Be like me, she realizes she’s saying.
Memories of her own transformation, those moments in which her past and the trauma in it fell away like weights from her ankles, flicker in her mind: her departure from the Refugee Intake Facility to the rooming house that held other unaccompanied minors like herself, others who refused to answer the questions about their past that aid workers insisted on asking them; her insistence on speaking English anytime a fellow Nigerian refugee, seeing her tribal scars, tried to converse with her in Hausa or Yoruba; letting her prayer rug collect dust after her first time accompanying Céline to chapel, where Christian refugees from all over Earthland could worship alongside white Alabastrine citizens; taking the medicine prescribed to her by her doctor, medicine that purged her mind of Daren, who had loved her and cared for her and betrayed her, medicine that quieted her mind and helped her focus and kept the nightmares at bay. It had all seemed so easy, remaking herself, as though her course were already set. Why dwell on the horrible things people did to you? Or the horrible things you had done? Who would choose nightmares over freedom from them? Let the bodies stay buried.
No one in Alabast could call Ify a war criminal.
Only on what must be the third or fourth chime does she hear her Whistle. She sees the name flash across the digital retinal display her Whistle calls up before her eyes. She lets out a sigh of relief. Amy.
With her Whistle wirelessly connected to her tablets, she clicks a few buttons on the surface of the closest, and up pops the face of the woman who, over the course of four years, helped raise Ify from the mute, shivering West African refugee she had arrived as into the ninteen-year-old woman she is today. The woman who delivered baked goods to Ify’s dorm, poking her awake whenever she found her asleep at her tiny desk, drooling all over her study materials. The woman who tirelessly coached Ify out of her bush accent and into the proper Colonial English she speaks today.
The display switches from draft to full color, and Amy’s skin turns from holographic blue to the color of old parchment. Gray threads her coarse black hair. Wrinkles line the once-smooth skin by her eyes. But those hazel eyes have that same melting glow they did when Amy first set them on Ify. Like she is always just on the verge of crying.
“Mrs. Reed,” Ify says, instantly at ease.
Amy frowns. “After all this time, Ify, and you still insist on calling me Mrs. Reed. You should know better.” The frown twists into a smile.
“Fine. Dr. Reed.”
Amy’s frown returns, then they both burst into laughter.
Every time Amy calls, they begin with this dance. They’d done it whenever Amy called to offer encouragement before Ify’s exams, whenever Amy called to summon her from the library for meals, whenever Amy called to deliver bad news about Ify’s early immigration struggles. Whenever Amy called to vent about something her wife, Paige, had done or tell Ify far too much about their struggles having a child. Whenever she’d managed to find Ify at just the right time to console her over a bad test result or something her classmates had said or done to highlight the fact that she was nothing like them. Despite the changes that had raged around Ify like a maelstrom over the past four years, Amy had stood in the calm eye with her, holding her close.
“How was your trip?” Amy asks.
“It went very well. Céline is perfect for the job. You remember Céline, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes! Your friend from school.” To put it lightly.
“Yes. She will begin her post as a Colonial administrator after graduation. Among the youngest in the history of the Colonies.”
Amy chuckles. “The Colonies aren’t that old, babe. Some of us are older than the Colonies, in fact.”
Life-preservation tech in the Colonies still flummoxes Ify. It means constant upgrades for your cyberization, constant maintenance, sometimes debilitating illnesses that only grow prolonged and never end. Eyes or legs or organs that cease working because they cannot adapt to the advancement of the rest of your body. All so you can take a few more breaths of recycled air.
“But I’m glad you were able to see her. How is it out there? Paige and I rarely get any time away from Alabast these days—it’s such a shame—but we’ve been planning a vacation. And if you have any ideas of places to go in Centrafrique, maybe a safari or something of the like, do let us know. We haven’t been on an adventure—a true adventure—in so long. And, if I’m being honest”—she lowers her voice into a conspiratorial mumble—“our marriage could use a little seasoning, if you know what I mean.” She launches into a fit of giggles.
Ify chuckles nervously. “I will, Dr. Reed. I will.” Normally, she’d let Amy drone on and on and make the conversation about herself—she does this more the older she gets—but the memory of Centrafrique and its vibrancy and its uniqueness still burns fresh in Ify’s memory. There are no lions in Centrafrique, she wants to tell Amy. No elephants. No safaris. “What’s new with you?”
“Oh, nothing.” Amy pauses, bites her lip. “Well, actually, there’s something I was hoping you could help me with. Us, actually. It’s something Paige and I have been dealing with.”
Ify stiffens, expecting more marital troubles.
“We’ve adopted a child.”
“What?”
“A young boy seeking asylum. He’d been living in that dreadful camp everyone’s always calling the Jungle. Absolutely filthy conditions. Alabast thinks they can just cram every refugee they don’t want into that tiny island outpost and hope they get so sick of it they just go back to whatever war they came from. Well, some of them have no country to go back to! Hello! It’s underwater!” Amy takes a moment, then goes through her breathing cycle. “I’m sorry, Ify. It’s just . . . it’s so difficult not to feel outraged these days. That’s why I’m so happy you’re doing what you’re doing. All grown up and being a medical doctor, helping these refugees to adjust.” She smiles at Ify, and it looks once again like tears are pooling in her eyes. “Get past their trauma. It’s good work.”
“So you adopted a child?” Ify can barely push past the shock.
“Well, we’re sponsoring him. His asylum paperwork is being processed, but you of all people know how arduous that process is. All we can do is try to make him as comfortable as possible while we battle it out.”
“What do you need me to do?” Ify knows there’s too much bite in her voice. But she can’t entirely mask how annoyed she is with Amy, always making these impulsive decisions. Upending a person’s entire life, thinking only of herself and her supposed good intentions. She probably just did this to add seasoning to her marriage with Paige.
“Well, we were hoping you could help him adjust. You know, relate to him. Maybe bond with him. He’s . . . he’s been having problems. Acting out. His temper’s all over the place. One minute, he’s practically snuggling, then the next minute, he’s shrieking at us that we’ve destroyed his life. He won’t eat any meat, which I can understand—”