The small wireless speaker on the nightstand next to the bed plays a steady hip hop beat that is overlaid with a three part harmony humming along to an alto saxophone embellishing softly in the background. Qisha’s frantic breathing over the last half hour has slowed to normal and the realization that what she learned from Penelope’s echo seems, in no small part, to be true. The hardest part of life has just begun. The faith humans put in the reality they see is absolute.
Qisha notices her hands are empty. She examines them intensely. The creases are long, but the surface of her palm is soft. Her fingers are well manicured, but her fingernails are her own. She slowly brings her fingers in closing her hands into fists. The two fists resting against one another in her lap. Her posture belies her confidence and she slouches over gazing into her lap. Qisha’s dark amber skin tone makes the polish on her nails pop every time she opens and closes her fists. She stands up and begins scanning the room for Penelope’s phone.
“Where did her phone go? I didn’t drop it,” she says to herself on repeat, in rhythm with the instrumental low fi hip hop album that starts back at the first track. Whereas her search was cursory at the onset, her pace increases in keeping with the rise of panic. She begins to notice nothing that was Penelope’s was left behind when the echo disappeared, as she suggested she would. Rummaging through the blankets on the unmade bed, the myriad of products on the bathroom counter and under the basin and through her scattered piles of sketches on the kitchen table, which doubles as a work space, and the end table next to the sofa. Nothing of Penelope’s remains. “Penny, where are you,” Qisha mutters to herself.
There is nothing physical in this apartment that ties Penelope to this world. She is gone. A different version Penelope’s life has taken residence here. A life where she did not grow up with Qisha. A life that ended years ago. Qisha holds a trove of memories, laughs, tears, joys, successes and failures with a Penelope this world has forgotten. When an echo is left behind they carry with them an infinite number of Diegos or Penelopes that will fill the space left behind by their poofing out of this version of themselves.
Qisha finds in her phone an image of a framed photo she does not immediately recognize. In it is a lanky girl with a kids’ network t-shirt showcasing all the characters in all the network’s shows, a ruffled skirt, tennis shoes and ruffled socks the same color as the skirt. On her head the adorable little girl has a plethora of braids with several beads at the ends. “That’s me. Is that-“ she posits out loud as she examines the other little girl in the photo. This girl has pale skin, straight jet black hair down to her hips and over sized glasses hiding her grey eyes, which can barely be made out. She wears a tie-dyed t-shirt with a band name in white, green shorts whose hem you can barely see poking out from the bottom of the oversized t-shirt and flip flops.
“When was this taken? I don’t remember this. What does that say?” She zooms in on the photo and there is what looks like a poem hanging on the wall next to the framed photo. She can make out,
A Penny for your thoughts
How much for one more laugh
I’d give it all to hear you again
To see you traipse about
Or lounging on the couch
Your hugs and kisses I miss
More than anything
I’ll pick up every Penny I find
Forever and ever and hopefully
One of them will bring me back to you
RIP Penelope Resto 1988-1999
“Penny, NOOOOO!!!!”
______
Penelope stands motionless, holding her bruised ribs. “Diego, please take me home now. To Qisha’s, not my parents’ place. Please, take me now.”
“Could there be someone there? Do you want all three of us to go or just you and Diego?”
It should be fine, no? You don’t suspect anything has changed in the last half hour do you? She’s probably annoyed you left the way you did, since you were trying to kidnap her.
“Stop joking around, Diego. Let’s just get her home and we can sort this all out later.”
Okay, okay. Gimme your hands. Both of you. And think of her front door. Just in case something is going on, I don’t want to burst in on anything.
“Ooh, smart. I can grab your elbow, Penelope if you want to keep holding your ribs.”
“I’m fine.”
With that, the three take each other’s hands. Penelope concentrates on the hallway leading up to Qisha’s door. She recalls the aged hard wood floors, the rows of doors that made up railroad apartments, redone within the last 10 years. In her minds eye she walks past the dark green doors and their silver knobs and brass colored knockers sandwiched between a peephole on top and an apartment number on bottom. She runs her fingers along the banister as she heads to Qisha’s door. Apartment 3A. “Apartment 3A. End of the hall. The last apartment on this floor.”
Diego is slowly able to make out the image Penelope is conjuring in her mind’s eye. The shape of the hall, the color of the floor and walls, the smell of the hall leading up to her door begin to materialize in his mental picture of Qisha’s apartment building. He looks Penelope in the eyes, pausing for a moment to survey the anxiety rising inside her. He can see her favoring the side of her torso that tumbled to the ground those few moments ago. Her resolve is mounting and the change in her face is evident as it goes from worry to ready.
“Diego. Quit stalling, get me home.”
Okay, let’s do it.
Poof
The hallway is dark. There is a flickering overhead light. The color of the walls is different than he saw, different than she remembered. You remember the right place?
“What? Yes, of course I did! I WAS JUST HERE!”
You don’t have to yell. We’re here. Just open the door.
Penelope rushes to apartment 3A, the apartment at the end of the hall. Her hurried footsteps echo in the hall. The sounds of the heavy footfalls are compounded by the flat landings instead of on the balls of her feet as she does when running for sport or exercise. There is no time for form. She grabs and turns the handle and slams her shoulder into the door with one move. It does not budge. The resounding crash booms through the hall. She instantly tumbles to the floor. Righting herself, sitting on her knees, she slams her fist into the floor. On her feet as quickly as she fell, she begins pounding on the door.
“Qisha! Let me in. Let me in, please! I’m sorry I tried to poof you to Diego’s place. You don’t have to come to dinner if you don’t want to.”
Oh shit. Speaking of, are we gonna miss our reservation?
Jamish smacks Diego on his arm with the back of his hand, showering him with a disappointed glare. “You really think that’s important right now? We can figure things out when this gets settled. Hell, we’re in NYC, we could just go get a slice or something here.”
But, I was really hoping to go to that rooftop. It looked so cool in the pictures.
“You can literally go anywhere you want whenever you want. You don’t get to complain.”
I’m not complaining, I’m just hungry. Diego sheepishly turns away from Jamish and takes a step toward Penelope.
“Shut up you two. I hear movement. She’s home. Quiche, please open up. I don’t know how many times I have to say sorry. I don’t want to poof in there. I just called it poofing. Again.”
Thanks for that, by the way.
“Zip it, you. Quiche, please.”
The stirring in the apartment gets louder as it makes its way to the door. The three in the hallway freeze. Diego and Penelope hold their breath in anticipation. The unmistakable sound of a click from a latch being undone sings loudly in the quiet hallway. The door slowly opens and a frail looking man stands before them, struggling to remain upright leaning heavily on the door with his left hand and his cane in his right hand.
Um, Penelope, are we on the right floor?
“Wait, this is 3A. How did you get in there?”
The old man eyes Penelope up and down and almost as if he is looking through her scans the boys behind her in the same way. Without a word he begins shaking his head and starts to retreat back into his apartment. Penelope sticks her hand out to stop the door and pleads with him for answers.
“Please, sir, who are you? How did you get into my friend’s apartment?”
“Young lady, this has been my home for longer than you’ve been alive,” he counters with a thick Latino accent.
Senor, con permiso, perdonanos. Diego offers in Spanish, continuing in the man’s native tongue. Sir, we are so sorry to bother you. We remember our friend living here. She sent us a message that sounded very serious and we were just hoping to check on her. We don’t know if she is in danger or she fell down and hurt herself, she can be a bit of a klutz.
“Just because you can speak Spanish doesn’t mean your friend is going to magically show up here. Perhaps you could just call her. If she is young and reckless like you three, she is probably on her phone anyway and will see you call her quickly enough.”
We meant no disrespect. We tried her phone and she didn’t respond, so we just came here.
“How did you get in? Who buzzed you?”
Oh, the door was left open. Is it normally not?
“Open again! Don’t they know how dangerous that is? Those idiots on the second floor are going to get us all killed one day. I have survived two wars and Nueva York in the crack days.”
We will be sure to lock it when we leave.
Penelope leans over to Jamish and whispers softly, “Do you know what they are saying?”
“Not a clue. I don’t know much Spanish at all. Diego tried to teach me a few years ago, but I just couldn’t be bothered. I don’t know why I couldn’t be bothered. In retrospect, I guess I should have, huh?”
“I mean, yeah, I guess so. Being bilingual is helpful.”
“I’m a computer programmer. Does that count as another language?”
“No.”
“Do you think we could come in and maybe sit for some coffee and figure out what to do next?”
“Well your friend isn’t here, but some company would be nice. Sure thing, nene, come on in. If those two are respectful, they can come in too. You have to show respect to your elders. You know this, right?”
Sir, yes sir. We will all be very respectful.
“Okay then. Come in, let’s have a coffee.” The once crotchety old man opens the door and leans heavily on his cane and shuffles over to the kitchen table and grabs a seat. Next to the front door, Diego notices an A frame bookshelf full of framed photos and small plants. On the wall above the bookshelf there is a small marquee that reads “Reyes, we are the kings and queens Christ ordained for us to be” in hand carved wooden pieces that have been fastened securely to the small back lit frame, next to which is a three dimensional crucifix with Jesus still hanging there. The simply furnished apartment has no other art on the walls, but does have several framed photos on end tables scattered throughout.
Penelope in a complete tizzy scans the apartment. Her mouth agape and eyes welling, she deeply breathes as she is desperate to find any sign of her friend, any semblance of the apartment that was. She notices in one of the picture frames a little girl. Taking hold of the small ornate framed photo she looks more closely at the picture. In it is a lanky girl with a kids’ network t-shirt showcasing all the characters in all the network’s shows, a ruffled skirt, tennis shoes and ruffled socks the same color as the skirt. On her head the adorable little girl has a plethora of braids with several beads at the ends. “That’s her!! This is Qisha!”
The old man looks to Diego and firmly says to him in Spanish, “You said they would be respectful. Tell her to put down my granddaughter’s photograph.”
He asked if you would put that down.
“But this is Qisha. He knows her.”
Sir, Mr. Reyes, is your granddaughter’s name Qisha?
“How do you know my name? I never told you.”
On the wall there, it says Reyes.
“Oh yes, that. How could I forget.” There is a pregnant pause. He firmly squeezes his cane before softly continuing, “Yes. Her name is Qisha. Was Qisha. I miss her terribly.” He transitions back to English. His thick accent belies his firm grasp on the English language and his depth of training in language. His time in the military was as a translator. Mr Reyes speaks 7 languages as fluently as his native tongue of Spanish and is versed in several others. “How do you know my granddaughter?”
“Granddaughter? And what do you mean, ‘was’?”
She does this, she asks a lot of questions.
“Yes, she was my granddaughter. She died. She died the summer that picture was taken. If you pull out the picture, it’s folded. There is another girl in there. Her best friend.”
“Me. But she didn’t die that summer. She was just here. I never knew she was Spanish. This is a lot to unpack.”
“She wasn’t just here. I don’t know what you guys are trying to do, but you have to leave.”
Sir, please. It is very confusing for us too. We know a woman named Qisha, and we remember her living in this apartment building. We thought it was this specific unit too. It is coincidence she shares a name with your nieta.
“No, this is my Qisha. The other girl is me. Look!”
Penelope turns over the unfolded photograph to reveal a handwritten note from a young unsteady hand. It reads, “Qisha and Penny Best friends forever. I love you and miss you already. ‘06/’99.” A silence falls over the room. Jamish steps over and opens his arms. Penelope for a moment falls into him, but quickly regains her composure. Diego’s eyes begin to well with tears. Penelope redirects her attention to Mr Reyes.
“This is me. She is my best friend. She was just alive. I promise.”
“I miss her too, but she has been gone for a long time. I don’t remember you very well though. Her mother was married to my son. He died before they had any children. I survived two wars. He was on assignment and the Lord took him only one week after deployment. She got remarried a year or two later. Then she had Qisha two years after that. She didn’t have to, but she let me be in her life. I only had the one son. My wife died in childbirth, so Alphonso was all I had. It was kind of her, but then the Lord saw fit to take Qisha from me too. Now all I have are those photos. I am 96 years old, but he wont take me too.”
“I am so sorry. I had no idea. We will go now. Can I have this picture?”
“NO. Why would I let you have that? Just use your camera to take a picture of it.”
“I guess I could do that.” Penelope instinctively reaches into her back pocket for her phone and pulls it out. She bends the photo to hide her 11 year old self and slides it back into the frame. Her phone in hand she snaps a shot of the picture in frame.
Thank you, Mr Reyes. We are sorry for your loss. We will leave now.
The three head out into the hallway, close the door quietly behind them, take hands and with a single thought, poof, they are home.