Red Hourglass (4 page)

A cry of helplessness tugged inside my chest. I spotted a policeman standing on a corner.
Should I ask him where to go
?
What if he finds out I killed my stepfather and stole my boyfriend’s bike
? I couldn’t go to jail, at least not before I found my mother. I knew she would help me if I found her. I put my head down and kept walking.

I glanced at the boyish-looking digital watch on my wrist. It was eight p.m. I’d stolen the solar-powered watch from Max’s bedroom before I left.
At least it doesn’t need batteries
.

My stomach was growling and upset. I saw a small market on the corner. I went in and bought the cheapest loaf of bread I could find.

The next thing I had to do was find a place to sleep. There were stairs leading beneath the sidewalk on practically every other corner. I knew from what I’d read that they must lead to the subway. As I followed a crowd of strangers down the stairs, I was hit by the nauseating smell of a subway in the summer. It was a mixture of stinky sweat and piss.

I made my way to a train platform and there were plenty of places to sit.
I can sleep here tonight
. I found an empty bench along the wall. I made myself comfortable and ate my loaf of bread. This would be my new home—my underground shelter—full of strangers and passing faces.

No one in the big city knew me, and I didn’t know them. No one could judge my past. I realized that no one here would even care if I was alive or dead. This was the perfect place to be.

I used my backpack as a pillow and tried to rest. The sea of faces started to fade as my eyelids grew heavy and my vision blurred. I fell asleep on the bench, hoping to see my mother’s face in the crowd.

* * *

I opened my eyes and remembered dreaming about my mother. She was standing in the middle of a sunflower field, the ends of her white dress floating in the wind. Just before I woke up, her hands were reaching out to me, dissolving into blurry sepia. I closed my eyes again, trying to retrieve more details about her from my mind. I saw her blond hair, hazel eyes, and angelic face.

I put on my backpack and went up the subway stairs, determined to start looking for my mother. Yellow taxis buzzed like bees through the mad maze of roads in the financial district.

I walked briskly, squinting my eyes as I frantically searched for my mother’s face. All the women seemed to be wearing huge sunglasses. I stood still on the busy sidewalk and closed my eyes. I tried to visualize my mother. I wanted to remember her facial features, but I couldn’t remember any details.

A hard knock from someone’s elbow pushed me off the sidewalk and into the path of an oncoming car. The horn blared as the yellow cab swerved and narrowly missed my arm. Spinning lantern images of my mother flashed through my mind.

I regained my balance and jumped onto the sidewalk. I turned to look for the culprit who’d bumped me, but no one had stopped. All the self-absorbed strangers continued walking around in their own little worlds, and I continued walking with them.

How was I going to find my mother? What should I do? Should I call the police? Should I ask for help? Where could I go? All these questions raced through my mind.

I knew I couldn’t go to the police. I had no ID with me, and if they found out my identity they’d have to question me about my stepfather. Then I’d either be headed to juvenile prison or a home for runaways.

Maybe I can go to a church to pray and seek salvation
.
Would God accept a murderess like me
? I was a sinner, and I knew I’d probably burn in the depths of hell. There was no way I could turn to a church. It was just me, alone against the world.

A woman who looked vaguely similar to my mother was walking toward me. She had translucent milky skin and the soft features of a dove that reminded me of my mother’s soft hands. She was wearing a long linen coat and holding a cigarette.

Is that her
? I turned and walked after the woman. I got as close to her as I could, hoping to steal a few more glances. She walked into a fancy apartment building with a doorman and disappeared.

I realized that all I could do was hope to find a trace of my mother in the streets of Manhattan. Maybe she would appear one day like an angel and recognize me.
Do I even believe in God and angels
?
Hope is what divides the living from the living dead
.

In that moment, I became one of the living dead. I was an orphan in the big city—lost in my own little bubble amid the rushing madness. I no longer saw the sky or fields, just dirty streets and skyscraper after skyscraper.

My survival instincts kicked in. I sat down at a bus stop and furtively counted my remaining cash. It would probably last for three or four months if I was careful. I could buy cheap food and get water from the taps in subway toilets or the water fountains in parks. I would do whatever I had to do to survive in this place for as long as I could.

Hunger

The streets became my new friends. I was subject to their fury and callousness—and unexpected kindnesses. My existence was precarious, but I was learning how to survive by my wits. I would do whatever I had to do to stay in the city until I found my mother.

I alternated between sleeping in the subway and on hard park benches. Living life without a permanent place was difficult, but at least I felt safely out of the reach of the police.

I met Dave in early autumn, just as my funds were running low. He was a jazz musician from New Orleans who’d fallen on hard times. Dave always looked dirty and unkempt. Even if he managed to turn up for an audition, it was unlikely that he’d ever get a normal paying gig again. For years, it had just been him and his music and the commuter audience.

One day, I don’t know why, but I started dancing as Dave busked. I didn’t really know what I was doing, and it was like I was dancing some sort of frenzied dance straight out of some hallucination. My subconscious seemed to combine what I’d seen on television with the street movements of ghetto kids. The strange combination of a gigantic black jazz musician and a diminutive young dancing girl attracted the attention of passersby. Dave got more donations than usual that day, and he split them with me fifty-fifty.
I can dance for coins
.

We started performing together during the morning and evening rush hours. That’s when we had the biggest audiences. I could dance for about two hours before the exhaustion set in. Then I would watch MTV on the televisions in the windows of electronics stores and practice my moves. Sometimes I practiced in the basement of a shopping mall before finding a bench for the night.

As weeks and months went by, I got better at dancing and we made more money. But I still felt pathetic. I’d sunk so low, like a sewer rat. I felt forsaken and unloved, kept alive by spare change from strangers. At times, I had no idea why I was still alive, and then I’d remember my search for my mother.

* * *

I went to Grand Central Station to meet Dave. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing for as long as I’d known him. The rest of his belongings were behind him in big plastic bags stowed in a shopping cart.

“Hey young girl, how are you?” he gently asked. The sweetness in his voice hadn’t been crushed by the soul-destroying city.

I was always the young girl to Dave. He never asked my name or too many questions. Maybe that was part of the reason I liked him so much—but he also helped me out with advice about living on the streets.

“I’m good, Dave. Should we get started?”

Dave gave me a nod and straightened up. He began playing the familiar jazz tune on his old guitar—the most expensive thing he owned—and he sang with a soulful, deep voice. I always listened for the first few seconds, before closing my eyes and starting to sway to the rhythmic soul of his art. For the next two hours, I was guided by the music and his voice, moving my body in ways that felt right in the moment. When we were finished, we split the takings evenly.

“Why do you always put your money in there?” I asked, pointing at the bulging waist pouch underneath his clothes.

“So the pickpockets gotta work hard to rip off my money,” he said, putting away his earnings. “There are people out here who steal from the homeless. That’s how low they go. You gotta be extra careful with your cash. Now, listen here young girl. Winter’s comin’. It’s gonna be four months of freezing cold. I’m too old to be on the streets in that devil snow and ice, and I think you’re too young for it.”

“Are you going away?”

“I’m goin’ to a shelter as soon as the mercury drops below freezing,” he said. “I know you’re real strong-headed and all, and it ain’t my place to tell you what to do, but you ain’t never slept rough through a New York winter. It ain’t nice. I think you should try a shelter. Plus, you’re real young, so they might be able to help get you back in school.”

“I can’t go to a shelter. I hated school … and I won’t go back.” In truth, I was afraid the police would find me in a shelter. I was probably a murderess in their eyes, and they’d send me away if they found me. I had to find my mother, and I’d rather sleep rough than risk getting caught.

“You’re stubborn, young girl. It’d make me feel a whole lot better if you’d go to a shelter for the winter.”

“I know you’re just looking out for me, but no.” I didn’t want to tell him my reason for not going.

“All right then,” he said with a smile. “But you’re gonna need a warm coat.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Come on then,” said Dave.

He wheeled his shopping cart to a closet that he somehow had the key to and locked it inside. Then we hopped a train.

* * *

The Salvation Army had that weird thrift store smell, and it was packed tight with overflowing racks of clothes.

“The girls’ stuff is over there,” said Dave, pointing across the store.

I watched as his large frame slowly sauntered down to the men’s section. He was lumbering from side to side as he made his way through the narrow aisles, leaving the clothes swinging on the racks behind him. He looked like a wobbling bear. I tried not to giggle, but I had to cover my mouth.

There was so much stuff that it took forever to find something I liked that fit. I finally found a small brown ski jacket that looked relatively new. It was down-filled with fur around the hood. It must’ve been discarded by a fashion house or a spoiled rich girl who lived in a fancy apartment like the ones on Fifth Avenue. There were no mirrors anywhere in the store, but I tested the gold zipper a couple of times to make sure it worked.

“That coat looks good on you. Take it,” said Dave with an approving nod from across the racks. “You should also get a sweater, scarf, and gloves. You’ll need lots of clothes to keep warm.”

“Okay.” I dug through the winter bins and found a brown scarf and gloves. Then I grabbed a bulky sweater off a rack.

Dave found a thick waterproof jacket and tried it on. “How does this look?”

“Pretty good,” I lied. The black jacket had a few holes that I imagined were the result of rat bites. “Are we ready to go?” I was starting to feel claustrophobic and the smell was overwhelming. I had to get out of there.

Salvation

The day of the first freeze, Dave checked into a shelter for the winter. He showed me where it was so I could find him if I needed to.

One by one, all the street musicians disappeared from their usual spots. I knew they must’ve checked into shelters for the winter. I had no idea how I was going to make more money before Dave came out of hibernation, but that only strengthened my resolve to survive.

I missed our daily performances—and the regular income—but I’d been saving to tide myself over during the ice-cold months. I didn’t need Dave to tell me that winter on the streets would be hard, but his suggestion did get me thinking. I realized I could go to a youth hostel and not be bothered by any authorities.

I checked into a hostel the first night it snowed. Having a hot shower and sleeping in a warm bed for the first time in months was glorious. I spent my days walking the streets looking for my mother, thankful for my winter clothes and a warm bed to sleep in.

* * *

I used up most of my savings on the hostel. By the first week of January, I was back to scavenging and sleeping in the subway. I found a pair of big winter gloves on a train, and I put them on over my other gloves for double protection against the cold.

I wandered aimlessly around subway stations, not knowing what to do. I was lost, like a body without a soul or a ghost devoid of love. My skin was practically sagging off my bones, and when I moved my limbs I felt aches and pains in my muscles and joints.

Stealing aspirin from bodegas and feeding on leftovers from trash cans and trays in fast food joints made me feel like a lowlife again. The worst part was that I was a complete nobody. I was an outcast, nothing more than lowly filth that society wanted to forget. I was a mere rat.

As I descended deeper and deeper into despair, I rarely thought of my mother. I could barely remember what she looked like.

One day, I saw a woman who reminded me of my mother—her golden hair, her bright smile, the familiar silhouette. She was getting on a train and I ran on after her.

“Mother, is it you?” I cried out as I grabbed both her arms and turned her around to face me.

At first, she looked at me quizzically, as if she was amused by a harmless weirdo. Her expression soon changed to one of disgust.

“You stink. Get away from me.” She pushed me back and walked to the next car.

I was reminded of the terrible pain I felt when my mother disappeared. Her figure got smaller and smaller as she walked through the sunflower field toward the sunset on the horizon … until I could no longer see her.

I gave up all hope of finding my mother in the city.
My search is futile
. The only thing keeping my body alive was my instinct to survive.

* * *

I was walking by a McDonald’s and something caught my eye through the window. A teenage boy got up from a table without clearing away his tray. I ran in and grabbed his leftovers before the workers could stop me.