44. Martha
Martha
Jason cannot find out. Bambi is adamant about this. She calls me in a fit of panic, and I can tell she has been crying.
“I don’t know how this happened. I have an IUD.”
I listen, unsure of what to say except, “Do you want to keep it?”
Her breaths are heavy on the line. “I don’t know.” A pause. She is working up the nerve to say it. “We need to do this, Martha.”
I nod. “Yes. And we will. Everything according to plan.”
Ending the call, I stare at the colorful screen, the many little applications glowing back at me. Emmy comes to my side. “What is it?”
“We need to take a little trip. It’s time.”
Red lanterns glow against a pale blue sky, and golden dragons perch above the arched gateway.
Pagoda-style buildings where vendors sell Asian rice hats, gold Buddhas, trinkets, and bamboo plants.
I sense by the way Emmy points and gapes at the buildings and colors that she’s never been here before.
She darts into several shops without me and buys a Coke, some egg rolls, and a solid jade bangle that she puts on her left wrist immediately.
“Jade is for protection from harm,” she says and holds out a second bracelet for me. “Here, put it on.”
“Thanks,” I say and slip it over my wrist, the green stone alive in the sunlight.
The Chinese spice shop has every spice, dried root, tea, and powdered substance you can imagine.
Wall-to-wall jars and canisters with little colorful labels—all in Chinese—line floor-to-ceiling shelves.
A young girl behind the counter looks up from a textbook when we come in, and the little bell on the door makes a ting-a-ling sound.
I pull a sticky note from my pocket and give it to Emmy. She unfolds it and goes to the girl, asking her to help us. The girl nods and leads Emmy and me to a far wall in the back of the store, three shelves up from the bottom.
“Here you go,” she says, not a trace of an accent.
“Thanks,” Emmy replies. She eyeballs the canister and hands it to me. “This is it?”
“Yes,” I say. “But we don’t need that much.”
At the counter, the girl gets a small plastic baggie and measures out two cups of the beige powder from the canister.
“Anything else?” the girl asks.
“That’s it,” I tell her.
She seals the bag, weighs it, and announces the price. Emmy pays with the cash I gave her.
When we’re outside, Emmy is quieter than usual.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.
“Nothing much. It’s just weird that a small thing like this can make someone so sick.”
“Why is it weird?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s harmless to you and me, but …” Her voice trails off into silence. “How bad do you think it will be?”
I shrug. “Bad enough, I guess.”
Emmy seems uncertain, displeased. “Bad enough to go to the hospital?”
“No, Em,” I tell her. “Someone has to help Bambi.”
“After this, we’ll call the police, right?”
I smile inside. “Of course we will.”
Emmy falls silent. My phone vibrates. A text from Nubia, asking to meet. I push her off. We have to focus on the task at hand now.
Overhead, red lanterns swing back and forth in the breeze. Across from us, a busy restaurant selling dim sum emanates the heavy scents of fried dough, seafood, and meat. A couple nearby with a toddler in tow take selfies beneath the red and gold pagoda entrance. Emmy watches them, her eyes sullen.
“When this is over, and you help Bambi, can my mom come back?”
“Totally,” I say. “It won’t be long now.”
We walk to the car, and I enjoy the sunlight on my skin, the breeze sending goose bumps over my arms, the anticipation of what’s to come. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. It’s lovely being alive, isn’t it? Who would wish to spend all eternity outside oneself, nestled in oblivion, waiting?
The lie I told just now stirs in my middle, a thudding little sound, like the faint heartbeat Nicola must have felt when she was pregnant with Emmy—the same heartbeat Bambi will feel very soon.