Concrete

Ever since Baby Zee died, I've been avoiding home. Though she was my sister Dana's child and barely two years old when she left us, I felt like she was more mine than anyone else's. I know I didn't give birth to her or anything, but I was the only person who really understood her. I was the only one who could always get her to stop crying, who could always tell if she was gassy or just hated the idiot relative making stupid faces at her.

Instead of heading home, I'd hang around school, watching the boys play basketball or the dance squad girls practice their routines, before someone spotted me and kicked me out. I thought about joining some lame after-school club, like Young Journalists or something, but I could only stomach one meeting before I went to the bathroom and never came back.

Most days, I rode the crosstown bus instead, watching the scenery shift from the grimy, barred buildings of the South side to the wide streets and green hilly lawns of the North. White folks don't seem to like curtains much, so I'd peer into their houses and gape at the shiny marble islands of their kitchens or the large pillowy sofas, wide as a church van. If we lived on this side of town, would Baby Zee still be here?

When I asked Mom that question later one night, she put her hand to her chest as if I'd hit her.

"That's an unfair question," she began. "What took Zahara from us ain't got nothing to do with all that. sids ain't no respecter of persons, you understand? It's not for us to question why God does what he does …"

Before I could ask anything more, she shushed me.

Whenever I tell folks at school, it doesn't register. Those who have heard of it think it's something that doesn't happen anymore, like the polio or scurvy we learned about in history class. And those who haven't, well, they can't make sense of something so quiet and sudden, so unconnected to fists or fire or bullets.

Just like that?—they'd ask, before catching themselves, before stepping back and covering their mouths. A question would always remain in the air, like there's something I've left out of the story, some secret fault I'm covering up. Corey's the only one who's not confused by it, doesn't ask after it, accepts it plain like rain or sky.

I began to ask Mom what she meant, but she just kept staring at the living room doorway. Dana was standing there bracing herself with both hands, her hair spiky and her sweatshirt stained and twisted with sleep. She didn't say anything to either of us, just pushed toward the kitchen in stiff-legged steps.

"Baby, you hungry?" Mom called after her, but Dana didn't respond.

A shadow passed over Mom's face and she squeezed her eyes shut. She shifted in her seat to stand and I put my hand on her arm. "I got her," I said.

________

We Robinsons have one rule. Only one person is allowed to fall completely apart at a time. And because Zee was Dana's child, she's allowed the lion's share. The rest of us have taken to holding up the walls.

I sat Dana down and fixed her a plate. She stared at the food for a long time, finally taking a bite of yellow rice, before pushing her seat back from the table.

"C'mon, Dana, one more bite, okay?"

Dana's mouth buckled and she smacked the table with her palms, the paper plate bouncing and sliding toward me. She jumped up and ran back to her room. She'd flipped on the radio, but we could still hear her wailing through the walls.

I had been keeping a mental list of things not to say, things that bring the hurt closer, but the list grew too long, until there was nothing left...