Hallow briefly thought of how Helena’s disposition had changed from cruel to kindhearted when they were children. Moved, she looked over at Helena, who could not stop nervously rubbing her thighs.
“Beautiful, huh?” Odessa asked.
“Beautiful indeed. Though you’re right. It is sad. May I ask a question?”
“Of course. Ask away!”
“Why all the blue?”
“Oh.” Odessa smiled. “You’re not familiar with the Yoruba religion.”
Hallow shook her head.
“Well, you should be. It’s a part of your heritage, hon. All of our heritage, actually. You see, Yemaya, or Yemoja, is an orisha. A great spirit. A water deity. She is a protector of women, especially those in childbirth. So, we adorn this place with royal blue to invite her into this place and protect all of our expectant mothers.”
“Does it work?”
Helena coughed. “Ha—Bianca—”
“No, it’s okay. Well, since I’ve been here, we’ve lost no mothers and no children. That’s an impressive feat given what we know about Black motherhood, don’t you think?”
Hallow nodded.
Odessa excused herself and went toward the back room. When she reappeared, she motioned for Hallow and Helena to follow her past the royal-blue curtains that partitioned a quaint kitchen to the left and a small room to the right. When Odessa saw that Hallow was crouching behind Helena as they walked, she asked for them to switch places.
Odessa opened the door to that small room to reveal an elderly woman sitting cross-legged on top of a large pillow. The royal blue of her dress made an optical illusion where she looked as if she were floating. There were innumerable wrinkles on her sagging face, and the lines in her neck splintered off and multiplied into more lines. She too wore a head wrap, but her dark curly hair peeked out in front. Shells adorned her arms, wrists, and ankles, and she smelled of rose, lemon, and orange flower. Her eyes were slightly clouded and unfocused, but she smiled when she realized that she had visitors.
“Bianca?” She held out her hands. “Come sit down in front of me.”
Hallow did as she was told, then the woman took Hallow’s hands into hers. She thumbed around the lines in her palms and the veins in her wrist. Then her smile weakened.
“Give us privacy,” she said sternly to both Odessa and Helena, who scurried out of the room.
She smiled again and said, “What is your name?”
“Bianca.”
She gripped her hands tighter. “Are you sure?”
Hallow could feel the sweat beads rolling from her armpits and down her arms. Her mouth dried up, and her breathing quickened. “Yes, ma’am. My name is Bianca.”
The woman rolled Hallow’s sleeves to her elbows and inched her fingers up her right arm. Hallow wanted to snatch her hand away but did not want to risk being rude and ruining her cover. She hoped that the thickness of the woman’s hands would compromise their acuity for feeling out anything unusual about her body. Hearing her rough coughing, Odessa and Helena ran back into the room and Hallow hurriedly rolled down her sleeves.
Odessa patted the woman on the back until the coughing subsided. The woman said, “I’m fine. I’m fine. We’re finished here.”
“Can she go through the process?” Odessa asked.
“Yes. She’s meant to be here.” The woman nodded at Odessa, and Odessa helped Hallow to her feet to escort her out the room.
When Helena pulled back the curtain to exit, the woman said, “Melinda.”
Hallow turned around. “What?”
“Melinda, honey. Remember that name. I already know yours.”
23
Amara was inundated with donations following the Epelbaums’ party. The couple didn’t hesitate to send over their first check the weekend following the event, and Amara meant to get back in touch in order to thank them, but life was moving quickly. She and Ethan decided that it was in their best interest to give one New York Times journalist the scoop that she was officially announcing her run. By the month’s end, she had taken calls from Vox, The Nation, the Washington Post, New York magazine, and a few other prestigious publications. She could hardly remember every journalist’s name, but all that mattered was that they remember hers. She had been sugared with far too many compliments. She was a double Ivy League alumna. She was young, thin, and beautiful. She was smart. She was a shoo-in.
When Amara was finally able to catch her breath one evening, she noticed that Landon had left her a frenzied voicemail asking if she knew anything about the cops or detectives or someone spying on him because his answers as to Hallow’s whereabouts were not good enough for her. The time stamp of this voicemail was from two weeks prior to her listening to it. She had no idea what he was accusing her of doing, but nevertheless the message reminded her that she had been meaning to go to Harlem to tie up some loose ends, and she might as well go now or else she wouldn’t have the time in the near future.
During the Uber ride uptown, Amara thought of Hallow and then of the young woman in the bathroom. Amara had been blackout drunk before—especially during law school—but she had never hallucinated at all before. But there was no evidence that she existed. Amara never got her name. She didn’t know with whom or with which organization she was affiliated. If she were to play investigator to her own memory, the only anchor she could hold on to was that this woman looked like her. Amara was overwhelmed from remembering that woman’s face and how concerned her expression was. A dull pain sprouted from her abdomen to her groin.
Dressed in all black with large sunglasses and a bold red lip, Amara stepped out of the car when it pulled up to her childhood home, and she was taken aback by the foreignness of the block. She couldn’t recognize anyone jogging or carrying groceries to and fro. There were more cafés, more signs to promote new high-rise luxury condominiums.
Denise stood bug-eyed
