Chapter 13 Cora #3
"I am going to say her name to Crystal when we get home.
I am going to say her name to Tess. I am going to say her name to Drew when he asks, and he will ask.
I am going to say her name to Auriel when Auriel is old enough to be told.
I am going to say her name to Deedee. I am going to say it because the name has been a thing I have been holding closed in my chest for eleven years and the name is now the thing I am allowed to give to other people.
The name is mine to give. The way Maestra was hers to give to me. The names are gifts. The gifts move."
"Cora."
"Yes."
"That is the most you have said about her in eleven years."
"It is."
"I have been waiting eleven years to hear you say it."
"I know."
"I did not know I had been waiting until you started saying it."
"I know."
She put her hand on my hand on the bathroom floor.
The tile was cold. Her hand was warm. The two temperatures were the same temperatures as the band of light and the shadow on the floor on either side of it. Inside the light, warm. Outside the light, cold. The line between them was small and sharp.
"Nina."
"Yes."
"We are going home."
"Yes."
"Crystal is going to want to hear about Mara. I am going to tell her. I am going to tell her about how Mara died. I am going to tell her about how Mara was sick. I am going to tell her word for word what you told me yesterday. Crystal needs to know."
"Yes."
"She is going to bury her under the rosemary by the kitchen tent."
"Yes."
"Auriel will know her name. Sebastian will know her name. Deedee will know her name. The kids will know her name. Drew will know her name. The team will know her name."
"Yes."
"And Talia."
"Yes."
"Talia's name will be at Mojave too. In my mouth. In yours. In the kids who hear us say it. The name will go home with us."
"Yes."
"Maestra."
"Yes."
I stood up.
Nina stood up.
We did not move to the door yet. We stood at the threshold of the third stall for one more minute.
I let myself look at the small crack one more time.
I let myself look at the band of light one more time.
I let myself imagine the green t-shirt and the two coming-undone braids one more time.
I let myself say her name in my head — not out loud this time, the saying had been done, the in-the-head saying was the part that was mine to keep — three more times.
Once for the morning. Once for the bathroom. Once for the road home.
I turned.
Nina turned with me.
We walked out of the bathroom.
We went down the stairs.
I counted the steps on the way down. Sixteen on the second flight.
Landing. Sixteen on the first. Thirty-two steps total.
The same count as eleven years ago. The same count as the morning I had come up from the safe-room and found Talia in the stall.
The count had been thirty-two then and the count was thirty-two now and the count would be thirty-two for as long as the dormitory stood.
The count was what it was. The count was the count.
The people were the count. The numbers were just the numbers.
We crossed the courtyard.
We went to the convoy.
Drew was at the lead truck. He saw us coming. He did not move. He waited.
When I got to the truck I looked at him.
I said: "I am ready."
He said: "Yes."
I climbed in.
He climbed in.
Deedee was on the bench-seat with the Polaroid in her hand.
The Cora-at-the-Drake-raid and the Cora-at-the-wheel and the Cora-the-Maestra-in-the-bathroom were all the same Cora. The count was correct. The count had always been correct. The count was holding.
I started the engine.
Drew said quietly:
"Cora."
"Yes."
"You told the name."
"I did."
"Three times."
"Three times."
"Maestra."
"Yes."
"That is a beautiful name."
"It is."
"I am going to remember it."
"Yes."
I drove out of Urbana.
The southwest gap was behind us. The dormitory was behind us.
The bathroom was behind us. Mara was in the second truck under the tarp.
Patrick was somewhere in the Hess-cell custody.
Deedee was on the bench. Nina was in the second truck with the kids.
Jet was driving the third truck. He had insisted, his fever was down, Sylvia had cleared him for short shifts.
The convoy rolled west.
Twenty-one of us going home. Plus Veron, on the cohort-roofline-watch-now-down, riding shotgun in the third. Twenty-two. Plus Mara wrapped in the truck-bed, who would be home with the rosemary by the end of the week. Twenty-three.
A three over a seven. Twenty-three. Not divisible by seven.
I noticed it.
I did not flinch.
The count had stopped having to be divisible by seven. The count had become the count. The count was the people. The people were the count. The number could be anything. The people were the people.
I drove.
Drew was beside me.
Deedee was on the bench.
The Polaroid was on her lap.
The Steinbeck was on the cab shelf.
The carving was on the dashboard, the 7 facing up.
The chipped diner mug was in the cup-holder.
The stone was in Drew's coat pocket.
The wound at his side was healing under the bandage.
The bandage at my elbow was the same.
What lived between us was not a thing we had named, and would not name today, and might not name for a year. The naming would come when it came. The thing was there in his hand on the seat between us, and the thing was there in mine, and the thing did not need a word yet.
I drove west.
The road rolled.
The carving was steady.
The Polaroid was steady.
The count was holding.
I drove.