Page 9 of Dead to Me

“With who?”

“Family and friends.”

“My two favorite things.”

She laughed again. This time it sounded more natural. Then she walked away. I watched her move through the room, stopping every few feet to hug someone or fix something.

For years, I pictured China stuck at twenty-four, crying on the witness stand. I never let myself imagine who she became after I left. It felt strange to see proof that her life kept going. It was hard for all of them.

Meanwhile, I measured time by counting: breakfast, work, dinner, lights out, then repeat. I did that for six years.

“Milan?”

I turned. My aunt Renee stood behind me. She covered her mouth.

“Oh, baby.”

She walked over before I could decide if I wanted a hug. I let her hug me anyway. She still wore the same gardenia perfume. My mother always said Renee used too much. The memory hit me harder than I thought it would. I closed my eyes. For a moment, I could hear my mother.

Renee, you don’t need half the bottle.

I pulled away first. Aunt Renee touched my face.

“Look at you.”

“Hey, Auntie.”

Her eyes filled.

“I can’t believe you’re standing here.”

“That makes two of us.”

She laughed through her tears. Then she lowered her voice.

“I wanted to come see you.”

I knew it would come sooner or later. Everyone always had a reason for not visiting. The only one who ever seemed to have endless time was the woman in the cell.

“You didn’t have to,” I said.

Her face tightened.

“Milan.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I glanced over her shoulder. Two women by the bar stared at me, then looked away when I noticed. I smiled. Small towns loved a tragedy, especially when it came home in heels. Aunt Renee saw where I was looking.

“People are going to talk.”

“Let them.”

“You’ve always been strong.”

People called me that so often I started to hate the word. No one ever asked strong women if they wanted to be strong. People just kept hurting them and praising how they survived.