Needy Little Things(24)

Detective Habib welcomes Mama into the small room with me. He offers us drinks and snacks and assures us over and over that I’m not in trouble, that he just wants to make sure they have every piece of information that might help them find Deja. I offer him a stain remover pen from Santa Bag. His questions aren’t much different from Officer Penby’s last night and despite his assurances, I wonder if he’s asking me the same ones to see if I still have the same answers. He gives me his card so I can contact him if I think of anything else worth sharing.

“Text your father,” Mama says as soon as we’re done. “He’s worried about you.” There’s a familiar detachment in her voice. I would recognize even the faintest hint of it, but it’s not faint at all today.

“Yes, ma’am.” I sound young and eager to please. A pattern I slip into whenever I sense her falling. It never keeps her above water, but I’ll probably always try. “Thank you for going in with me.”

“I’m your mother, Sariyah. You expected me to sit on my behind at home while you got questioned by the police?”

“No, I mean—I’m glad you’re here.”

She places her hand on my back, directing me down the hall, and sighs. “I know what you meant, baby. I’m sorry. I can’t believe we’re going through this again. I don’t even know what to say to Jasmine. She’s inconsolable.”

It’s probably best if she says nothing to her. There aren’t words for these sorts of things.

We make it back to the lobby, but Jude and Malcolm haven’t come back out yet. “Can we wait for them?” I ask Mama.

“No telling how long they’ll be. I’m tired and I need to pick up a prescription for your brother. Let’s get going.”



* * *



Mama parallel parks outside Chapman’s Pharmacy and I jog across the street to the entrance. My stomach knots up when I see the windows have already been tagged with Deja’s missing posters. This is real.

I pull open the door and the little bell above it dings. Drinking straw. Drinking straw. Drinking straw. A tired-looking Nurse Rincon waves at me as he bags some cough syrup for the person at the counter. He works here part-time. The customer leaves and I snatch a bag of paper straws from the shelf and place it in his outstretched hand.

“A blessing from you to me. Thank you.”

“Not a blessing. I noticed you were low last time I was in your snack drawer,” I say, hoping to calm his Spidey-senses about me. “Where’d those posters of Deja come from?”

“I didn’t hear from any of you after I left the park last night. Caught the news report this morning and stopped by the police station before my shift.”

I turn around so I can use my arms to hoist myself onto the counter for a sit. He hates when I do it, but I could see in his eyes from the moment I walked in that he’d let me get away with anything today. I fiddle with the ring on my thumb. “Do you think they’ll find her?”

“Yes,” he says plainly.

I watch as he sifts through a box of prefilled prescriptions labeled with a B. “Do you think they’ll find her alive?”

His fingers freeze in place, index outstretched, ready to flick over to the next bag. “It has only been a few hours, Sariyah. Not even a day. She’s okay.”

“How can you say it with so much confidence?”

“How can you have such little faith?”

Tessa is the answer to that question, but he never knew her. “I want to believe something else. Be positive. I’ve been trying all morning. But you were there. All those people from all over. She could be anywhere with anyone right now. And you know how things go. You know how things go when it’s us.”

His brown eyes melt. “Yes. I know. And those stories, those sad ones, they stand out. Justice not served—it will shout at us forever. It will shout so loud that it drowns out all the other stories. The odds are in her favor, Sariyah. Most missing kids return home. Ninety-nine percent. I looked it up. And I gave the officers a statement about what I saw. It will help, and I’ll see all four of you back at school next week.” He hands me two prescription bags. “Had one for your mother, too.”

I peek in Mama’s bag. It’s her antidepressants. I wonder how much they are helping her, if she might need a different dose. She doesn’t check in with her doctor often enough.

“Thanks, Rincon. See you later.” I hop off the counter.

“Bye, sweetie.”

I go back to the car and Mama takes the white paper bags from me. “What’s this?”

“You had your antidepressants on auto-refill, remember?”

She throws the bag in the back seat. “Funny how I’m the one on antidepressants when Jasmine has a missing daughter. When Felicia Hawkins hasn’t seen her baby girl in almost five years. Strange, ain’t it? What do you think that says about me?”

I know I shouldn’t answer, that the questions are rhetorical, but I do anyway. “It doesn’t say anything, Mama. I know for a fact Malcolm’s mom sees a therapist. For all we know, she’s on antidepressants, too. There’s nothing to be—”

“Don’t, Sariyah.” She turns on the radio. Turns it up loud.

Anita Baker croons at us and I make myself small in the passenger seat. I want to defend her against herself and I don’t even know why anymore. Maybe it’s because when she’s healthy, she’s literally the best mom on the planet. So good it more than makes up for the occasional wave of … this. But I know that line of thinking is toxic. I know this back and forth with her will damage me eventually. Maybe it already has. But what am I supposed to do? She’s my mother. I love her.