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DELIAH

Eastport, Maine

RIVER SPIRITS

Papa was an Irish man, he used to sing to me—all kinds of songs—we lived by the river near Eastport. Mama and Papa had a moonshine business. We were poor, but we had food, potatoes, lots of them. We turned them into moonshine, and we ate them. Had a small garden in front of our two-room shack with wood plank floors. We stored the potatoes under a wood plank, it was the middle one that was easy to raise up. The river sang songs to me. Mama told me there were river spirits and if you stayed long enough—you could see them dancing on the water. I waited and waited for a spirit to appear—I think I saw one, I think I did.

I’d go with them to town to sell their moonshine. Mama always kept me hidden, she was afraid someone was going to snatch me—especially the white people. I was fair, I had my papa’s auburn hair. He’d say: “That’s the Irish in you, lass.”

“Papa, what’s Irish?” I’d respond, and he’d laugh, smoke his pipe and sing me a song from Kerry, where his people came from. Every night before I went to sleep, Papa would sing to me.

“Papa, sing me a song!”

“Okay, lass, what song should I sing …” Papa teased me.

“The rose song! The rose song!”

“Hmmmm, I wonder, where is that song from?”

“From Ireland, Papa, you know that!”

“Oh, yes, how does it go again?”

And so, I started it:

“Come over the hills, my bonny Irish lass,

Come over the hills to your darling.”

And Papa continued with his deep voice:

“You choose the rose, love,

And I’ll make the vow,

And I’ll be your true love forever.” His voice became mournful:

“It’s not for the loss of my only sister Kate

It’s not for the loss of my mother;

’Tis all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass,

That I’m leaving Ireland forever.” And I’d chime in,

“Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows,

And fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,

But my love is fairer than any.”

“Papa,” I asked, “is this song true?”

His blue eyes watered. “Why yes, yes.” He took out his pipe, put tobacco in it and lit it with a match.

“How did they lose each other?”

“Hmm?” He puffed his pipe.

“The mother got lost, the sister and the bonny lass. How did they get lost? Did they ever get found again?”

“No, dear, no, there was a famine.”

“What is a famine?”

“It is when there is no more food, and we the Irish counted on potatoes to survive and one awful harvest, they turned black and rotten and people, well, they starved … to death. Babies, mothers, families. ’Twas awful, awful. I was born towards the end of it; it took my whole family. Fortunately, I had a good master, a decent master, and after my whole family perished, he took pity on me and got me a ticket to America. I was a young lad, I barely made it here, most died on the ship, a floating coffin … but God willing and with Saint Christopher’s aid, I survived by the skin of my own teeth and learned the moonshine business. I was not going to starve again. No, we will never starve here, my dear, never.” He took me in his arms and kissed my forehead. “Now off to bed, lass, off to bed.” And I curled up in my cot dreaming of roses, and water spirits.

Sundays, Papa took me to church in Eastport. We’d row the canoe down the river, hide it in the bank and carefully climb out trying not to muddy our Sunday clothes. Mama wouldn’t go; she’d pack a lunch pail for us and stand on the riverbank as we glided past her. Mama didn’t like church, said it spread poison, said the poison was still in her. I liked it. I liked the smell of wood and incense, the grand organ and the cross. My papa took me because he said he didn’t want me growing up “heathen.” Every Sunday we went, that is, until he got sick.

It happened slowly. His skin turned yellow, his eyes sunken, body thin and frail. My mama called it the “drinking disease.” She said many of her people died of it. I tried to stop his drinking, afraid he was dying, so I hid bottles behind a bush. One by one I carried them under my dress while my mama was cooking. I was going to make the bottles disappear so Papa wouldn’t. A bottle slipped and smashed to the floor. Mama startled and raised a wooden spoon. Papa was snoozing in the rocking chair. Mama charged after me with the spoon in the air and I ran as fast as I could, dodging her—until Papa woke up. It was too late; she got me on the ground and beat me with the wooden spoon. Papa, as frail as he was, tried to get in between us but Mama wouldn’t stop—

“Emma, Emma darling, put it down, put it down,” Papa cried out. Mama backed away and dropped the spoon.

“She was stealing the bottles, our bottles, Patrick.”

“There, there, Deliah, get up now and no more taking the bottles.” He didn’t know I was trying to save him, he didn’t know.

* * *

It is Sunday—I pray that Papa will rise from his bed so we can glide down the river to church. His breathing rattles, his eyes a glint of blue—he is a shrunken version of what he used to be.

“Sing me a song, Deliah, sing me a song.” His voice is raspy. So, I begin:

“Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows, and fair is the lily of the valley …” Maybe the singing is making him better, so I keep singing: “Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne, but my love is fairer than any.” Papa starts writhing in his bed, I stop singing—

“The famine took them, all of them, can’t you see them, lass? Skeletons all of them—what are they doing here? Oh—my mum, my mum.” His frail arms stick out like thin branches. “Mum!” Mama rushes in with a wet cloth and places it on his forehead. I run out to the river to find a river spirit to help. The water rushes past me as silver fish flicker around my legs. No spirits are here yet; they will come. Jesus, God, Mary help us. I wait for hours until light wanes from the sky and Mama starts singing in the old language. I run into our shack and into the bedroom. Mama burns sweetgrass over Papa, smoke fills the room. I don’t understand her singing. I don’t know what she is saying. My father lies stiff on the bed, his eyes are closed. My feet are cold and dripping from the river. Papa is gone. I am seven years old.

Where is God? Where is Jesus? Where are the river spirits? I’ve never seen Mama cry and she wails as she digs a deep hole behind the house. I start to help, and I wail with her. We dress Papa in his Sunday clothes and carry him to the hole. We place him in sitting upright; his head flops forwards. I ask Mama why he is sitting, she says so he will be ready to go when it’s time. I don’t want to leave him there. We walk back to the house. Mama tells me to get his things. She gets his hat and a bottle of moonshine and I pick up his pipe and bible. We walk to the hole and Mama places the hat and bottle near Papa’s sunken figure. I put his pipe next to him and take out his bible, then decide to hide it under my dress. This hole is where Papa lives now. Mama and I weep and wail as we cover him with dirt. Mama gives me some moonshine to calm me down that night.

FIRE

Mama says we are going to Brunswick to stay with her Aunt Julia. She’s busy packing a lunch pail of dried salmon and potatoes. She points to a bag. “Pack it, we’re leaving.” I run to the corner where my cot is and place my bedding and my good dress in the bag. I get Papa’s bible from underneath my cot and tuck it carefully in the bag. I help Mama lift the baskets into the canoe. She wraps a bag around her back; I carry my bag like a big girl. “Where are we going, Mama?”

“Brunswick, I told you Brunswick.”

“Where is that?”

“Where Aunt Julia lives, we will find her.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not good to live with the dead.”

Yes, I want to leave too. I try to picture Brunswick in my mind. Mama walks to the still and rolls a barrel to the side of the house. Now it seems so lonely, vacant. She empties the barrel, strikes a match and drops it. The side of the house shoots up in flames. She says something in the old language, then steps away from the house.

“Why, Mama?” I ask.

“Now Patrick can see the river.”

I help her pull the canoe out to the shore, and we climb in, careful not to tip over. We drift down the river in silence as flames consume our house, lighting the night sky.

We paddle underneath a wharf in Eastport. Long wooden planks hold up a sardine factory above us. The smell of rotting fish sickens me. Mama hides the canoe and we unload our bags. We walk underneath tall planks along the side of the factory and up a bank. Mama carries the basket with the bottles and we step onto the dirt street. Factory workers scurry past us, some recognize Mama and ask for a bottle. A white man with a brown cap and beard nods at her. Mama lifts the white cloth covering the bottles and quickly slips him a bottle. He hands her a coin, hides the bottle in his sleeve and hurries off. We stay on that street until all the bottles are gone. Most of the time I hide my face in Mama’s skirt like she told me to do. We walk back to the canoe and Mama pushes it into the water. The river takes it under the starry sky. Mama bends down scraping wet dirt into her hands, and she pulls me to her, rubbing the dirt on my face. “Still,” she commands and I don’t squirm because I know blows will come if I do.

“Why, Mama?”

“You need to be darker.” She wipes her hands on her skirt, and I follow behind her as we climb the bank to the factory and onto the street. Children run past us in ragged clothes and bare feet, a loud bell rings and people rush out of the factory. Bodies bump into us. I cling to Mama’s skirt as hard as I can all the way to the railroad station.

At the station Mama speaks to a man behind a window and says, “Two, Brunswick.” He glances over to me and I hide my face.

“Next train is in two hours.” Mama gives him money and gets the tickets. We head outside and sit on a bench facing the tracks.

The screeching sound of the train startles me. I lift my head and in front of me is the giant metal creature. It’s the first time I’ve seen a train. We climb aboard and find our seats. I take the window seat and say goodbye to the river as the train chugs away.

“Brunswick!” the conductor yells. Mama shakes me awake, and we gather our bags and head down the aisle. The conductor helps me off the train. He has dark skin like the dirt Mama rubbed on my face. We walk through the depot station and sit on the steps. Mama takes a piece of dried salmon from the lunch pail and hands me a piece. In front of the depot, an Indian family sells baskets. We approach them and Mama offers them dried salmon. They talk in the old language I don’t understand. I miss Papa.

We say our goodbyes to the family and Mama hurries me along past the train station and onto the crowded street. Lines of cars are parked on the side of the huge dirt road. Ladies dressed in fancy skirts and huge hats with satin bows stroll in pairs stopping at storefronts. We pass a market with wooden crates of overflowing oranges and apples. I pull Mama’s skirt. “I’m hungry,” I say. We rest on a bench and she gives me the last bit of dried salmon.

“Sleep,” Mama commands. Images of Papa in the hole, the house burning in flames, flood my head. I lay my head in Mama’s lap, willing myself to hear Papa singing.

Sun peeks through the clouds. People are milling about on the street. Mama takes ahold of me and rubs more dirt on my face. My tummy rumbles; I’m hungry. Mama sits us down right in the middle of people passing, places the empty lunch pail in front of us and pulls me in her lap. We wait for people to drop coins in our pail. Some people ignore us; others rush past us shaking their heads in scorn. Someone spits at us; a few people drop coins in our pail.

Mama counts the coins and we gather our belongings and walk to a market. Mama buys salami and bread, we sit on a bench and eat. We walk, we walk so long, past the busy streets, farmhouses, fields; we walk until sundown. We approach a small house with a water pump in the front yard. Mama points to the house. “Aunt Julia.” As we come closer, a group of dark children run to greet us. They surround me, asking questions.

“Who are you?”

“Are you Indian?”

“Where you from?”

Except one sullen boy with big eyes is quiet. Mama steps up to the front porch and knocks on the door. A dark woman with a face as round as the moon opens it.

“Emma?” She says wiping her hands on her apron.

“Auntie.” Mama’s eyes water, she pulls me in front of her. “This is Deliah.”

Aunt Julia pats my head. “Oh that hair chile and those smart eyes! Hmmm, you all need to get cleaned up, you must been walking for hours. We don’t have a lot of space but y’all are welcome, Deliah and Emma. Boys! Get some water for the tub.” The boys scamper out, the sullen one lags behind. He glances at me before he rushes out the door. The tub is set in the back of the room separated by a curtain. Mama scrubs me in the tub as I listen to Aunt Julia sing. Mama makes a pallet for me to sleep on with a blanket and old towel. I fall asleep to the sound of Aunt Julia’s deep voice.

The morning light makes me squint. Mama is already moving about the kitchen with Aunt Julia. Three boys crowd around me. I pull the blanket over my head. One pokes me. “Is she awake?”

“Does she talk?” another voice asks. I throw the blanket off and shout for my mama, running to the folds of her skirt. “I guess she can talk.” They laugh and run outdoors. Mama hands me a biscuit and motions me to sit down at the table. Aunt Julia reassures me.

“Now Deliah, those children don’t mean a thing. Just eat your biscuit and join them outside, they’ll show you around.” I finish my biscuit, climb off the chair, and put on my dress and shoes, curious to find out what they are doing outside. I’ve never been around other children before, except at church with Papa. They all sat still like me—afraid of moving too much to cause alarm to the adults around them. These boys have dark skin, darker than the dirt Mama rubbed on my face, dark like Aunt Julia’s. When Aunt Julia smiled, her white teeth shone, unlike Mama who didn’t smile much at all.

Outside, the boys chase each other except for the quiet boy who digs the dirt with his toe and every so often glances sheepishly at me. I stand close to him as the others play, kicking up dirt as they race past us. The boy is a head taller than me; his eyebrows knit together like he’s trying to solve a mystery.

“Where did you come from?”

“The river,” I say.

“How’d you get here?”

“A train.” I want to run with the other children but I don’t know what they’re playing.

“What’s your name?”

“Deliah, what’s yours?”

“Henry. Are you Indian?”

“I’m Irish.”

“You’re Indian, that’s what they say.”

One of the boys tags me, “You’re it!” They all laugh and scamper away from me.

“Go on,” Henry says. “Go on and catch someone, don’t you know how to play tag?”

I chase the boys—even sullen-eyes Henry plays. I catch the smallest one, he cries, so I go after another boy. They run in circles around me until I’m tired. Aunt Julia shouts from the door, “Come on, children, time to do your chores—enough of that playing.” I follow the boys, mimicking them as they pull weeds in the garden, feed the chickens, fetch water from the pump, until Mama calls me in and I help peel potatoes in the kitchen.

After chores, we eat lunch and get to play again. The boys can’t wait and they burst out the door. I follow behind them. Henry asks me, “Where’s your father?”

I stop in my tracks. The afternoon air is warm with a slight breeze. “At the river,” I say. My poor papa sits in a hole so far away from me. I push the thought away. “Where’s yours?”

“Dead.” He picks up a stone and throws it as far as he can.

“But your mama is here.”

“She ain’t my mama, my mama in Boston.”

“Where’s that?”

“That’s a big city where she works for white people.” He scampers off, joining the others in a game of hide and seek.

At dinner a tall dark man enters, takes off his hat, wipes his brow with a kerchief and sits down at the head of the table. Aunt Julia embraces him and fetches him a cool drink of water.

“How were the horses today, Isaiah?”

“As they always are, Julia. Mucked plenty of stalls and rode plenty of horses. I see we got company.” He nods at me and Mama.

“Yes, yes, this is Emma and her daughter Deliah.”

Mama says nothing and wipes her hands on her apron. She places a bowl of stew and corn bread in front of him.

“Isn’t it enough we have the grandkids and took in Henry?” Isaiah stabs at the stew and swallows a big spoonful.

“Wasn’t your nephew’s fault he died on the street without no doctor’s care.” Aunt Julia shakes her head. “I’m not turning family away. Emma is family.”

“Everyone is family to you.” Isaiah takes a swig of water.

“That’s right, honey, and the good Lord would want it that way.” Aunt Julia flashes her smile at him. He finishes his meal, gets up slowly and smokes his pipe on the porch.

After dinner, Aunt Julia gathers us all in front of the fire for story time. She sits in the grand rocking chair and we all sit on the floor staring at her with obedient eyes. Mama is busy cleaning up the supper dishes.

“Now children, I am an old woman, but I used to be youngins like y’all. I come from a big family, the Freemans, yes, free mans cause we born free. My sister Mary, Emma’s mother, was born free too, but she die of coughing disease. Not everyone was born free back then; no, they slaves, born slaves just like my great-grandpa Paul Freeman. You all remember his name cause that is why you here in Maine. He was a big man, born a slave in Massachusetts, that’s where your mama is, Henry, working for them white folks. But she free—he wasn’t free. He had a family—they’s wasn’t free neither. Then there was this war, you see, white folks fighting each other, the white folks that live here in America wanted their freedom. Ain’t that something? White folks wasn’t free from other white folks, but black folks not free from white folks. Anyhow, white folks in America wanted freedom from them other British white folks, so there was a war. And my great-grandpa Paul, he was smart. He saw an opportunity to get free, and he fought in that white people’s war and the white Americans won, they got their freedom, so Great-grandpa Paul, you know what he’d done?” All of our eyes are open wide and you can’t hear a sound but the fire crackling. “He done got his freedom from fighting in that white people’s war, and he took his family to Brunswick and that’s how I came and that’s how you all came. So children, you are somebody, you free, you come from Freeman. Now wash up and get to bed.” Everyone gets up except Henry, he sits in front of the rocking chair with his brows knit together.

“Aunt Julia?”

“Yes, Henry.”

“What about Granduncle Isaiah, he a Freeman?”

“Your granduncle, no, but he a fighter too.”

“How?”

“I met your granduncle Isaiah when my brother Augustus came back from the war that freed the slaves. He brought Isaiah home with him. Isaiah fought alongside Augustus with the colored soldiers so he fought for his freedom too, yes he did. Augustus lost an arm, but Isaiah you see intact. My family took him in. That’s what we did, took people in, made them our own. Now we together, I loved him first time I seen him.”

“What stories you telling, Julia?” Isaiah puts his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m telling him you is a fighter.” Julia rocks in her chair.

“Come here, boy,” Isaiah orders Henry. Henry quickly gets up and stands in front of Isaiah. “Yes, I am, fought for everything I got, still fighting, son. Don’t you ever give up. You come from warriors.”

“Yes sir, I won’t forget.”

Isaiah pats Henry’s head. “Now go on to bed now with the others.”

Henry leaves carrying himself a little higher with his chest puffed up and pride in his eyes. He finds a spot on the bed with the other boys and goes to sleep.

We stayed at Aunt Julia’s until the Indian man came to visit. Granduncle Isaiah brought him: his name was Charles. He ate with us and Mama served him. He spoke the old language with Mama and she spoke back.

The rooster crows. Mama shakes my legs and tells me to pack my bag. I throw my blanket off; the floor is cold underneath my bare feet. I slide my cotton dress over my head and put on my coat. I pack my one nice dress, blanket and Papa’s bible in my bag. I wait for Mama on the porch. Henry, sullen as usual, strolls over to me.

“Where you going?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well, ain’t you leaving?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m going back home,” I say, squeezing the bag against my chest.

Quick as a flash Henry kisses my cheek. “I’m gonna marry you one day.” And he runs off into the yard. I quickly wipe the wet mark his lips imprinted on my cheek. We left that day, the Indian man Charles came with a horse and a cart. Mama picked me up and placed me in the cart and climbed in next to me. We waved goodbye to Aunt Julia who flashed her brilliant smile, and the boys ran alongside the cart as far as they could. Henry stayed behind leaning against the front door; those big eyes I would see again, yes, I would.

BEAR SPIRIT

I called him Papa Charles. We had a small place, close to the town. We lived near lots of other Indian families. People came to Papa Charles and asked him for help. They brought him food and other gifts and Papa Charles would light sage and talk in the old language. It was mysterious. I never knew what they were saying though I felt something deep. Mama grew potatoes and began making moonshine—I helped. Papa Charles hunted deer and fished, still at times we went hungry. I liked going down to the bay where Papa Charles fished in his canoe. Sometimes he’d catch a seal, or fish using nets. Every day the water called me and I’d say a prayer for my papa. Once a great blue heron swooped above me and I was sure it was Papa sending me a good luck message.

Beatrice was born. I was a big girl, eight years old. I cared for her even though Mama didn’t ask me to. I sang her to sleep like Papa did for me. My baby Beah, that’s what I called her. As she started to walk, she’d follow me around as I pulled weeds, fetched water, and helped Mama with the still. Mama kept having babies, one after the other. By the time Beah was eight there was Mary, seven, Eleanor, six, and Samuel Joe, four. Samuel Joe was Mama’s favorite, she made sure I kept an eye on him. Mama beat all of us except him, wouldn’t lay a hand on him. Papa Charles never hit us, but Mama, when she was in one of her moods, we would clear out of her way.

I’d walk with Mama to town and we’d sell moonshine to the speakeasies. I loved the music; I’d come home humming songs. I was excited to enter the world of music and pretty women. I wanted to be one of those women; I studied them and practiced their faces at home.

* * *

Everything changed the day the agents came. Papa Charles had gone fishing. I was helping Mama peel potatoes to boil. They barged in without knocking, walking in like they owned the place, like they owned us—

Samuel Joe hid in Mama’s skirts. Beah, Mary, and Eleanor ran to me. The agent’s black boots clicked as he walked. “We got a full house here … four children school age.” His partner made notes in a small book. The agent with the black boots pointed his stick at me. “How old are you?”

Mama’s face froze with rage. “You can’t come here!” She charged after him and he held her wrists effortlessly. Mama kicked him. “Get out! Get out of here!”

“Ma’am, if you continue like this we will have to arrest you. This is a Federal Ordinance, all Indian children must be sent to residential school, which is a step up from this place.”

One by one the children started weeping, a chorus of sorrow. Mary, Eleanor and Beah ran to me and clutched onto my legs, arms and side, bawling as they held on. My mama thrashed about wailing, trying to shake off the agent—the other agent grabbed Mary and Eleanor, and picked them up as their limbs flailed in the air. The black boot agent threw Mama to the ground and snatched Beah and she held onto me so hard her nails ripped my sides as he pulled her off. He checked me over. “You’re too old to go to school.” He carried Beah away, following behind his partner. I went after them but it was too late. They put the children in a bus just like the ones in town.

I ran back to help Mama. The black boot agent seized Samuel Joe and Mama shrieked. Black boots threw Mama back, she fell, got back up, charged after him. He raised his stick and cracked it on her head, she crumpled. The agent left with Samuel Joe in his arms. “Damn Indians!” Mama was unconscious lying on the floor. I gave one last attempt to rescue Samuel Joe, his little arms grappled for me as the other agent snatched him, forcing him onto the bus. The door shut, black boots held me back. “This is better for them, they’re going to school.” Black boots clasped his huge arms around me. “Come on, you can show me a good time.” His beard bristled against my face, his breath smelled nasty. I shoved his face away and he smacked me on the mouth and knocked me to the ground. Blood dribbled down the side of my lip. “I don’t have time for this,” he grunted and stepped onto the bus. The blood tasted sharp in my mouth. The bus rolled down the dirt road and the whimpers of children faded.

I don’t remember what happened after that, how I got off the ground or where I found Mama in the house. I couldn’t forget Beah and the others. I couldn’t forget their howling from the tin can bus. After that day, we lived in unbearable silence. Papa Charles came home to an empty nest. Moonshine helped: we made it, we sold it, we drank it. Papa Charles went fishing one day and never came back. Did the silence get to him? The thick air of pain? Our neighbor said Papa Charles walked into the bay until the water covered his head and a wave crashed over him and out came a porpoise. He said Papa Charles used his medicine to turn into a porpoise and he was watching over us from the bay, that he would protect us from there. I walked to the bay one time and a porpoise leaped out of the water. Maybe it was him, maybe it was Papa Charles.

The speakeasy is my heaven. Smoke-filled rooms ringing with laughter and music give me hope. Mama and I sell our moonshine there—it’s always a party. I especially adore the singer, Eva. I want to be Eva, tall, dark and glamorous, commanding the stage with a drink in her hand, dressed in a beautiful gown and red lipstick. I sing along with her, quietly mouthing the words. Mama shushes me. I am mesmerized by the stage, by Eva.

Eva sings “You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down,” swaying to the beat of the piano, punctuating the notes with her hips. She catches me mouthing the words, pulls me onstage. “Go on, girl, you can sing, I know you want to.” I catch up with the piano and belt out the words in the right place. The crowd cheers, I finish the song, the piano punches to the end, abrupt applause and whistles fill the air. Eva pouts her lips and wags her finger at me. “You’re gonna take my job, honey.” She pats me on the head, downs her drink and steps off the stage. Mama is stunned, men buy me drinks. “You sure are pretty!” one hollers. “Sing another one!” another man calls out. Mama yanks me off the stage and out the door. She beat me when we got home.

“You won’t be a harlot!” she yelled as the stick came down on me, but I didn’t stop singing—my voice—that’s all I had.

* * *

The children were gone a year; it took us that long to save money for the train tickets to get them. That is Mama’s plan—to go to the school and get back her children. I am seventeen almost a grown woman. At the train station in Brunswick the memory of my first train ride hit me: Mama smearing dirt into my face so I would look like her child, so they wouldn’t take me away. Now I understand. Mama sits in silence staring out the window the whole ride. I am jittery, humming songs running through my head. It takes a day to get there. We step off the train and walk down a winding dirt road. A large brick building sits menacingly on a hill. Mama lights sage before we continue and speaks the old language, sending wafts of smoke around us. I ask Mama, “What if they take me?”

“The bear spirit is with us, I have asked her to come.” She snuffs out the sage on the ground. I steady myself and follow behind Mama’s sure footsteps to the entrance of the school. Mama rings the doorbell. It is eerily quiet. A white nun in a habit opens the door slightly. “My children, I am here to get my children,” Mama says fiercely.

“It is not visiting hours. It is dinner time.” She tries to shut the door, Mama barges in.

“My children, I am here to get them.” Mama glares at her, almost through her.

The nun steps back, flustered. “Well, what are their names and ages?” She takes a small pad of paper and pen from her pocket.

“Beah, nine, Samuel Joe, five, Mary, eight, and Eleanor, seven.”

“Yes, well, I’ll see what I can do.” Her face is beet red in her white habit. Mama sits in a cushioned chair, her eyes fixated on the door. We wait. It is eerily quiet in the waiting room, no children’s voices, nothing. The door opens and the nun enters with a scrawny girl. It’s Beah, she is much skinnier and has dark circles under her eyes. Beah doesn’t run to me or Mama, she waits for a prompt from the nun like a trained animal. The nun nods her head and Beah walks to us. We embrace her small body. Beah’s arms hang limp at her sides and her face is vacant. Mama pulls away. “The others? Samuel Joe?” She juts her chin out ready to charge. Two more nuns appear in fancy habits. “The others—where are my other children?” Mama clenches her fists; her mouth hardens into a line.

“Yes, well, the others were sickly …” the first nun says. She steps back and bows her head. The tallest nun, who wears a black and white habit, clasps her hands in front of her. “I regret to inform you that your other children became ill and died of consumption. They are with the Lord now.” Mama’s breath fills her chest, like she will explode. The black and white habit nuns leave, the flushed nun in the white habit remains, immobilized by Mama’s eyes. Mama turns towards Beah, takes her skinny arm and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” the flushed nun asks.