13. Ghost Girl - 1927
She was a block of ice, carved in the shape of a girl.
Her fingers and toes never got warm, no matter how much she moved or how she hunched under the thin blanket they’d given her.
The People were nice enough. They smiled a lot and didn’t yell.
But there were too many of them and she’d given up trying to remember their faces.
They dressed all in white like ghosts and wore funny hats and their words blurred together: What’syournamedoyourememberyourfamilyeatsomeofthisstew.
Maybe they were ghosts, after all. Maybe the girl had become one too.
The Ghost People’s questions were like the roar of the subway: meaningless noise, always coming and going.
The girl didn’t have to answer, so she wouldn’t.
Instead she shoveled the stew into her mouth with her fingers, ignoring the way the People clucked at her.
Likeananimalthesepoorchildrenit’sablessingwefoundherwhenwedid.
The stew burned the girl’s fingers, and she clenched her fists tight, seeking to hold the warmth inside. But it faded, like the memory of the things she ought to remember, retreating bit by bit until she was just a small ghost of a girl with her hands in knots.
Around her the other children jostled, pushing each other, trying to get to the stew while it was still warm.
An older boy shoved her and she fell sideways, tumbling into one of the People.
The woman caught her, gripping her shoulders to prop her upright, scowling at the boy who’d knocked her over.
Then she knelt, peering into the girl’s eyes.
When the woman spoke, her voice was kind, with a thick brogue that wrapped around the girl like a hug. It was a thousand times warmer than the ragged blanket or the lumpy stew. “What’s your name, sweetheart? It’s all right. You can tell me.”
The answer bubbled up in the girl’s throat. My name is. My name is. My name is. She knew the word; she could taste the shape of it. But it wouldn’t leave her lips.
The woman’s voice meant safety. It meant home.
I am not a ghost, the girl thought, hard as she could. I am real. My name is.
She opened her mouth, inhaling the reek of scorched meat and the bleach-lemon scent of the Ghost People. Help, she thought. I’m right here. My name is. But it was too late, and the words wouldn’t come.
A single tear trickled down the girl’s cheek, hardening to ice as the woman turned away.