Rachel and Ötzi are there when I stagger back inside the mall, pushing through a screen of tears. I ignore Rach and Ötzi as they demand to know what the hell happened outside. I walk right past, headed for the Gap and clamber inside the bush of clothes with my tiny warm daughter. We lie on our sides and suck our thumbs together.
‘Granny, sweetheart,’ I tell Hopey, ‘She’s gone. She’s, um. She’s dead.’
Her expression doesn’t change. ‘Mamaswong?’
Not really, child. Not now. Maybe not tomorrow.
I don’t know if Mama will ever be strong again.
We punish ourselves by cleaning the mall. The Kmart Kids wipe the handrail overlooking where bombs were hurled and heads crushed. We mop the floor around Dunkin’ Donuts and squeeze the pink bubbly mophead foam into a bucket, erasing the bloodshed a fe
