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Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman in red.
Papa’s lining herbs up in his study, hanging rosemary in bundles and humming along with Mama at the piano in the living room. The sun shines through the huge window, and she’s kicking her feet from her place sitting on Papa’s desk.
She’s clutching sage in one brown fist and thyme in the other. She looks at her papa, watches him rise up on tiptoes to reach the hooks above the window, stretch his arms up high, high, high.
“Papa, do you believe in God?”
Her papa freezes and the piano falters.
Slowly, he sets the rosemary down next to her on the wooden countertop. Slowly, the piano starts back up again, but quieter.
Papa pulls himself up next to her and the counter groans under the weight.
“Because Mama said she does,” Jackie says, quickly. Her papa has that look on his face he gets sometimes when he stares into the fire, when Auntie Joseph comes to visit. That look before he disappears a little. Jackie’s never been the reason for it, and she doesn’t plan on becoming one today. “But she said it was a decision I had to make for myself, and I thought, that’s weird! I don’t wanna decide for myself! I’m only five! But now I’m eight, and I remembered I didn’t ask you, and you and Mama have different thoughts about things sometimes, and…”
She trails off as her Papa starts to smile.
“Jackie,” he begins. “Your mama believes in God, that’s true. It makes her feel safer to think that there is someone looking out for her other than me. Someone who can make everything better with a wave of Their hand.”
He leans forward. “I don’t believe in God, Jackie.” He picks her hand up, traces the palm.
Jackie’s heart is beating fast, and she wants to run, but her papa is such a good storyteller.
The piano increases in volume, and her papa starts to tell her a story.
“A long time ago, back when I was only a little older than you, I lived in the kingdom in the valley.”
Jackie knows the place he’s talking about – Auntie Joseph lives there. He makes the rules.
Jackie and her parents don’t visit that often, but that’s because they have everything they need here, and because Auntie Joseph visits them.
“Your Auntie Joseph did too, and so did your Auntie Bea. The two of them had a best friend in the whole wide world, and her name was Max.”
Max.
Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman in red. She reaches out and holds Jackie’s cheeks in her hands, kisses her on the forehead, tucks her into a bed of moss and feathers.
“You remember when lightning struck the tree outside? How bright it burned?”
Jackie nods her head. She remembers like it was yesterday, the storm and the thunder and the scream she let out.
“Max was like that fire,” Papa says, still tracing her palm. “She was sudden, like the lightning strike. You never knew what to expect from her.”
Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman who thinks Jackie doesn’t see her banging on the ground, cursing and calling out for Emilio, Emilio, Emilio!
Her papa, dimples like hers. “Max had big dreams, just like you, my love.” He pokes her cheeks. “She wanted to be like my father, king. She wanted to wear beautiful dresses and a big crown. She wanted to be brought oranges whenever she had a craving, and she wanted to be my wife.”
Jackie gasps. “What about mama?”
Papa chuckles. “I didn’t know your mama yet. Your mama didn’t know me yet.”
Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman who writes the name Gaia in the dirt and kicks ash over it.
Her mama, tall and musical. The piano begins to play a lullaby.
The wood creaks again as her papa rests back against the bookshelf next to the window. He’s still holding her hand, and Jackie scrambles up into his lap. His free hand begins to smooth over her hair.
“Max got everything she wanted,” he says, but he says it sad. “She moved into the palace after my father died, and she planted an orange grove the minute she could. We got married and she became king.”
“Isn’t that good, Papa? That her dream came true?”
Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman who throws oranges for her to catch, back and forth and back and forth.
“No, sweet love,” Papa says. “Not in this case. When Max got everything she wanted, she started to…” He trails off, and Jackie turns her face up to him.
“You remember how it felt when you climbed up to the roof? How you didn’t understand why your mama and I were so scared?”
“Yes, of course!” Jackie says. “And I won’t ever go climbing up there again, no sir!”
The wind had rushed in her ears and she could smell food cooking three houses down. It was cold, but she was so tall. She could have stayed there forever, spinning and spinning and so high up. She could have touched the clouds. She could have flown.
But her mama and papa had cried out for her to get down, had shouted and held her close in their arms when she put two feet on solid ground.
Her papa laughs. “Max was like you, on top of the house. She was so high up that she couldn’t see how far she could fall. She was God.”
Jackie furrows her brow. “But you said God wasn’t real.”
Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman who sings hymns, full and wild. She flies and flies and flies.
“That’s right, Jacqueline,” Papa says, looking her in the eye. “Max was just like you and me. Red blood flowed in her veins. She cried when she was hurt and laughed at jokes. But she thought she was better than you and me. She thought she could do the things your mama believes her god can do.”
Jackie’s been dreaming of a woman who always weeps, who cannot stop crying even when Jackie tells her best jokes. It’s only me, sweetheart, she says. You haven’t done anything wrong.
“Papa?” Jackie asks, timid and afraid.
“Yes?” A cloud passes over the sun.
“Is Max okay?”
Her papa sniffs and the piano breaks off again, discordant. Jackie looks up and sees her mama in the doorway, leaning against the wall.
“Max is gone now,” Papa says. “She made herself too tall, and she fell.”
Jackie’s eyes fill with tears. She’s been dreaming of a woman who flies.
“Papa, where did she go? Where did she fall?”
“Emilio.” Her mama says. “I think you should stop.”
Her papa leans his head against the bookshelf. “I’m okay,” he says, weeping. “I’m okay,” he says, holding Jackie closer.
“Max is dead, my heart. She died before you were born, like mama’s mama.”
Jackie cries, and she can’t really tell why. She’s been dreaming of a woman who teaches her how to hold a knife.