“Ah, yes. There are others. Not to worry.”
“I’m worried about my child, Doctor. About the trauma of it all. Will she remember this? For the rest of her life? Have to carry this around with her? We want…” Miriam took a moment to craft her sentence. “We want the best for our daughter. We are good parents.”
Dr. Cobb shrugged. “She won’t remember this,” he said flatly.
She couldn’t believe it. “And why do you think that?” Miriam asked. She gave up on pleasantries, did nothing to mask the contempt in her voice.
“Because the girl is only three,” he said, blunt, so matter-of-fact.
Miriam cringed. How he had said “girl.”
“Look.” Dr. Cobb folded his hands neatly on the massive desk in front of him. “I see a lot of cases like these. Too many, in fact. Abandoned children. Bad homes.”
It took all of Miriam not to stand in that moment. But for the life of her, she couldn’t help but hold up a lace-gloved hand. “My father is Myron North. The first Black homicide detective in this city. My husband is a captain in the United States Marine Corps. This suit?” Miriam grabbed at her collar. “Vintage Chanel. That girl wants for nothing. Nothing.” Miriam’s hand shook with fury.
“Now, I’m not saying that’s the case here,” he went on flatly, as if she hadn’t spoken, as if he hadn’t heard one word of Miriam’s emphatic proclamation of her family’s humanity. “I’m talking in general, understand.”
Miriam realized, with relief and horror, that her worst fear—Joan’s being taken away from her—was no more than fantasy. She doubted that this man would ever give a damn about the life of a Black child.
He continued, nonchalant, seemingly unfazed, his dry tone never breaking. “And she’s young.” He waved a hand. “It won’t affect her. At least not mentally. She’ll be sore for a few days. I recommend warm baths. Oatmeal baths. There will be some discomfort, of course. Urination may be painful, but the meds will help with that. Given her age, I will prescribe a very small dosage of pain medication for that. Bring her back in if the pain worsens or you see any blood in the urine. But it would be rarer than Halley’s comet appearing thrice in a season,” he said. “A three-year-old remembering her own rape.”
So help me, God, Miriam thought. Do not kill this white man. Compose yourself. Get it together. Ask him about counseling.
Just as Miriam opened her mouth, Dr. Cobb stood up and said, “Have a great weekend, folks,” then opened the door for them to leave.
CHAPTER 9
August
1988
August could almost hear her mother’s voice saying, “Don’t you go stalling that car now, August. Be easy with her. That’s the last gift Myron ever got me.” The 1950 Cadillac Coupe de Ville was the color of fire. August wondered if that made her more of a chariot or a bomb today.
August made a slight right down East Parkway toward the Mount Zion Baptist Children’s Hospital entrance and saw bright November sunlight. She checked the rearview mirror to see if the turn had disturbed Joan. She wasn’t asleep. She hadn’t made a sound the whole ride, but her eyes were open, looking out the window into the middle distance, her head leaning against the side of her car seat.
August had half-obeyed Miriam. Instead of ice cream, she had taken the girl to nearby Rhodes College. Had walked her along the campus green, had pointed out the large oaks, the ivy covering the alabaster stone of the school buildings. August hadn’t even known where she was going until she was already in the school’s parking lot. She felt as if she’d been driven by some unconscious force within herself, something that was reminding her that it wasn’t just Joan’s or Derek’s futures that were on the line. It was hers, too. Her goal of following in her mother’s footsteps.