Asha's Hope

The Flare.

Chaos.

Gangs.

Death.

That’s what she screams about each night. The oldest woman I ever met. Rita quiets her. Can’t bring attention to our camp. Not again.

I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulder and squeeze the locket. Tight. Memories try to force their way in.

Think about something else. Anything else.

“Asha,” Rita’s whisper offers sweet relief. “She’s asking for you.”

I rub my eyes and crawl out from under the car. The night air is cool and crisp. I shuffle past the garbage and filth and find the old woman. I hold her hand. She grasps it with both of hers, tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whimpers.

Rita goes back to bed. She needs the sleep.

“You want a story?” I whisper.

She slowly nods.

I take a deep breath to clear my mind. I tell my favorite Aesop Fable, The Lion and the Mouse. I tell it simply. The lion shows mercy to the mouse. The mouse returns the kindness one day proving even someone small can help. I’m not a great story teller, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles.

“Think you can sleep, now?” I ask, fighting back a yawn.

“Why’d you choose that one?” she asks.

I use my one free hand to grab the locket, tracing its heart shape. “It’s my favorite one I remember my mother telling me.”

“You are a good girl.”

I raise my eyebrow at her but stay quiet.

“D’you wanna hear a story?”

I think I know which one she will tell. But, it’s probably good for her to tell it. “Yes, please.”

“Before the gang wars. Before the event called The Flare. I lived with my mama, papa and my two big sisters.” I nod along. “They were good people. We loved each other. We went to church, tryin’ to be good. We helped our neighbor. We had nice things. I had the prettiest white shoes with flowers on top. I used to tap them shoes on the kitchen tile, hearing their click clacks, dreamin’ I was on stage. Mama would hush me while she was watchin’ the news. Don’ know why she watchin’ it, tears in her eyes when she see the bad in the world. But she’d say to us, ‘You be the good.’ You be the good.” She pauses. I try to imagine what it would be like to watch a TV and see small people talking at me. I look back to her to see if she fell asleep, but she’s looking right back at me. Her blue eyes shining bright in the moonlight. “People can be so nasty to each other.”

I nod.

“Asha,” she pulls on my hand and I move closer. “You be the good.”

I don’t know what to say. I tighten my grip in her hands, hoping that will comfort her. She lays her head back and sighs.

I wake, not aware that I fell asleep next to the old woman. The sun is up, Rita has the other children sharing breakfast. She runs a tight camp. I try to pull my hand away, but the old woman is still holding it. I gently try to pry her hands off, but hers are cold. I look at her gray face. My voice is gone, I cannot call out to Rita. I stare back at the old woman’s lifeless eyes. Why does it never get easier? All the death.

“How’d you keep her quiet all night?” Rita asks, playful sarcasm in her voice. She stoops down to see me. Then she knows. “Oh dear. Last person I knew who lived before The Flare.” I nod.

She helps me pull my hand away. I stand silently, hands dangling at my side, while she covers the old woman with a tattered sheet. Then she stands beside me and puts her arm around my shoulder.

I return to my car and gather my things from underneath. My blanket. My canteen. My shoes.

“Let’s walk!” Rita calls.

I walk with the other kids, all different ages, all different personalities, all different backgrounds. All different. Except, we are all scared. Rita says there are people out in the country that will help us. Teach us to farm and make a life for ourselves. We keep low, hiding between cars and walking along ditches to get there.

“All I’m saying is before the electric trains, they had coal trains. Why don’t we get them running again? Sure would make my feet happy to stop walking everywhere.” Ben. Once again fantasizing about an easier life. You’d think he remembered life before The Flare. Before the sun fried every thing that had an electric circuit. A modern day Carrington Event. Stopping all of the cars, trains, boats. Creating panic as suddenly no one could connect to the great big web, or whatever it was called. No one could use their individual communication devices. I heard the old woman talking about those before. Like small TVs in everyone’s hands but instead of the small person talking at you, you could talk back even if they were on a different continent. Talking to them as if they were standing right next to you. I frown. The old woman would never be able to tell me more about life before The Flare.

“You know they can’t just start up some old coal trains, Ben. Even if they could, who’d run it? Who’d keep the gangs from just widening their territory. We’d never have the chance to even use them,” Shelley snaps.

They keep fighting back and forth. I pick up my pace to catch up to Rita.

“You doin’ okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Not the first person I’ve watched die.” I grab my locket.

Rita nods, knowingly.

“How’d you get stuck with her?” I ask.

Rita shoots me a glare. “I asked to be her partner.”

“Why?”I blurt. As sweet as the old woman was, she made our sneaky escape very difficult.

Rita replies simply, “She saved me.”

When she doesn’t elaborate, I press.

“How many times did you hear her tell you about her life before? About her white shoes?”

“At least two dozen times,” I snort. I’d known her for a couple weeks, but she loved to tell stories.

“I’ve heard it hundreds. And every time she ends the same.”

“You be the good,” I recite.

“You be the good,” she repeats.

“She single-handedly saved hundreds of kids. Bringing them safely out of cities, to the country. She checked on me in my new life whenever she would bring new kids to my farm. She always remembered my name. She remembers - or remembered - everyone she ever rescued. She was the kindest woman I’ve ever met. And she always had the one message. You be the good. One day, I asked if I could join her. I was grateful for the Ma and Pa who took me and all the other kids in. They were sweet. Nothing like the folks I left in the city. But, I didn’t feel like I was ‘the good’ on the farm. I wanted to save the kids, too.”

We walk in silence. I think about living on a farm. Away from the gangs, the fear. But, what would I be doing? Asha, you be the good. Those were her last words to me. I will never hear her voice again. Never hold her hand covered in large veins. I’ll never see her light eyes looking into my dark ones and watch her smile at me, as if she only saw a good little girl. She made me feel safe. I pull the elastic off my wrist and gather my black frizzy mess of hair into a bundle on top of my head. I cannot be ‘the good’ if I only care about running into the country.

The old woman is right. People can be so nasty to each other. I can think of endless examples. The gangs spreading their territory, tagging my house with red paint, dripping like blood. The men who dragged my mother away, screaming, as I hid under the table. The woman who stole my food while I played with her baby. My own brother who traded me for security in one of the gangs.

“What’s in the locket?” Rita asks.

I didn’t even notice I was holding it. I open it and hold it out to her.

“Who is she?”

I shrug.

“Found it in the dirt when I was little. After I lost my mother. Thought it was pretty and it helps me feel … safe.”

I look at the faded picture. Whoever she is, she is lovely. Her hair is pinned up and she wears a pearl necklace. Her smile, so inviting. I like to think she was a good woman, had a happy life. Treated her children with love. Cared about others and didn’t judge their past. Some one a lot like Rita. Or, more like the old woman.

“Rita, I think you’re right.”

“’Bout what?”

“I won’t be ‘the good’ if I hide in the country on a farm. I want to be like the old woman. I want to bring hope to other kids.”

Rita smiles, “I think she would like that you’re continuing her mission, Asha.”

I smile, too. It feels good to smile. It feels good to know I will return the kindness given to me. I peel the picture out of the locket, glance at her one more time before I turn it over. I need something to write with. I hang back and catch Shelley’s attention.

“Do you still have your pencil?” I ask.

“I need it for my journal,” she snaps.

She always snaps. I don’t blame her. I roll my eyes anyway and hold out my hand. She gives it to me, reluctantly.

In the locket I write three simple words: Be the Good.

I hold my head high and walk on.