The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 1

Wednesday, April 22, 2015, 1:09 P.M

Missing my stop at 86th Street on the number 6 Lexington Avenue Local train from the Bronx last month, I had to walk three extra blocks north from 77th Street to my apartment on 83rd Street and 4th Avenue. During the unintended tour of my neighborhood, I noticed two flower shops. The first shop, Flowers Galore, was on 78th Street and 4th Avenue.

The second shop, Every Bloomin Thing, was at 81st and 4th Avenue was much closer to my apartment. I remember smiling and thinking it was a perfect name for a flower shop. I’d moved into the neighborhood six months ago, and I’d never been inside either of them. Today, frightened and desperate, here I was.

I entered the shop, and a middle-aged man stood behind the counter arranging a bouquet of spring flowers. His name tag read ‘Juan Luiz. I caught him as he showed a young girl standing with him behind the counter how to trim the stems off Tulips, Irises, Azaleas, Hyacinths, and other flowers. Her name tag read ‘Lucy.’ I was their only customer.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, straightening her thick-lensed glasses as I approached. She eased away from Juan and strolled over to me.

The glasses attributed a tinge of maturity to her smooth, unblemished copper-colored face, from which her hair had been swept back into French braids. She smiled warmly at me, exposing intricately wired orthodontic work. I showed her the now limp stalks of the flowers from Willoby.

“Do you know what these are?” I asked.

“Sorry, no idea, but I’ll check with Juan.”

She beckoned him over. He carefully examined the flowers but also seemed confused. To appreciate a more realistic specimen, I showed them the diamond with the fresh flower embedded inside.

Lucy and Juan exchanged furtive glances, which betrayed suspicion and awe. They stared at the diamond inquisitively.

Lucy took it in her hands to give it a closer look, then Juan took it from her and remarked, “Yeah, I know . . .”

Suddenly, he stopped speaking. His face contorted with pain as he bellowed a primordial shriek that could have awakened his ancestors in another dimension. He dropped the diamond on the floor beside me, clutching his right hand, which burst into flames!

For a minute, we were all in a state of horror as the fire alarm clamored. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh permeated the air. I spun around in rabid confusion.

Lucy rushed to the shop's back, returning with a fire extinguisher. I unconsciously grabbed the diamond from the floor and bolted. I scampered into the M101 across the street.

The back of the bus was empty. I sat down, crumbling. Trembling. My head was mired in a ball of confusion. In a flash, I remembered that I was still holding onto the wretched diamond. I quickly dropped it on the empty seat next to me, suspiciously examining my hand. It wasn’t on fire. But why? Why wasn’t it on fire?

Chapter 2

Two Days Earlier: Monday, April 20, 2015

The New York City subway system was unpredictable tonight. The train signals were behaving like a moody teenager. It took more than two hours to get home from Morris Park in the Bronx to my apartment on the Eastside in Manhattan. A trip I usually made in minutes on a typical night.

Stressed out from the city’s day-to-day grind, it took two cups of chamomile tea to calm my nerves before I climbed into bed. I knew the following day would bring more of New York’s unpredictability.

I’d only just entered dreamland when the ringing of the telephone disturbed my restless but much-needed sleep.

“Who the hell could be calling me at this hour?” I snarled, grabbing the telephone. I propped myself up on my elbow in the middle of a shuddering yawn. Still groggy, I glanced at my LED-lit caller ID beside me on the night table. It read ‘Unavailable.’ I could hear the hiss of heavy breathing as I picked up the phone, but no one spoke. As I attempted to return the receiver to its cradle, a voice said, “Miss Apika . . . Miss Shade?”

“Yes,” I answered gruffly.

“This is Sergeant Wade Willoby from the 59th Precinct in the Bronx. I am sorry to wake you, ma’am, but this is very important. It concerns your parents.”

“My who? What!” I asked, bolting to an upright position. “What’s wrong with my Mom and Dad?”

“I think I should come over and talk to you.”

I flung off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.

“What’s wrong with my parents?” I insisted.

“Can you confirm your address, please?”

“Sure, but are they alright?” I demanded, my heart racing out of my chest as I gave him my address. I was about to ask another question, but I heard a click.

I stared at the phone for a second then offered a silent prayer. I then dialed my parent’s home phone number. Annoyed all over again that I had to return the two expensive smartphones I’d bought them. Their house phone was busy. “What the . . . but . . they have call-waiting!”

I hung up and hugged myself as I was shivering, though not from the temperature in the room. I peeked at the clock. It was 4:32 A.M. I pressed the redial button on the phone once again, but the line was still busy. I guzzled a deep breath, trembling. My mom was an early riser. She could be on the phone? A voice suggested. But they have call-waiting! I said in torment.

I got up, put on my robe, and made my way to the kitchen. One cream and two sugars later, I made my way into the living room, sipping piping hot coffee. What could be wrong with my parents circled my head like a halo as I pressed redial. Their phone was still busy at 5:00 A.M. My thoughts were running wild again.

In distress, I allowed my memory to replay last night’s episode at my parent’s house, hoping to pick up anything out of place that I might have missed.

“Honeysuckle,” I recalled Mom saying, as I entered, beaming with pride, yet looking me over with the discerning eye of a trainer scanning his prized filly before the ‘Big One.’

“What have you been eating? You’re thinner than my silver candlestick holder.” Hugging me as if she hadn’t seen me in years.

My parents were the epitome of happiness. Dad had retired next to the living-room window, smoking his pipe. I pictured him, seated comfortably in his leather La-Z-Boy armchair recliner, watching the Eagles vs. Jets showdown on the 55-inch Sony HD Smart TV I bought for him last Father’s Day.

“I love you, Mom,” I’d said after hugging her as I exited.

She waved from the door as I stepped out into the cool night air. I waved back, then headed towards Barnes Avenue to the subway. Apart from occasionally teasing me about the virtues of matrimony and childbearing, which gave me shivers, I thought about how lucky I was to have such great parents.

The downstairs buzzer screamed, throwing me back into reality. I jumped, spilling coffee all over the table. I scrambled to the intercom by the door, pressed the speaker button, and asked, “Who is it?”

“Sergeant Wade Willoby. I called earlier,” the voice explained. I buzzed him in, waiting anxiously!

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoyed it.