“I like Fridays the best. Do you agree?”
“I do like Fridays,” I admit.
The car turns. “We must go all the way to the river,” Adisa says. “I have wondered what this looks like inside, the studios where they make the television programs.”
“Me too.”
“You have never been?” Adisa says.
“No.”
“This is a special day. I will pray for you.”
Sunday, February 20, 2011: Grandpa brings me to church because he says if he doesn’t bring me then no one will, because Dad doesn’t believe and Mom is Jewish. He says we’re here to pray for Grandma Joan, but he never tells me how to pray so I just close my eyes and listen to the lady singing. I like how in church you can sing softly but your voice fills the whole room.
I wish Grandpa could see me on TV today, but he’s busy working and also it’s a secret.
Adisa stops at a red light and he taps a beat on the steering wheel, just like Dad, and I ask Adisa, “Do you play music?”
“I play the djembe,” Adisa says, tapping away. “But only in the car.”
“That’s like my dad.”
Adisa turns his head around and his white teeth glow behind the glass. “Your father drives a taxi?”
“No.”
He turns forward and we start moving again. “What is his job?”
“Well, he used to make music for commercials.”
“What commercials?” Adisa says.
“Have you ever seen the one where the Coke bottle turns into a telescope?”
Adisa turns around, but he’s still driving. “This is your father? I love this commercial! They play it on the TV in Times Square. This is a very nice commercial. Wow, I am very lucky today.”
So am I. I’m glad to have Adisa as my driver because he knows how special Dad’s old job is and it makes me feel even more sure about my secret mission.
Adisa drives fast, the same way Dad always tells me he drove after I fell in Home Depot. I have to hold on to the handle because it feels like we’re going to crash into other cars. Adisa likes to honk the horn and I like to hear it.
Through my window I watch people walk past a man sleeping on the sidewalk. I wonder if the man’s family knows where he is. Maybe he’s sneaking around like me. I think about reaching into my guitar case and throwing the man some coins, but Adisa speeds away before I get a chance. I wonder if the sleeping man drinks coffee like Dad does when he wakes up because Dad says the city has the best coffee.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013: Gavin says New York City has the best pizza.
Now the car isn’t moving and I can see the river out my window.
“We are here, little girl.”
I don’t think Adisa remembers my name, which isn’t very nice. He presses a button and points to a sign with bright red numbers. “Seven forty-seven, if you please.”
I open my change purse and count my coins and Adisa watches me through the glass. He gets out of the car and opens my door. “Okay, this is no problem.” We make a pile for each dollar and Adisa lines up all the piles on the seat. “You saved up this money? This must be a very important day.”
“Yes, it is.”
I have no more coins left in my case. I look at the piles on the seat and there are only six.
“Okay, little one,” Adisa says. “This is very good. Have fun on the TV.”
He holds up my guitar case and I crawl out of the car and Adisa slides the straps onto my shoulders and points to a building along the river. “This is where you go. I wish you good luck.”
I look at the building and the river behind it and I see New Jersey. I wish I could see my house from here because I want to show Adisa where I live and how far I’ve come. But when I turn around, the taxi is gone.
30
I was away for five minutes and now she’s gone. Joan is gone.
I call out her name, go from room to room, check both apartments. She’s nowhere.
I return to the note I found on the kitchen table. It’s not a game. It’s true. Joan went to New York City all by herself.
At least I know where she’s headed.
I grab my wallet and phone, calling Paige as I race out the door. The call goes straight to voice mail. It’s for the best. I hang up without leaving a message. This happened on my watch. I have to be the one to fix it. And quick.
I run down the hill, sprint to the train. I nearly trip over my untied shoelace. Pedestrians pay me no attention as I speed past them.
Down the stairs, through the turnstiles, onto the idle train. I take a seat and then change my mind and stand up. I can’t sit, not now, not with this burning in my chest and my heart stabbing. The other passengers wait patiently while I scan for the conductor. There must be someone who can get this train moving. Someone who can act in a time of emergency.
But there’s no help coming. I force myself onto a bench and manage a deep breath. A pair of women’s flats appear next to my feet. “Excuse me.”
I look up.
“You dropped this,” the woman says.
She hands me a piece of paper. Joan’s note.
The sight of her handwriting puts a shiver in me. She had asked me to go on this dreadful TV show with her but I refused. How could I know she’d resort to this?
I shut my eyes and picture her cowering through the city all alone. My chest can’t take it. I don’t know how Paige and Ollie live like this, how any parents do. How they let these tiny pieces of themselves out of their sight for even a second. I suppose it’s no use. We can be close by and watching like hawks, and those we love can still slip away. Even the ones who are supposed to be old and wise enough to take care of themselves.
It’s happening again, someone escaping from my grasp. Nausea comes over me as the train finally jerks forward. I’m not sure I can hold it back, the sickness. I barely had time to process what happened last night with Mara and now this. I shut my eyes, try to talk myself through the dizziness.
The rest passes like a dream: off the train, up the stairs, into a cab. I lean forward in the backseat. “Please,” I tell the driver. “As fast as you can.”
31
The man in the lobby tells me to take the elevator to number nine, which is a spooky number because of the Beatles song. I’m floating up and when the doors open I see a lady wearing headphones that cover just one ear.
“Joan Sully? Felicia Dufresne. Oh my, you cut it close. Follow me.”
It’s hard to keep up with Felicia because she walks like she talks. She says something into a skinny microphone that’s hanging off her headphones: “She’s here.”
Felicia looks younger than I imagined she would, with blond hair in a long ponytail. I thought I was pale, but Felicia is so white I can see the blue veins through her skin.
“Are your parents downstairs?” she asks.
“No.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re not coming.”
“What do you mean, they’re not coming? Who’s coming?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping Gavin will come.”
“Is he camera-ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“This way to your room.”