When I Ran Away, Ilona Bannister [read 50 shades of grey TXT] 📗

to Donovan, the Jamaican guy who lives on the ground floor and always sits by his window. He lets Mr. Cat climb out between the window bars so Johnny can pet him. We walk by Mrs. Yang’s Chinese herbal medicine shop and today she gives Johnny a pomegranate. Sometimes it’s a lychee or a star fruit from a little stash she keeps under the counter from her morning shopping at the fruit stand around the corner. I helped her son years ago when U.S. immigration messed up his wife’s visa but still she shares this kindness with me and Johnny every week.

I love this neighborhood. I just wish we could live here without needing four bolts on the door and bars on the windows. Without the ice-cream truck blaring its demented song late into the night when no one could possibly be buying ice cream from the driver. Without the reek of urine down the steps to the subway. I can’t do anything about that but I make sure Johnny doesn’t see the human feces when it’s on the subway steps because it’s definitely there sometimes. But this is New York; to be honest, you could see that on Fifth Avenue too.

I have.

—

We get off the train in Manhattan and go to the playground in Battery Park. I race Johnny, let him win, then trip and fall, to his great amusement. I walk toward the coffee cart on autopilot but then I remember my morning’s financial planning.

“Coffee, Jeej?” Johnny says.

“No, not today, go play,” I say and watch as he runs off.

It’s a sunny day. Crystal-blue sky, a cold edge to the air. The first ten days of September are the hardest, counting each one down until the day Frankie died. It gets easier when we’re past the yearly reading of the names at the memorial—his just one of thousands. It hits me like a flash of lightning, his name called out by some other grieving relative trying not to let their voice shake into the microphone. But it’s October now and my grief takes a different shape in autumn. The sky is a sunny cloudless blue. The change of season pulls me out of memory, but sometimes the sky pushes me back in headfirst.

My boy’s running and laughing, screaming with other kids. He’s happy. I stand to the side, hands in pockets, sunglasses on so I can check out the other parents. See if I can tell if any of the dads are single. Not that I would ever approach one. I’m just seeing who’s around.

“Look, Jeej, it’s for you. Coffee!” Johnny runs up to me with sparkling eyes and hands me a discarded Starbucks cup that he found by the trash and filled with soil. A Coors Light bottle cap added on top for presentation. I pretend to drink it. “Thank you, buddy, that’s really good,” and I hug him, inhale him. He smells like cookies and dirt. He pulls away, anxious to return to his game. I watch him run back to the other kids. Then, a man’s voice behind me and everything that might have been suddenly is.

“Light and sweet?” His accent, clear and crisp, like the snap of your fingers, the click of heels on wet pavement.

“Hi…Oh my God…hi.” It’s been eleven years and I don’t know what to do. A hug? He steps forward to kiss my cheek but I step back abruptly. I’m still holding the cup of dirt. I take my sunglasses off with my other hand and an awkward space opens between us. He looks the same. Tall and slim, nice clothes, collared-shirt-and-V-neck-sweater-not-American-clothes. I’m flustered. I look like shit. What the hell, God? Could I have gotten a little warning? I would’ve showered. Put on skinny jeans at least.

“I can’t, I mean—what are the chances of seeing you here?” I say, finding it hard to swallow.

“Probably none.” He smiles, one corner of his mouth turning up at a time. Tiny hints of gray at his temples, that’s the only change. They break my heart—the flecks of gray, the time we lost. Another pause.

I say, “Well, it’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry…We never…a lot happened.” What I mean is that I’m sorry I didn’t call the number that he left by the phone at my parents’ house. I’m sorry that I didn’t answer the letters he sent. I kept them all. Life got complicated.

He says, “Yes, it was a terrible time, I’m sure.” He’s kind. Just like he was then.

Neither of us knows what to say next. I’m terrified there’ll be a silence and I’ll lose the moment so I say, “I always wondered where you went when you left our house?” I run my hands through my hair nonchalantly to spot-check how bad it is. It’s bad. I put my sunglasses on top of my head for a makeshift headband. Can’t do anything about the face, though. I don’t know what to do with the cup of dirt.

“I went back to the ferry terminal and some very helpful local Staten Islanders directed me to a fantastic little hotel. Very reasonable, they only charged for every hour of your stay, quite an efficient system, really.” He’s funny, I forgot. Another pause. There’s too much to say. He says, “How are your parents?”

“They’re OK. Same, really. It’s still hard for them.”

“I’m so sorry about your brother. I can’t imagine how awful it was for all of you. I didn’t know how to find you again. I wanted to…I didn’t know…if you had a memorial? Maybe it wasn’t my place, but I’ve never forgotten. You must know that.”

“You were there for the worst part. I haven’t forgotten that either.” I look in his eyes for the first time. I’m embarrassed because I have no makeup on and I’m a decade older and I know how life has written itself across my face but I never thanked him. Trying not to look away, I say, “Thank you for everything you did, I