Even if it meant her death.
28
BEFORE
In the bedroom at the party, watching the movie with the other girls is a welcome respite, a vacation into normalcy, which is very needed in our new reality. There is no more pretending away what we are now, or what will become of me or Mamie.
“Maybe I should kill myself,” Mamie whispers, her head bowed toward me.
I cannot look at her, to see the wild and worried expression I know to be there, because if I do, I will break, and I cannot, not right now. I say nothing at first, considering her words. Dying by her own hand is infinitely better than dying at their hands.
“Maybe he doesn’t mean what he says. You are worth more alive than not.”
Mamie takes in a breath, which relieves me. I pray I have provided her a bit of reprieve, a little hope, if only for a short while. What goes unsaid is that Paul is a man of his word. Mamie will not return to the Compound alive if she does not fetch a price. Gently, I pat her hand. It rests on her lap, trembling slightly. I sneak a quick look at her, catching the small tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. My own are stinging; seeing Mamie suffer is more than I think I can endure.
The door opens, and my guard enters. Mamie and I tense. His eyes sweep the room, landing on Mamie, on Spider-Man swinging in to save the trolley car full of children, and finally on me.
“Come,” he says gruffly. “Time to go.”
I hesitate. Mamie and I share a look.
“I said it’s time to go. Now!”
I ignore him. Instead, leaning close to Mamie, I whisper, “Do what you must to survive.” My words come out so low I cannot hear them above the noise of the TV and the barking guard. But I hope she can.
Angered by my disobedience, the guard snatches my arm and twists it, forgetting I am someone’s goods and he is not supposed to touch me. He raises a hand to strike, but I spin on him, ignoring the pain in my arm.
I snarl, reveling in renewed rage, and threaten to scream that he is manhandling me, an offense Paul or my new White benefactor would not take lightly. I stare into the guard’s eyes, daring him to touch what Paul considers merchandise. The hatred I have for him, for all of them, ignites a vigor I thought had abandoned me for good.
My words must snap him to his senses, because he releases me. “We must go,” he says, his voice coiling with anger that parallels mine. We stand like boxing opponents.
The adrenaline seeps out as quickly as it came upon me. I look once more at Mamie as the guard leads me out. She offers a slight wave, a forlorn smile. Then she turns back to the movie and watches it as the door closes on the last vestiges of my old life.
A dark car idles in front of the house, waiting for me. Paul is nowhere. In the back seat, a raven-haired woman awaits me. She smiles when the door opens, motioning that I should join her.
I hesitate. Who is she? Monsieur Robach’s wife? Daughter? I have not seen her all evening, and with no choice, plus the guard’s not-so-polite prompting, I climb inside the car.
Before the door closes, I give him a withering look that I hope shrivels up his balls into raisins. I wish him an eternity in hell. He extends his middle finger at me in farewell.
The woman has on a silvery dress with rows of bracelets on her tiny wrists that jingle together. She keeps smiling, showing all her teeth. I will not give them satisfaction by asking questions, looking afraid, or showing apprehension. I work to wash all the emotions from my face.
“What is your name?” she asks as the car begins to move. I concentrate on the dark windows, which make the outside world look like a black hole. She is also French, another obroni, with a voice that is older, gravelly. Not what I expected.
“I’m Bridget.” She sighs when I don’t answer and leans back in her seat. It is unsettling, driving into an abyss of nothingness. “It’s okay if you don’t speak much. Monsieur Robach likes them quiet.”
The acrid smell of smoke indicates she’s lit a cigarette. She rolls the window down for the smoke to escape. “I’m sure you have questions. So this is how it will go. I will be your escort to France and drop you at his home. He is already on the way to the airport and will leave ahead of us. You and I will stay in Accra for a night. Tonight Ghana, tomorrow France.”
I can’t help myself. I turn to look at her.
“I travel with you because fewer questions are asked when a little African girl travels with me, fewer questions than if you traveled with a White man. Don’t you agree?” Bridget answers my silent question.
“Is this what you do? Escort children?”