Ghost Dance (44 page)

“This is our home, Fletcher. It’s ours now, too.”

I see Grandpa Sarkis in Turkey, Grandma and Grandpa speaking their last words in Italian, Sabine somewhere, far off in France.

“There’s no other place we can feel at home,” I say.

The ocean liner changes its chilly course.

Our mother squeezes our hands. Buildings rise on the land. We see a shimmering beautiful city rise up before our eyes. I gasp as I watch the Lmpire State Building assemble itself, the Statue of Liberty. Chinese step off boats, Japanese, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, and move into the great city. “And over there!” I say, pointing to the shining water. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?” Pure and perfect in its form—it is the Brooklyn Bridge.

We travel, still holding Mother’s hands, over the tops of buildings to another city. In that city men in suits sit around a kidney-bean-shaped table in an executive suite and make a decision. “Don’t do it!” Fletcher and I shout, but it’s no use. They can’t hear anything.

Now it begins. The weather grows colder. Our hair blows straight back from our faces. The sky grows dark. I know what will be next. Yes, there are the first flakes of snow.

Now my father wipes inches of snow from the car’s windshield. I hear the motor being started up. And still I do not know why this must be. The toll-booth cannot be too far.

“I have to go now,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. I know it is time.

“Please let me go,” she cries. “Let me go now.” Her tears fall on our shoulders as if from far away.

“I have loved you,” she says, “my whole life.” She is crying very hard now. She looks at us sadly and squeezes our hands. Why must it be this way?

“We must give her back,” I say to Fletcher.

“We could go with her,” Fletcher says. “She’s been calling to us this whole time.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, knowing what we must do.

“We can’t come yet, Mommy,” I say to her. “We must live.” And she knows it is true.

I pick up the bag of black cornmeal. It is the heaviest thing I will ever hold. I pour it into Fletcher’s left hand, then into mine. We let go of her hands and four times pass the black cornmeal around our heads and then cast it away.

“Now the white,” Fletcher says. We sprinkle it. “Rest now,” we say. “Rest now. Be safe.”

Fletcher lights the pine incense, then walks to the windows. With his massive arms he strains to lift each one. “Open the door,” he says.

I open it wide. “I love you,” I whisper, and I know she can hear me. Fletcher and I hold each other tightly. “Be happy,” we cry. “Good-bye, Mom,” we say, looking up to the ceiling, looking up to the sky. “Good-bye.”

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