Page 39 of The Starfish Sisters

“She did have a better helping in a lot of ways. Parents, grandmother, money.”

“And she would have said that you had the beauty and the boys.”

“I would have traded in a hot minute.”

Beryl looked at me. Light caught the deep furrows in her cheeks. “Would you?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Then, maybe. Now, no way.”

At the hospital, we found Stephanie sound asleep, Phoebe in a chair by the window, a tiny being in her arms, wrapped in a burrito of blankets, only a headful of hair showing. Phoebe beamed when she saw us. “Look, Jasmine,” she said in a sweet voice. “Here’s your Amma and auntie come to see you.”

Jasmine was wide awake, trying to gnaw on her tiny fingers, and it felt like she locked eyes with me, eyes the smoky blue-gray of newborns everywhere. I fell instantly, completely in love, and my heart exploded with sorrow. Both were true: that I missed a baby who’d be grown by now, and that I would adore this girl forever.

“Hi, Jasmine,” I said, touching her finger. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

We were fast friends from that moment on. So when the reporter asked me about the shooting of Nadine Truelove by the LNB, I lost it. She’d been the youngest female senator to ever serve in California, a woman of color, and they had killed her. Killed her. I ranted for three solid minutes about religious oppression and the rise of overt white supremacy, about the terrified little boys running around trying to control the world with their violence and attempts to corral and kill women.

It was only at the end, when I realized that the entire set was quiet, that I knew I’d gone too far.

I thought they’d trim it, cut it, shape it up.

After four decades in the entertainment industry, I should have known better. They knew they had a click-generator. The interview went live two days later and was viral in fifteen minutes. I made every hit list for every nutty right-wing organization in the country. Maybe the world, because I didn’t spare any of them.

After we left the Pig ’N Pancake, I was shaking so hard I couldn’t get my shoulder bag over my head. Phoebe had to help me loop the strap over my body. I was so unsteady that she sat me down in the booth and brought me a glass of water.

“Can you take me home?”

“What about Yul Brynner?” Jasmine asked.

“I’ll come get him later,” I said. “You’ll look out for him until then, right?”

“Of course. Can he come sleep with me when I take a rest?”

“That’s up to your nana.”

Phoebe said, “Are you sure you want to be alone? I don’t mind if you come to the house.”

“I need to talk to my therapist,” I lied. “I’ll come down later, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine. I have some more work to do, so I’ll be in the studio later. Join me whenever you’re ready.”

The healing atmosphere of the studio brushed over my mind, but at the moment I couldn’t contemplate being even that far away from the locked and bolted rooms of my house. When they dropped me off, I unlocked the door, slammed it behind me, and made a beeline for the kettle. I’m still shaking, but less violently. It’s turned into a fine trembling that runs below my skin, through my veins. I plant my palms against the counter and try to breathe, all the way in, all the way out, but my body remembers—a blast of something solid coming out of nowhere, slamming into the back of my head—

—A boot blasting into my left ribs—

—Yanking on my hair, pulling up up backward—

—My father’s belt making a sound as it swung through the air, the slap as it connected—

—A knee pinning me down as a razor ran over my scalp—

—A baby’s cry—

I press my fingers to my temples.

One of the things my therapist has been working on with me is my wrecked nervous system. Right now it feels shattered, maybe broken beyond repair. All these years I’ve turned the traumas of my life into bricks I could use to climb up and out, but now all those steps are crumbling and—

A bright knock lands against my kitchen window. I yelp, crossing my arms defensively as I stagger backward.