Hannah Choi
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He stepped closer and sat behind her. He looked down at the small rocks pushing on his palms, stone rubbing against legs and feet. Michael sat frozen, his body tense. A memory of his mother flashed from the dark, wherever the buried past came from. It felt like rocks were lodged down his throat. The pain of his mother’s voice traveling back to him. He’d forgotten. All her lullabying. Cooing beside baby’s cradle. Clara was always going to be his mother’s baby, that’s what his mother had said. But his sister was growing fast now, thin and angular. His mother wouldn’t even be able to recognize Clara now. She’s not the pudgy toddler whom his mother left behind. And he’s not the same either. Taller, his voice lower, his muscles heavy to him, like stone. He closed himself off and wiped away those lullaby memories. Let them disappear in the water like the way his mother disappeared from their lives.
Serisse was frowning at him. He stared back at her.
“We’re the only ones left,” he said after awhile. “The others aren’t coming back.”
She stood and started walking back to Haven. He followed her. “How come you never talk? I thought you were a mute but then I heard you singing.”
She turned and frowned again, her hair blowing in the wind. She was taller than him. Her eyes were large and almond-shaped, her cheekbones high. He memorized each detail on her face.
“I heard the nurses talking about it, Serisse. They’re going to send us away. You and me. The older ones, they said.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters? — Or did you, I mean?” He looked down at his feet.
Without a word, she continued walking.
He followed her. “You have to help me.”
She didn’t reply or lift her eyes from the rocks. They walked in silence for a few minutes. Michael could hear the laughter of the other children as they played in front of the mansion. He looked for his sister and spotted her near a tree.
“My mom used to sing like you,” he said. “Her voice was high like yours too. Almost like it was pinched.”
“Pinched?” Serisse looked at him.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never heard that before. Pinched? How can that be a good thing?”
“I don’t know. My mom used to sing sad like you.”
“Was she a professional?”
“No. But my dad —” he choked back the word. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “My dad played the piano.”
Serisse looked at him and nodded. He didn’t have to say it. It was a shared story. “Who do you look like? Your mom or dad?”
Michael had to think. “Well like my dad, I guess,” he said cautiously. It hurt to bring up his father’s image — sitting on the stairs for hours, with his face buried in his hands. That was the last time Michael had seen him, just before he was sent back to the army. “My sister looks like my mom.”