Taboo Descendants and the Multi-Dimensional War

T-Rick’s death conjured up feelings for him that I did not know I still possessed.

These feelings had laid dormant at the base of my heart for the better part of a decade. I had been positive, before yesterday that is, that I completely despised the mere existence of him.

I had never been more wrong.

When I thought I could not feel any stranger, Rahim entered stage left, handsome, successful, intellectual.

There was a knock on my bedroom door, “Mom, are you awake?” I must have overslept.

“Yes, Sweetheart. I’ll be out in a minute.”

For JJ’s sake, not my own, I had survived the heartbreak and rejection left in the wake of my relationship with T-Rick. For JJ I lived and for JJ I would die.

Three days had passed since T-Rick’s murder and I still had not told JJ anything about his father. I had not enlightened my mother either, and neither of them even knew why the news mattered to us as a family.

The funeral would be held soon.

Clothed and polished, I opened my room door and marched towards the kitchen, focused and determined to do the right thing.

Hhhmmm! A delightful aroma emanating from the kitchen took me by surprise.

I could smell a royal breakfast waffling down the hall. The sound of utensils hitting plates soon reached my ears. My mother and JJ, or at least JJ by himself, had already started eating.

Breakfast consisted of tofu scrambles, vegan bacon, pancakes, and mango slices. My mother had perfected Southern-styled vegan cooking.

As she explained it, my father had convinced her that evolved creatures, like ourselves, should not have to kill less-evolved creatures in order to sustain themselves.

When I asked my mother why he spoke that way, she always replied, “He was a special man.”

I only wished that I could have met him myself.

According to my mother, on my birth day, my father cried tears of joy. He reached out his hand, touched me, and had a massive heart attack. She said the joy was just too much for him.

“Good morning, Kaya”, sang my mother. “How did you sleep?”

I had tossed and turned due to more nightmares featuring the petite, female murderer.

“Okay, Mamí,” I fibbed.

“Is that right?” she questioned.

“No,” I answered truthfully, “I had more nightmares.”

“Well, whatever is on your conscience, you need to get it off quickly before it costs you your job or worse, your health.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered respectfully. I knew she was right. I felt exhausted.

“So, are you going to tell him today? You have a look about you.”

“What?” I answered, staring at her in utter bewilderment.

There is no way she could have known. Then again, my mother always knew.

“Are you going to tell him now or wait until after the funeral?”

“What funeral?” asked JJ from behind his favorite manga. He loved Japanese graphic novels.

“Son, what have I told you about listening in on grown folks conversations?” my mother responded in her wise southern dialect. Everything sounded like a parable coming out of her mouth.

She asked the question rhetorically, of course.

JJ returned to reading and immediately looked as if his manga held his attention fully.

I knew when my son feigned obedience in order to be nosey. He leaned towards us, listening with profound interest.

“Who told you?” I whispered, turning my back to him and addressing my mother.

“Never mind that,” she rebutted, not lowering her voice in the slightest and raising one eyebrow as she spoke. “You think you’re so clever, too. Someone was bound to call me when you passed out at work. I’m your emergency contact.”

I gaped at her open-mouthed.

“Well, I’ll tell him when the time is right,” I answered stubbornly.

“And when exactly is that?” she challenged. “The man’s already dead.”

“Tonight?”

I felt more uncertain than I had been before, but my mother left me no choice.

“Sounds perfect. If he wants to go, I’ll take him myself.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome. Now, eat something before you leave. You’ll be having another busy day in the office. Some twenty or so people were killed last night.”

I looked over in the living room and saw that the television displayed the local morning news, the volume muted.

“Okay,” I answered, deep in contemplation over my mother’s statements.

When will this horrific episode end?

“I wish those people would just stay indoors at night. Then they’d be safe. Darn night owls, always running amuck when they should be in bed,” she ranted as she walked out of the kitchen, leaving me to my thoughts.

I boarded an empty elevator at work consumed with thought.

Scientifically, the frequency and quantity of the mysterious events made no sense.

Contagious neurological disease, a theory I was working on, was possible but not probable. All these people could not die like they did in the manner that I speculated.

Especially not by the dozens. Every night.

The elevator opened at the first floor and in walked an elderly woman, hair white as snow, clutching a leopard printed purse. Her face seemed inarguably troubled.

I watched the base of her chin quiver, as the crown her brow furrowed. Her eyes appeared empty and misted over, unwilling to accept the reality before her.

I became increasingly sad for her though I did not know why.

“Good morning,” I greeted her politely.

My mother always said that it was impolite to come within five feet of someone without speaking. She had small town roots, but behaved the same way wherever she found herself.

The woman did not respond to my greeting her immediately.

She finally said, “I can scarcely say it is, Dear.” Her voice came out as worn as the worry lines in her face.

The elevator jerked and began to move upwards again. The elderly woman had not pushed a button.

“Ma’am, you didn’t choose a floor,” I told her. “If you tell me where you’re going, I’ll hit the button for you.”

I had my pointer finger on the ready.

She looked up for the first time and glanced at the illuminated button I had pressed upon entering the elevator a floor below.

“That’s the right one,” she said in barely more than a whisper.

We did not speak for the remainder of our ride together.

The atmosphere in the elevator savored strongly of sorrow and longing.

I felt suffocated. The woman’s emotions filled the small space with palpable pain that made it hard to breathe.

When the doors opened, I waved for the elderly woman to go ahead of me. After she had walked a few steps beyond the door, I quickly stepped out into the familiar surroundings of the Neurology Department.

I took a deep breath and headed towards my office.

Shaneequa James sat furrow-browed at the nurse’s station, flipping desperately though a pile of patients’ portfolios.

She was so engrossed in her search that she did not notice me passing nor did she notice the elderly woman who now stood in front of her.

She should have felt her though. I would have.

When I reached my office, Charnesha stood there with a bouquet of red roses. They looked elegantly beautiful.

She did not see me coming due to her fixation with a small card which she examined quietly.

Her eyes widened as she scanned the little piece of paper. Half way through, her eyebrows rose, one slightly higher than the other. By the time I reached her, her lips had curled into her infamous, up-to-no-good grin.

What in the world is she plotting now? I pondered.

I cleared my throat and said, “Good morning, Charnesha.”

She jumped guiltily, proving that she had some mischievous motive afoot. She looked like a kid whose parent had just found them in the kitchen before dinner with cookie crumbs all over their face.

“Hey there, Kaya! Girl, you are looking beautiful this morning.”

“Cut the bull, Charnesha Nicole,” I teased, relived that someone in this department had found some joy amongst the endless hell we faced. “What’s up with the flowers? Did Trent give those to you?” Trent was Charnesha’s husband.

“Girl please, you know we don’t do stuff like that.” She shifted her hips and rolled her eyes as she talked, emphasizing her diva-like essence. “I like real presents. You know, the ones with designer labels.”

This is the way Dr. Charnesha Queens spoke to me, someone she was comfortable with on a personal level.

I think she quite enjoyed our little talks because she could not be this much at ease with the majority of our other coworkers, and for good reason. They would not understand. With most of them, she kept her dealings and interactions strictly professional.

Like most ‘hyphenated Americans’, she spoke two tongues. Hers were African-American Vernacular English and Standard American English. She could go from one to the other in a blink

“Who are the flowers from then?” I needed coffee before I participated in any guessing games.

“Rahim, I suppose.”

“What?” I choked. “Please don’t play this early in the morning.”

She watched me for a moment. I knew she wanted to get a rise out of me and I fought determinedly not to give her what she wanted.

“Somebody skipped their café con leche this mornin,” she teased. “Girl, they’re for you.”

I gave her a playful scowl of disbelief.

“For real, for real!”

“No way!” This time, I could not keep my composure. I remained flabbergasted for a minute. Someone, possibly Rahim, had bought me flowers.

Now why would he go and do something like? I asked myself. The confusion must have been apparent on my face.

“Chile, please! Don’t you go looking all shocked like you didn’t know that man had a thing for you.” She thoroughly enjoyed this spectacle, cheesing from ear to ear.

“I didn’t say anything,” I replied stubbornly.

I refused to believe that someone that gorgeous could show interest in me with purely innocent intentions.

I took the flowers from her arms and opened my office door. I could not stand another second with her grinning at me the way she did. I could feel my cheeks burning.

I stepped into the dark office.

“Don’t forget the cards,” she said as she held two envelopes out to me.

I turned around and took the cards from her.

Two cards? Really?

“I love you,” she said still grinning.

“I love you, too.” I smiled and closed the door behind me.

I could hear her giggling down the hall as she headed towards the elevator on her way home. She had worked the night shift again.

Now that I thought about it, she probably needed that laugh more than I needed to be embarrassment-free.

I heaved a great sigh and turned on the light.

I found everything just as I had left it the evening before. I sat down at my desk and hit the power button on my PC.

I looked down at the first envelope.

The front of it read, “To Kaya”. There was a small, bi-fold card on the inside of the envelope. I read the note as my computer hummed to life.

In finely elegant print were the following words:

If I was but a planet and you were my star,

The center of my being would be where you are.

I would orbit around you for all of my days,

And evolve my habits to comply with your ways.

I would not come too close for fear of destruction,

But fit into the system of your construction.

Please tell me, my Love, where you would like me to be,

Without a doubt, I will revolve there blissfully.

Your Clandestine Devotee

I reached up with my free hand and pushed my lower jaw upwards in order to close my gaping mouth.

I could not believe my eyes. I read the poem again and again and again—as if the words would change upon repetition.

Such beautiful words, I mused.

I flipped the card over, halfway anticipating the words ‘April fools!’ to be written on the back. I thought this despite the fact that January had just begun.

The back of the card was blank as was the front of the second envelope.

To my surprise, it contained an invitation in the form of a thick, glossy advertisement for a late night poetry reading.

The event happened to be that night, Friday, at 9:30 PM. I knew the listed address, though it was in West Miami.

Am I really considering showing up? I asked myself, astounded at my own bravado.

I could get ready after I tucked JJ in at eight-thirty, I reasoned.

My mother would not mind. If I showed her the poem and flowers, she would be half in love with him herself and demand that I go.

I pondered the possibility of sipping Cuban coffee and listening to poetry in a dimly lit room with Rahim.

I could feel my heart beginning to race as a sheen of sweat glossed over my palms. My mind set on going, I contemplated what I would wear.

The phone rang and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I picked up the receiver and said as calmly as I could, “Good morning, Jackson Memorial Hospital, Dr. Kaya Jerito speaking. How may I help you?”

“Good Morning, Dr. Jerito. It’s Detective Jackson with the Miami Police Department. How are you this morning?”

“I’m well, and you?”

“As good as I can be given the current situation.”

“Understandable. Tell me, Detective, what can I do for you this morning?”

He sighed softly. “We’ve collected some additional evidence that we would like to share with you.

“We caught something—interesting—on one of our patrol car cameras last night, something that we can’t explain.” His tone was somewhat hesitant.

“What time should I expect you?”

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but this particular evidence can’t leave the building. You’d have to come here to view it.”

“Oh, of course. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your investigation. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“That’s perfect. See you soon.” He hung up the receiver.

Miami PD was only a few miles from the hospital. It would take less than ten minutes to get there and I did not expect to be there long.

All the same, I knew that I must notify my supervisor, in the event that they needed me during my absence.

I considered, momentarily, walking over to Dr. Martinez’s office and explaining my errand to him, but thought better of it. He was such a chatterbox. By the time he finished talking, I could have gone to the police department, watched the video five times, and returned.

I decided that email would suffice. If and when he wrote me back, I would get it on my cell phone. I could set up a live video stream to his computer if he wanted to see the footage, too.

I approached Shaneequa’s desk. She sat there staring teary-eyed at a patient’s chart. I presumed her earlier search had lead her to that folder.

A stream of tears poured from her eyes. Like two rivers, they converged at the base of her chin and cascaded onto the chart in her hands.

“Nurse James, what’s troubling you?” I asked.

She simply sobbed in response.

“Why are you still here? Where is Nurse Dumas?”

She did not answer.

“Do you need help? I can go and get someone.”

I could feel her pain in my chest, the kind of grief that tore at one’s soul.

She shook her head at last and held out the damp chart for me to take from her.

I took it, read its contents, and found myself unable to speak for a spell. Like magic, the words on the page had stolen my voice.

The label on the folder read, ‘Pascale Dumas’. Nurse Dumas is dead!