Wicked Girl (THE FIRE Book 1) Read online

  I rose, unsure whether to celebrate or cry. Probably, I was the one who had to raise the issue – ask him about Grace’s whereabouts. But I never did – I only concentrated on fearing him.

  I felt crushed and defeated.

  Seventeen years ago

  GRACE

  Tuesday, June 27, 2000

  7:15 PM

  The ceiling became faint as tears of anguish flooded my dull and sunken eyes. I didn’t wipe them. Instead, I used the last reservoir of strength left in my body to pull the blue sheets and cover my face. I didn’t want the other patients in the ward to crowd my bed and sympathize with me, telling me, “It’s gonna be okay” when they didn’t know how the torment was going to end. It was a fact too big to be ignored – the morgue or home, were the two possibilities staring at my face. But the morgue was more promising. Actually, it seemed inevitable. Being hopeful about home was the right thing to do, but it could be destructive too – for me and my little ones if things took the ugly turn. I was really afraid to hope.

  The darkness under the sheets brought flashes of me in a coffin. Even the smell of the sheets didn’t give me a break. They stunk terribly, but I had no choice. It wasn’t a smell of rottenness or a bad odor though. It was a smell that was neutral in a hopeless way – like the feathers of a dead chicken. I wished to remove them from my face, but I couldn’t since the tears were still pouring, running down my cheeks, down to the bed.

  I cried with attentive ears. I didn’t want Mrs. King, the social worker who took care of me to find me crying. My plan was to quickly pull myself together when I heard her chatting and greeting the other patients and their relatives. She was a kind and loving woman, so she always greeted them. But if she decided to be mean then I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I would tell her – why I was crying. Was it because I was dying and didn’t know what would become of Charlotte and Mason? Or because I had no parents and was a mother to my young sister and brother? The volume of tears increased when I recalled they even called me Mom, yet, I was still at high school. My crying worried me; it threatened to be loud and hysteric – I quickly enveloped my mouth with my right hand.

  Awkward as it was, it pleased my heart that my father never lived to see me diminish in front of his very eyes. The magnitude of my anguish would overwhelm and kill him.

  My father always gave us hope for a better tomorrow. It would be an awful experience for him to see that I had run short of hope to see tomorrow – hope to play with Charlotte and Mason again – hope to finish my final year of high school. It would kill him more than me. More than all of us. He would run from pillar to post soliciting money for a better health care plan. He would act strong, of course, but it would be eating him inside. In no time, he would be admitted to the male diabetes ward down the concourse. The diabetes that ended up taking him would seize him. That would make my heart terrible.

  So I was glad he was gone. I was glad I had no one to upset. Charlotte and Mason were still too young to comprehend the magnitude of the monster facing their big sister – their mom technically.

  I wished it was possible to shut my ears. The other patients talked about sad, hope draining stuff. They were talking about some lady who died in our ward at midday. I wished they could shut up or talk about something positive. Their kids, maybe.

  Their negative topic pushed me down a slippery road of thinking about who would take care of my siblings if I died. I tried to pinch myself for losing hope, but I failed. My system failed to send enough strength to my fingers. Tears filled my eyes the more. I felt like I was facing death, but I didn’t want to admit.

  The biggest source of my doubts and fears were the facts the doctor gave us two weeks ago. Dr. Stevens told Mrs. King and me that they failed to establish the problem in my body. No possible test they didn’t do. Then he said if they considered the rate at which my body was deteriorating, I only had two weeks to live. That was it. Two weeks.

  The weeping gained momentum again as it crossed my mind that was the last day of the two weeks. But I thanked God for a new mom I had in Mrs. King. She was more than a social worker of Troy to me. She told me to disregard what the doctor said and believe that God would heal me. But the problem was that it seemed the doctors were right. It was the day they pronounced as my last and indeed, I was so low, I could not even sit up or eat on my own. What could be worse than that? Mrs. King had to bathe and spoon feed me.

  I really wondered what was eating up my strength and body. My body was finished – my sallow skin only covered the skeleton. My hair was thin and grey. My breath was terrible. It was hard to even turn on the bed of misery. My back, sides, and front were sore – I didn’t know which side to sleep on. The only meaningful thing was dying, really. How could I live if I couldn’t sleep, sit, walk and even eat? What else is life besides those things?

  Doctors and nurses looked at me with somber faces. Of course, they did wear their professional smiles, but I was old enough to see beyond. Twenty years was a very long time given the type of life I led. My life was ending – I only had to admit. Mrs. King’s “believe, believe” thing was too good to be true.

  I heard a familiar quick click clack of high heels down the concourse. Mrs. King had come to bathe and give me supper. I quickly wiped the tears with the sheets. I also did my best to stop crying even though it wasn’t different from hitting breaks on a speeding car. Yes, she was a well-fed woman, but she was very active. I removed the sheets from my face and stared at the ceiling.

  The rain was still pouring outside. It beat against the windows like it would break them. A thought about seeing the rain for the very last time crossed my mind, but I didn’t entertain it, lest I started crying again. Yet, Mrs. King’s footsteps were five seconds away from the door.

  She came in and greeted everybody with her bubbly personality that made her round face even more beautiful. When she prepared to take a step to the lady at the far end of the ward, she froze because the bed was empty. She was in the morgue already. She passed away at midday – about an hour after Mrs. King left the ward. She held her long black hair for a moment and shook her head.

  “Sorry. They took her about two hours ago. She died,” said the lady whose bed was closest to hers.

  Mrs. King shook her head again. “Okay. That’s bad.” She wanted to cry but didn’t for the sake of us all, more especially me. She was experienced enough to understand that hope was the scarcest resource in any ward. She wouldn’t want to evaporate the little we held on to. But we would understand. She really had to mourn for that woman. She was strongly attached to her. She would pray for her every day after greeting everybody. She would go to her bed, place her hand on her forehead and pray for her. Yes, she was looking at one spot on the ceiling and snoring continuously, but Mrs. King believed she could survive.

  When she took a step towards me, I was surprised and ecstatic to see Charlotte and Mason mushrooming at the door. It had been a long time since they last visited me. We had agreed with Mrs. King not to scare them by bringing them to the ward. But for some reason, she brought them. I couldn’t think of any other reason except that she finally believed in the doctors’ report that indeed, it was my last day. Fear cut through me, leaving a hot sensation in my stomach and stickiness in my mouth.

  Mason climbed onto my bed. As a three-year-old boy, he didn’t even understand what was really happening. He kept asking when I would be back home. He couldn’t realize that probably, I would never go back home ever again. Charlotte stood next to my head after bending for a hug. Her eyes quickly filled up with tears. Somehow, my right arm got the strength to rise and wipe the tears welling up in her eyes before they wet her blue dress. I wished Charlotte was as young as Mason. Whilst Charlotte lamented for her big sister and “Mom,” Mason was busy playing – pretending to be sleeping and snoring inside my bed. Mrs. King watched at the tail of the bed. But then she wept for the very first time. I became convinced that she had lost faith I would survive. I felt like I had just realized that my
rock was actually a big block of ice that melts when exposed to extreme temperatures. I didn’t blame her though – nothing brought hope anyway. I didn’t even have the strength to hold a spoon and eat, let alone sit on the bed.

  I also wept. I knew no one would ask me about it because they were all crying, besides Mason, who was still snoring inside the sheets. He didn’t even notice that we were all crying.

  Mrs. King then decided to disrupt the flow of the negative emotional energy. She got busy with spoon feeding me and also got Charlotte busy preparing my warm bath water in a basin.

  The meal was so good. It tasted like the last supper indeed – beef stew, roasted chicken, rice, potato salad, and greens. Somehow, I managed to finish it and the grape juice she gave me. Wherever the appetite came from, I failed to understand. I felt like I had achieved something extraordinary. I guess my appetite was boosted by seeing my brother and sister.

  Mrs. King took Mason out of the bed and bathed me with Charlotte’s help. When they were done, a feeling of freshness went through my body. It was so lovely. I feared it was indeed the last bath.

  When they had finished everything, they got chairs and sat on the right side of my bed.

  “You will be okay, Grace. Don’t lose hope. We will never lose it,” Charlotte said with damp eyes.

  Mrs. King gave her a quick glance. I could tell she was surprised by the young girl who still had faith when she had lost it. She never spelled it, but actions speak louder than words. I could tell she was prepared to complete the adoption processes for Charlotte and Mason and give them a fresh start – she had written me off, just like the doctors who expected to find my bed empty by tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, I, too, failed to picture myself still on the bed at dawn. I had just eaten the best meal ever, but I felt like I had become even weaker. I was even sweating unnecessarily. Outside, it was still raining and cool, but I was sweating profusely. My breathing was my biggest source of worry – it had become very faint and reluctant. At times, I failed to breathe completely. The energy to breathe wasn’t available anymore. I was afraid. Very afraid. Afraid of death and its uncertainties. What really happens to the soul at death was one question that troubled me a lot.

  Mrs. King said, “Grace. Charlotte is right. As I told you, just believe. God will do it, my baby.”

  Mason turned his little face towards Mrs. King. “Mom, what will God do?”

  Mrs. King looked down at him. “God will bring Grace home, darling.”

  Mason said, “Okay. That will be cool. But when, Mom?”

  I smiled faintly, loving the power of a child’s innocence. Here I was, dying, but Mason couldn’t comprehend that. It was clearly displayed in front of him, but he could not get it. As a result, he was stress- free.

  Mrs. King rose from the chair and wiped the tears that had started welling up in my eyes. But that made the situation worse – the love in the tenderness and warmth of her hands and the love in Charlotte and Mason’s eyes released more tears. She took out a bigger stack of tissue to cope. “Don’t worry. You will be fine, my baby.”

  I gave a soft hesitant nod. But I couldn’t tell whether her faith had been boosted by Charlotte’s faith or what. Her words sounded more convincing than her eyes though.

  Avoiding another sad moment, Mrs. King told Charlotte and Mason to say bye to me. She also said, “Bye-bye baby. See you tomorrow.” Then they took the bags with the dishes and left.

  I started crying again. I knew I would never see them again. When they come in the morning, my bed would be empty. I knew. I didn’t worry myself about covering my face because the lights in the ward were already off – the other patients were sleeping.

  I literally felt like Jesus when He was arrested – when His disciples ran away, leaving Him alone. The breathing shutdown attacks were more frequent and scarier. I was very afraid. I continued weeping hopelessly. I wished my dad was still alive. I wished he was in the ward with me. At least he would be with me in the middle of my biggest fears, assuring me till the very end.

  At midnight, my eyes were sore. I was tired of crying. But I was afraid to close them and sleep. So I thought, probably, I should pray just one more time before giving up. Just one more time. I decided to use the most powerful prayer I learned from my father. “When the going gets tough, stop praying and start talking with God, my daughter,” my father used to say. I hadn’t practiced that praying method, but, obviously, there wasn’t any right time to try it except that moment. It couldn’t get worse than that.

  I applied a lot of energy and pulled the sheets to cover my face. I closed my eyes and whispered with tears running down my cheeks, “Lord Jesus, my dad said when I have no option then you are the only option I have. He said I must forget about praying and talk to you. So, Lord, please come into this bed I am sleeping on – just lie next to me. Please. I want to talk with you, Lord.”

  There was silence as I waited for the Lord to lie next to me. I opened my eyes. There was no one by my side, but I believed that the Lord was already on the bed next to me. “Thanks, dear Lord for coming. Lord Jesus, eleven months ago you took my father, the only parent I had. I really felt horrible. Very horrible. I wished to die, but you didn’t grant my wish. Then I became a parent to my young brother and sister – I was nineteen by then. Charlotte was eight and Mason was two. It was hard to make ends meet. At times, I had to sleep with men just to have money to support my siblings and me. I am so sorry I had to do that. It was against my morals as taught by my father. But what else could I do, Lord? Mason was even a baby, demanding money like all was normal. I also had to go to school like other kids. Lord, my life ran like you don’t exist, and I even started thinking that probably, you don’t. But I refused to entertain that thought. Yes, I had nothing to prove that you exist, but I chose to stubbornly believe my father’s teachings about you. I do believe you exist in theory. But, now, here on this bed, the luxury of theory ain’t good enough. Lord, I need the proof that you exist. Prove that you are on this bed with me now. Lord, I need this proof very badly – without it, my bed will be empty by dawn. I will be in the morgue. I am scared, Lord. I am very much afraid. When –”

  My feet were grabbed by a hot wave. It was like they were splashed with hot water. I stopped everything, afraid. The wave climbed up my body slowly. My stomach became hard like a rock. Death had finally come, I could tell. And I was petrified to open my eyes and look at the being called death. I sweated terribly. My heart accelerated. When the hot wave passed my thighs, I decided to open my eyes. I was dying after all – I had nothing to lose.

  A very brilliant light moved up my body. I quickly closed my eyes. It was impossible to gaze at that light scanning my body like a paper in a scanner. Sweating continued. I was confused and terrified. The scanning went past my waist, stomach, chest, and head.

  When the hot wave vanished, I opened my eyes quickly. The brilliant light was gone. But when I removed the sheets from my face, my hands moved with full strength. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to sit up on the bed. It was as easy as eating pepperoni pizza. I kicked the sheets and rose to my feet.

  “Jesus,” I said, shivering, scared that the Lord was really on the bed with me. “Now, I know, Lord. You really exist and you are God, Lord.”

  I danced next to my bed wearing my stinking pink night dress. One nurse found me dancing. “What happened to you?” She said, switching on the lights.

  I quickly stopped dancing, embarrassed she found me. The other patients also woke up.

  I stared at her bulging eyes and said, “Jesus happened in my bed, nurse.” Tears flooded my eyes and I cried uncontrollably.

  Some of the other patients wept as the nurse ran out calling, “Rose. Rose. Wake up. Come here. Come. Now.”

  Still crying and shaking, I fumbled for my cell phone in my handbag. I wanted to tell Mrs. King, Charlotte, and Mason to come and take me home early in the morning.

  Five and a half years ago

  Monday, July 25, 2011

  7:2
5 AM

  The 7:25 bus slowed down, preparing to stop at the bus stop. I walked faster even though I felt discontented. The sluggishness of my life had started irritating me. My patience was fast running out. I vividly felt like a misfit in my own neighborhood. They drove – I walked. They ordered – I cooked. They swiped – I prayed. They were all filthy rich, but I had to stretch myself to rise just above the so-called poverty line. A huge log was ever on my weary shoulders. Invisible of course, but heavy. Potholes were always on my path. Invisible too, but wide and deep.

  The bus folded its doors and started moving.

  “Oh, my God!” I picked up my pace in the brutal Clinton Hill sun, hoping the driver would notice me, but he didn’t. I felt tiny and stupid for the street was teeming with people to and from work. Those in the bus and passing cars ogled at me, probably thinking I was insane. Some even honked their cars. I didn’t blame them though. Who runs in high heels carrying a crying baby?

  The bus was partially back on the road, leaving the bus stop. Then it accelerated.

  My heart sank, but I didn’t give up. I accelerated too. The number of eyes on me had increased, but I ignored them, more especially the laughing ones. Life and Elijah taught me the art of turning a blind eye.

  The bus was already some yards away. It was already 7:26, yet, about ninety percent of commuters on the bus were the time-conscious working class and students. They always gave pressure to the driver. He had to be on time or they would make a call that could make him homeless and starving in a few days.

  Kim was even jumping in the stomach-to-stomach baby carrier like something had scared or irritated her. But I didn’t have a second or hands to calm her. My left hand was taking care of the diaper bag and my handbag was in my right hand. I only hoped she was not sick. If she could throw up on my chest, my white blouse could be a mess, even my black pencil skirt.