Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

Most of the landlords’ shares were concerned with the subtle, occasionally unsubtle “differences” noticed in them by confused friends and family. Each had been told they were “acting weird,” and some had been urged to seek professional help. The accusations usually fell into two camps: the landlords were perceived as being either inappropriately juvenile or clinically depressed. Some at the Meeting spoke of the rage of lovers who either felt they’d been spurned or suspected they were being cheated on.

Violet, who Lydia thought looked like a model, was in the middle of some very sticky business.

“I’m just having… a lot of problems!” she exclaimed. Everyone laughed because “a lot of problems” was definitely the theme of the day. “I mean with the men I’ve been seeing. Or dating. Or having relationships with or whatever .” José went “ Ewwwww ” and Rhonda said, “Get over it, girl!,” eliciting more laughter. “I know! But the problem is, I’m still having feelings toward them. Some of them. Violet doesn’t… but I mean, I’m even still ‘doing it’ with some of them.” The whole room yucked and tittered. “I’m trying ,” said Violet. “But some of them are just so insistent .”

Dabba Doo said, almost folksily, “Well, how many of them are there, Violet?”

“Not too many. But one of them’s kind of my… fiancé.”

Hilarity ensued until Annie took control.

“It’s a process,” said the Porter. “And it can be messy. But the mess will go away. Your priorities will assert themselves. People’s feelings are going to be hurt, you can’t avoid that. But you’re not here to soothe hurt feelings, you’re here for a purpose. Sometimes you might forget that, but your purpose won’t forget you . So take the time during the day to read your Guide —and be patient.”

Rhonda raised his hand and she called on him.

“There’s something I’m really struggling with, Annie. I can’t quite… It’s something I’m trying very hard to understand. Not so much to understand, but to—” His voice trailed to a whisper as he looked at his feet. “I’m trying to remember how I was killed.”

A few in the group audibly gasped. His frankness jolted but at the same time was cathartic, because many had had the same thought but weren’t courageous enough to give it voice.

“Thank you, Rhonda,” said Annie. “How long have you been with us, about three months now?” Her delivery was matter-of-fact.

“Ninety-five days,” he said.

“Three months is about right for that particular question.”

Was the Porter rattled by what Rhonda had asked? It seemed like she was but Lydia couldn’t be sure. When Annie began a worrisomely prolonged cough, she brought her a glass of water.

“You may never know,” said the Porter, after she’d taken a few gulps and sufficiently recovered. “You may never have the answer, Rhonda, or learn the details of how you died. What I can tell you is that sometimes—quite often, actually—such knowledge comes at the moment of balance .”

“That’s so unfair!” cried Rhonda, sounding for all the world like a little boy being deprived of a puppy. “It just seems so important!”

“ Seems so important,” said Annie, putting on her wisdom smile. “I suggest, Rhonda—I suggest to all of you that you don’t waste time and energy trying to remember those terrible details. They’ll either come back or they won’t, but really have no importance. Why would you want to know? I think it’s merciful you don’t. That’s my belief.”

“But what happens,” said Lydia, the words erupting from her throat, “if we never find the people who did this to us? What happens if there is no moment of balance ?”

Annie wasn’t prepared to respond. It was a riddle she made note to mull over later—not the question per se (she had asked her mentor the same thing during her apprenticeship), but that it’d been asked by one of the train children. It was one more thing the Porter had never encountered and she put it in the “haywire” file.

José piped in.

“You said the moment of balance comes in three or four months, but Dabba Doo’s been here for seven . Is he having trouble? I mean, finding the responsible party?”

The eyes of the room fell upon Dabba Doo, who looked bereft. Maya thought it quite rude of José to have spoken about her new friend in such a way—as if he wasn’t there.

“First of all,” Annie said sternly, “we do not discuss other individuals during the Meeting! That’s called ‘cross-talk.’ We don’t stick our noses in business that’s not our own. Is that understood?” José shook his head contritely. “The last thing I will say on the topic is that it takes as long as it takes—and that’s everything you need to know. This isn’t a competition! And Maya, in response to your question, all I can say is that I’ve been doing this a very long time and what you asked about has simply never happened. There is always the moment of balance .”

Lydia smiled nervously (Maya had receded for the moment), not wishing to get on Annie’s bad side. Troy supportively put his hand on his little sister’s.

“All right, let’s move on. As some of you get closer to fulfilling your purpose, there’s much to cover. And we have a birthday today! José’s time is done and he’ll be leaving us.”

The group broke into congratulatory applause, which was more about getting to eat chocolate cake than it was about saying goodbye to one of their own.

2.

The high school was buzzing with the news of Winston Collins, whose disappearance was trending on social media. He was a student at the Mount Clemens Montessori Academy, only a few miles away.

Honeychile said nothing about her connection to Mrs. Collins and her missing son, not even to Zelda. Her anguish was multiplied—not only did she feel an overwhelming sense of guilt for having banished Hildy from her life, but she also vividly remembered meeting Winston on her first visit to the house. She’d been so happy to be invited! It was a privilege not extended to all of Hildy’s “children,” and she and Winston played well together. Honeychile was seven and he was four. While he tried explaining to her what he’d been building with his Legos, Honeychile’s driver, a volunteer from Children’s Services, helped Mrs. Collins prepare an array of treats in the kitchen.

As hard as it was, she decided to smooth things over with her BFF and apologize for being such a bitch. They arranged a sleepover, this time at Zelda’s. Honeychile said that she had an “extracurricular activity” in mind during tomorrow’s school field trip to the city, a plan that per usual was shrouded in secrecy. The truth was that Honeychile couldn’t have told Zelda what she was up to, because the plan was obscure to her as well.

“Tomorrow?” said Zelda.

A busload of freshmen were being taken to the Detroit Institute of Arts.

“Yup. We’re gonna go AWOL.”

“Oh my God, we can’t , Honey. They’ll expel us—”

“No they won’t. They won’t even know we’re gone.”

“What are we going to do? Are we going to the movies?”

“Fuck no. Movies are so boring!” said Honeychile.

“Since when do you think movies are boring?”

She was right—movies were Honeychile’s big love. She could sit in the den for hours on end watching old films on the Turner channel. But since the asthma attack, Jake and the Never Land Pirates, Dinosaur Train and SpongeBob SquarePants had supplanted the Technicolor TCM classics. Which puzzled Zelda, but her BFF was nothing if not unpredictable.