her neck; Barbie worked bandaging scraped knees and making sure we didn’t kill each other. My mom would have book clubs and go to the theatre; Barbie would cheer her sons on at their games and make homemade snacks.

Barbie was perfect. 

            Usually, my dad would pick me up from Barbie’s house but every now and then, it was up to Mom. Today was one of those days. The worst kind of day.          

There used to be a cereal called “Cookie Crisp.” The cereal’s mascots were: a cop, a burglar, and a sidekick burglar dog. The commercials were the burglars trying to steal the Cookie Crisp and the cop triumphing over injustice. The cop would then eat the cereal himself while the burglars mourned from their jail cells. In my house, we were not allowed to have such cereal. My parents refused to see the benefit of feeding us miniature chocolate chip cookies with milk for breakfast. They were right of course but, from my 4th-grade perspective, they couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Barbie, being the saint she was, had bought her kids a box of Cookie Crisp. On the pantry shelf with the glowing light of obesity shining around it, there was the box with the cop and the burglars. It was beautiful. It was glorious. I had to have some. Just like that burglar and his dog, I swiped the box and found an empty room. Fears of being caught started flashing in my mind but there was no cop coming to get me. I broke the seal, opened the bag, and the aroma of pure sugar and premature diabetes puffed out in dream-like clouds. I looked around and still no cop. Stupid commercials. I took one out and there it was. It was true!  This cereal was nothing more than miniature chocolate chip cookies, part of this balanced breakfast! 

            I lowered the cookie onto my tongue in slow motion and savored it. It was crunchy and delicious and tasted like all the cookies my mother had never baked. It was heavenly justice and I realized that I was not the burglar, I was the cop. I had worked so hard at being good and putting up with so much in the face of the imminent danger that came from living under the same roof as my mother that this, this chocolate chip cereal sent by God Himself, was my reward.

            But I had to show some restraint. One cookie had left a small dent in the box I’d opened and someone would know upon reopening the box that something wasn’t right. I got out while I was ahead and put the Food of the Gods back on the pantry shelf. There. No harm done. That was until I heard,  

            “Karen? What are you doing?” It was Barbie. I froze. Speechless in front of the pantry, I realized my hand was still on the box.

            “Nothing,” I said.

            “Did you take some cereal?”  

            “…No.”  Did I mention I’m a lousy liar? 

Years later, I would understand that Barbie wasn’t mad that I took cereal. Hell, if I’d asked, she probably would’ve poured me a bowl. We would’ve sat at the table together like the mom and the kids in the commercial where the mom smiles, proud at the great choice of nutrients she’s given her child and the child would smile back because sugar highs don’t take long to kick in. But I’d lied to her. I’d lied to the woman who took care of me and made sure the other kids were being nice to me. The woman who led our girl scout troop and was always the first one to buy a ticket to any of our plays. I lied to the mom I’d always wanted. I was a burglar. She was the cop. 

            “Let me smell your breath.”  

            My first breathalyzer at 9-years-old. She looked into my eyes and both our faces drooped. I was sentenced to the couch for an undetermined amount of time.

As she walked away, she said,  

            “I wonder what your mom will say.”   

She didn’t say it in a way to rub it in my face. She said it in a way like she knew my fate, like she knew what it would be like for me when I got home. She said it in a way that almost sounded like an apology. 

The rest of the afternoon I sat as still as possible on the couch watching reruns of M*A*S*H next to Barbie’s 73-year-old dad who was never fully aware of anything. I despised M*A*S*H but today it didn’t matter. I didn’t deserve to watch Inspector Gadget. I was a burglar.

It got dark outside and no one had come to pick me up. The dark made it worse. My mother was going to kill me. Knowing how efficient she was, she’d have time to shove me in a sack, toss me in a river, and order a pizza before Jeopardy. All this for a lousy chocolate chip cookie. It wasn’t even that good. Adding insult to injury, the stupid Cookie Crisp commercial was playing in between Radar and Hawkeye. 

I heard the gate open and close. At some point, my body had relaxed. How could I have been so careless? No matter, it tensed more and more as the sound of the dreaded business heels marched forward.

The door opened and there stood my mother, obviously exhausted and tired of being in nylons and a business suit. She put down her briefcase and asked the dreaded question, the question that would seal my fate.

            “How did she do today?”  

            If I could’ve contracted a deadly disease to grant sympathy into my mother’s heart at that very moment, I would’ve. If I could’ve given her every promotion she was ever denied because of her gender or race, I would’ve. If I could’ve done every bit of homework so I would graduate from Harvard with honors by middle school, I would’ve.

            I couldn’t look at Barbie. She didn’t deserve the torture of knowing she signed my death warrant. It wasn’t her fault that she was a cop and I was a burglar. She was a good woman and a great mom. She deserved better. 

            “Fine. We had a good day.” Barbie smiled.

            “Good. Well, I hate to run in and run out but I’ve had a crazy day. Still so much to do.” Turning her head toward me, she prompted, “Karen, are you ready?” 

          I can only imagine what my face looked like at this exact moment. Barbie caught my eye and gave me a look as if to say, “Don’t give yourself away.”  

            “Karen?” 

I broke my dumbfounded stare at Barbie and followed my mom toward the door. As she stepped out, I gazed back at Barbie. I wanted to hug her and never let her go. I wanted to cry and thank her. I wanted to tell her she was the best mom in the world. But I couldn’t. I took the doorknob and, as I continued looking back, just before the door closed, she smiled, gave me a wink, and said, “Have a good night.”