The Sky at Our Feet Read online

  I take my ticket and try to look as confident as I can, pulling my shoulders back and keeping my eyes straight ahead. I follow the crowd and move to the platform for the train that goes to New York. There are people in jackets and polished shoes with work bags slung over their shoulders all moving toward one platform to wait for the train. I know they’re going to New York City because they are so dressed up.

  There’s a man in a business suit pacing the platform. He’s got an earpiece in one ear and is deep into a conversation. He barely notices the annoyed looks he’s getting from the people around him. I make my way over to him and stand near enough that I could touch his black trench coat or his leather briefcase.

  When the train pulls into the station, he doesn’t notice me follow close behind him, taking the middle when he slides into the window seat. He’s ignoring everyone else here, which is why I think he’ll ignore me too.

  I keep my fingers crossed and sigh with relief when a woman takes the aisle seat next to me. I’m sandwiched between two adults who both look like they’ve got lots on their mind. This is exactly what I needed. Mr. Talk-a-lot spends the entire ride chatting about stuff like “sales projections” and “the satellite team in Dallas” and “quarterly reports.” The woman on my right takes out her laptop and lets out an exaggerated sigh as she puts in her earbuds. She shoots Mr. Talk-a-lot a look and turns up the volume on her phone to drown him out.

  The train starts moving. The man and woman next to me are each holding passes in plastic covers. I sneak a look around and see a man slide a paper ticket like mine into the small pocket in the seat in front of him. I do the same, though my ticket is a little crumpled and splotchy from my clammy palms.

  I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. It’s the best way I can think of to avoid conversation. I’ve done the same thing at home when my mother’s asking me to get out of bed or if I’ve finished my reading homework.

  When I feel someone standing over us, I open my eyelids just enough that I’m seeing the world through my eyelashes. I see the train conductor pick up the paper tickets, punch holes in them with a metal clicker, and replace them into the seat tabs. I should relax then, knowing my plan has worked well so far, but I can’t. I keep thinking about my mom, wondering where she is and how soon they’ll send her back to Afghanistan. I wonder if she’s on her way to the airport now. I want to scream and punch the seat in front of me.

  Sometimes it takes a whole lot of energy to do something, and sometimes it takes even more energy to do nothing. I usually hate the days I’m trapped in the laundromat with my mother, but right now I would give anything to be staring at laundry spinning in circles.

  Today is upside down and inside out and nothing makes sense.

  I spend the thirty-seven-minute ride thinking about it while I fake-sleep. The two people on either side of me don’t notice that I never speak to either of them. Each assumes I am traveling with the other. When the train pulls into the last stop, Penn Station, I join all the other passengers in shuffling out the train doors. I’m in the city now and about to start the second part of my mission.

  My head is dizzy with questions. My stomach growls, angry that I ate only half a bowl of cereal this morning.

  As the swarm of people moves into the grand corridor with its flittering arrival and departure boards, no one notices that I slowly drift away from Mr. Talk-a-lot and the annoyed laptop lady. No one notices me as I stand in the center of the train station and try not to look as scared as I feel.

  I need to stay focused. I’ve got to get to Seventy-Fourth Street. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, but I’m hoping to find some signs when I get out onto the street. I see more people than I’ve ever seen before. They are moving in all directions. My breaths quicken. I jump when I feel someone bump into me, and I don’t feel any better when I hear a mumbled apology.

  I see a police officer scanning the station and wonder if he’s looking for me.

  Suddenly, my head starts to feel like a balloon drifting away from its string. The features of the people walking past me go fuzzy. The police officer is gone. A thick black curtain drops over my eyes. I feel my knees fold. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know there’s no way to fight it. The dark world has gone darker.

  And down I go.

  Six

  My head hurts. That’s all I know. There’s a low hum of voices in the background, but I can’t make out the words. Only one whisper breaks through like the thin light of the moon in a dark sky. I have to strain to hear it.

  If you have me, you want to share me.

  It sounds like a riddle. I know the answer—I just can’t think of it. The whisper is persistent.

  If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven’t got me.

  As if someone’s got a finger on the volume button, the voices in the background get louder. I still don’t know where I am.

  Gown. Scanner. Oxygen. Those are the words I pick up with interest, like unbroken shells on a sandy beach.

  The humming around me now includes a rhythmic beeping. My pointer finger is heavy. It takes a lot of effort to lift that finger only to have it drop again. It’s weighed down by something.

  If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven’t got me.

  Now I’m panicking. My head—why is it throbbing? I start to remember then: the train station and that funny way the world went dark.

  “There you are, hon. You’ve had a concussion, but don’t you worry. You’re going to be just fine. We’re taking care of you. Can you tell me your name?”

  I bend my knee and let out a moan.

  “Can you tell me your name, sweetheart? Tell me your name, darling. Can you do that?”

  If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven’t got me.

  The whisper hasn’t gone away.

  “Come on. Tell us your name.”

  I can’t do that. My shoulder blades press against the bed. I squint, the lights over me shining whiter than truth.

  “Urgh.” That is all I can say. It is not my most eloquent moment.

  “Poor thing. Help us out, sweetheart, so we can call your parents. Surely someone’s going crazy looking for you.”

  I blink, my eyelids heavy as stones. I’m in a hospital gown. Blue with red stars. Where are my clothes? I groan, embarrassed as I realize that a stranger got me out of my clothes and into this Fourth-of-July gown.

  Someone tosses a few sheets of paper onto my knees.

  “Poor thing. The bed’s ready for him upstairs. There’s his chart. He’s Manhattan Doe for now until he can tell us his name.”

  Manhattan Doe? Manhattan Doe sounds like a name a celebrity would give her kid, and I’m surely not the child of a celebrity.

  I hear the high-pitched squeal of a wonky wheel. My head hurts and I’m cold. I wish I could ask for a blanket, but I still can’t get my tongue to do anything useful.

  There’s the ding of an elevator. Through half-open eyes, I see the metal doors slide open. My escort spins my bed around and rolls me in, headfirst. I watch the doors close.

  The woman touches a hand to my shoulder.

  “You’re going to be all right, hon. Don’t be scared, okay? They’re going to take real good care of you upstairs, and when you’re feeling a little more together, you can tell your nurse what your name is and where we can find your family.”

  If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven’t got me.

  This nice woman is doing her best to make me feel more comfortable, but she’s going about it all wrong. It’s not her fault. I haven’t really given her much information to go on.

  There’s a ding, and three other people join me in the elevator. A woman is being pushed in a wheelchair by a man in scrubs. The man in scrubs gives me a nod. The woman is wearing a bathrobe over her hospital gown, and in her arms there’s a newborn baby wrapped up in a white blanket with pink and blue stripes. I can’t see its face but it looks
pretty cozy. The mother gives me one of those uncomfortable smiles and turns back to her baby, adjusting the blanket around its chin.

  I turn my eyes back to the ceiling of the elevator and try not to think about how tightly this woman is holding her baby—like she’ll never let it be taken away from her. The woman pushing my stretcher winks at the new mother beside us and whispers congratulations. Then she gives my shoulder a little squeeze.

  There’s another ding.

  “This is our floor, hon.” With one push, I’m rolled out of the elevator. I swear I can almost hear that new mother let out a sigh of relief, as if she can’t wait to get her baby away from me and whatever bad luck or germs I carry. We go down a hallway so fast that the signs on the walls are blurry. We pause so the woman can hit a metal button commanding double doors to open and let us into the pediatric ward of the hospital. I’m rolled into a room with glass doors, and another nurse appears at my bedside.

  “This is Manhattan Doe?”

  “Yup.”

  “And still not recalling his name or nothing?”

  “Not unless the elevator ride jogged his memory. Hon, you remember your name now?”

  If you share me, you haven’t got me.

  When I don’t answer, they go back to talking to each other.

  “All right, sweetness, let’s get you tucked in.”

  The beeping starts up again, and it’s not helping my headache. Then again, my headache probably has more to do with all the questions I know are going to keep coming my way.

  What were you doing at the train station? Where is your mother?

  How will I answer these questions? How will I ever get to Auntie Seema now? Maybe this is the end. Maybe they’re going to figure out what I’ve done and send me to a place for kids without parents.

  How could I have let this happen? I’ve put it all together now—the half bowl of cereal, the running to the train station, the panic of being in what looked like the world’s busiest train station. I passed out and thumped my head on the floor.

  The nurse doesn’t notice the tear slide down my cheek. She doesn’t hear the quiet whisper that’s in my head.

  If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven’t got me. What am I?

  I answer under my breath. I know what you are, I say. You’re a secret.

  The whisper is telling me what I need to do. I’m not going to answer the questions coming my way. I’m going to find a way out of here. I didn’t think getting to Auntie Seema would be easy, but I also didn’t think it would be this hard. I’m not ready to give up, though. I’m going to follow that whisper’s advice and keep the secret of who I am.

  The nurse picks up the papers that were resting on my knees and flips through them quickly. She turns her focus back to me and wipes the corner of my mouth with a soft paper towel. “Looks like you’re coming out of it already,” she observes, and I have to admit her voice is pretty soothing. “We’ll move you to a regular room then. In the meantime, see if you can come up with your real name, okay? I don’t like Manhattan Doe. It sounds like the kind of name a celebrity would give her kid.”

  Seven

  I haven’t spent a night in a hospital since those first months after I was born. Last night was my first night here, though I don’t remember much of it. I was groggy and confused most of the time and my head is just starting to clear. The hospital smells funny—kind of clean and kind of stuffy all at once. And there are lots of sounds. There’s always a machine beeping, doors clunking shut, carts and stretchers rolling around.

  I’m in a small room with wide windows. I have an adjustable bed with the top half elevated so I’m sitting more than lying down. The bed has thick side rails on either side. There’s a flat-screen television mounted on the wall across from me and a side table beside me with a cup of water and a telephone. The door has a small window so I can see into the hallway.

  For the past hour, I’ve been staring at the phone. Do I dare? I slip my arm through the handrail and reach for the receiver. I can hear the dial tone.

  I don’t know where my mother might be right now. I want to call her, but I’m scared that the police will pick up and track me down. Still, the thought of hearing my mother’s voice makes me bold enough to risk it. I look at the phone.

  For outside calls, dial 9 first.

  My fingers are trembling as I press the numbers, and even more when her cell phone starts to ring. It feels like the receiver is growing hot in my hand, and I’m ready to throw it away.

  On the fourth ring, someone picks up. I wait for the voice, holding my breath.

  “Hello?” It’s a man’s voice. “Hello?”

  My mother always answers her phone. Why? Because it might be me. I think of all the times I’ve called her. Sometimes she picks up just to tell me she can’t talk and will call me back in a moment. Sometimes when she answers I can hear an echo and I know that she’s got her head inside one of the machines. Sometimes when she picks up she’s out of breath, and I know that she ran for the phone, afraid I might be in trouble and need her. This is the first time I can remember that she hasn’t answered, and that makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Hello?”

  There’s an urgency in the man’s voice now. I remember the men who led my mother into their car. I hang up the phone without saying a word. My head lands on the pillow, and I slam my fists against the mattress.

  Now I’ve really lost her.

  The next couple of hours pass painfully. My scalp is throbbing; a tender lump has formed where my head hit the floor in the train station. I still haven’t said much to the nurse who keeps coming in to check on me. She’ll have to keep calling me “sweetness” for now.

  “Hey there, buddy.” In comes a doctor in light-green scrubs and a white coat. Her long black hair is held back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of a horseshoe. She’s got a stethoscope slung around the back of her neck. “I’m Dr. Shabani.”

  Normally, this is where I would respond with my name, but life is not normal right now. I let her friendly gesture hang there, unreturned.

  “So, anything you want to share . . . ?”

  Her voice trails off like she’s waiting for me to jump in and say it’s all come back to me. Just then I spot two women with name tags clipped to their shirt pockets. A second later, I see the face of a nurse with red hair. They all steal glances into this room from the hallway.

  I shrug and shake my head.

  “Okay, don’t worry about it,” she says as she squeezes my hand.

  I don’t want this doctor or anyone here to think I’m dumb. I take a deep breath and hope nothing I say gets me in trouble.

  “Good to see you awake. Do you know what day it is?”

  “Saturday?”

  “That’s right. And do you know where you are now?”

  “A hospital.”

  “Right. Do you know why?”

  “I think I blacked out.”

  “Yup. Knocked your head on the ground in the train station too.”

  I touch the side of my head. The lump feels as big as an egg and hurts more when I touch it.

  “Yup, right there,” the doctor states. She shines a penlight in my eyes, then helps me swing my legs to the side of the bed. She pulls a reflex hammer from the pocket of her white coat and taps on my right knee. My foot jumps out. She does the same to my left, and I wonder if she’s ever gotten kicked doing this.

  “Shrug your shoulders. Puff out your cheeks. Touch your nose and then my finger. Stick out your tongue.”

  She makes me get out of bed and balance on one foot, then the other. I’m wearing undies and a hospital gown that flaps open in the back, so when she asks me to walk, heel to toe, across the room, I sidestep like a crab. She asks me to close my eyes and hold my arms straight out.

  “It’s okay,” she says, and taps my shoulder for me to open my eyes. “We’ll take it slow. We’re all working on it, and we’re going to do ever
ything we can to find your mother.”

  My mother.

  She has no idea what that promise does to me. I’m flipping out on the inside and hoping my outside doesn’t show it.

  I look through the rectangular window and see a nurse in violet scrubs walk past my room and over to the half-moon desk in the center of the hallway where there’s a huddle of computers. The rooms are on either side of that large desk area. There are no hiding places here.

  “There’s something you should know about hospital cafeterias—they’re not good. Don’t tell anyone I said so, though. I don’t recommend this often, but sometimes vending machines are the way to go. How about a bag of pretzels to get something into you for now?”

  “I don’t think I’ll remember. Not even with a bag of pretzels,” I say, guessing that this is some kind of trick to get me to talk.

  “I didn’t think you would,” Dr. Shabani says softly. I slide back onto the bed, wondering why I wore my SpongeBob underwear today of all days.

  “But even if you don’t remember the details,” she says slowly, “you might still remember feelings. How do you feel when you think about home? Does it feel like home was a happy place or a sad place? Do you remember if you felt safe there?”

  She wants to know if I ran away from a scary home. I think about the pieces of my home. Fried egg and cheese sandwiches on my plate. My blue water bottle filled with mango juice. The five-dollar bill I get only on Fridays to buy pizza in the school cafeteria. My mom humming along to pop music on the radio even when she doesn’t know the lyrics. The bowls of raisins and walnuts we share tucked under a comforter on winter days. The pigeons I secretly feed on our roof.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Dr. Shabani repeats, breaking my train of thought. “It’s something I need to ask. Did you feel safe at home?”