The Girl in the Freezer

THE GIRL IN THE FREEZER Chapter 1: The Smell My name is Zara Okoro and I am 19 years old and I find dead things in Queens. Not because I want to. Because Mr. Patel pays me $15 an hour to clean empty apartments after people run without paying rent. I am from Enugu but I live on 129th with my four sisters. My mama in Nigeria thinks I am in college full time. I am, but I also clean. Because rent in Queens is not beans. On Tuesday, Mr. Patel called me. "Zara, Apartment 4B. Family left. Nigerian family, very dirty, left everything. Just throw away, clean, quick quick." Apartment 4B. Same building as me, two floors up. I knew that apartment — loud music, smell of fried stew at 2 AM, always fighting. Husband and wife, Igbos, I think. I never saw children. I took black nylon bags, gloves, mop. Amaka said "Follow me, I no get work today." We entered. Door already open — landlord opened. Smell hit us. "Chi m!" Amaka covered nose. "Wetin be this?" It was not normal trash smell. It was sweet, rotten, like meat that stayed outside fridge for one week in Nigeria heat. Heavy. It stuck in throat. Living room scattered — wrapper on floor, broken TV, couch torn, indomie packs. Normal for run-away tenants. But freezer was loud. Too loud. Old white freezer in corner of kitchen, humming like generator — vrrrrrrrrr. "That freezer still on? For 6 months?" I asked. Amaka shook head. "NEPA no dey here, how freezer still on?" I mopped living room first, trying ignore smell. Smell was coming from kitchen. Stronger near freezer. I went to kitchen. Pots with dried stew, white maggots moving. I threw pot inside nylon, gagging. Then I faced freezer. White freezer with sticker that said "This House Is Covered By The Blood Of Jesus!" Blood of Jesus indeed. I wore glove. I opened top. Cold mist came out — pshhhh. Ice everywhere, thick, like inside Igloo. And inside, wrapped in black nylon bag, like market frozen chicken. But shape was wrong. I touched bag. Hard. Ice inside. I pulled bag up small — heavy. Ice cracked. And I saw hand. Small hand. Brown skin. Maybe 6 years old. Pink nail polish, chipped, like my little cousin in Nigeria wears. Hand was inside ice. I did not scream first. Brain did not understand. I thought doll. Maybe doll. Then I pulled more. Face. Small girl face, frozen, eyes open, looking at me. Cheeks frozen white. Puff on head — small puff like Sofia's. That was when I screamed. Not small scream. Scream that made Amaka drop nylon. "ZARA! WETIN?!" "CHILD! CHILD INSIDE FREEZER!" Amaka came, saw hand, saw face, screamed louder than me, ran out of apartment, slippers flying. I ran too, left freezer open, cold mist coming out, child's eyes still looking. On hallway, I called 911, hand shaking so much I pressed 119. "911 what's your emergency?" "There is child in freezer! Apartment 4B, 129th Street, Queens! Child dead in freezer!" Police came in 7 minutes. Two white officers, one Black officer with big beard. They went inside with guns out. I waited outside, Amaka holding me, both of us crying, smelling that sweet rotten smell on our clothes. Black officer came out first. Face pale. He looked at me hard. "Miss, what's your name?" "Zara Okoro." "How long you know family that lived here?" "I don't know them, sir! I just clean! I live downstairs! Mr. Patel said they left 6 months ago!" "Did they have kids?" "No! I never saw kids! Only husband and wife fighting!" He wrote in book. "Don't leave town, Miss Okoro. We need to talk more." Don't leave town? I live here. Where I go? They carried freezer out, covered with blue tarp. Neighbors came out, phones recording. Mr. Patel came running, fat belly shaking. "Zara! What you do?! I said throw everything! Not call police!" "Sir, there is child inside!" "What child? That family had no child! I rented to husband and wife only!" But I saw child. With pink nails. That night, police station called me to come. At station, they showed me picture of husband and wife — Mr. and Mrs. Adeyemi. Said they found them in New Jersey, driving to run. "They said they never had child," officer told me. "So whose child is in freezer?" I asked. He looked at file. "We found second bag. Behind chicken. Boy. Same age. Also frozen." Two children. And family said they never had children. At 2:13 AM that night, in my apartment on 129th, while Amaka snored beside me, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Text message: You shouldn't have opened the freezer, Zara Okoro of 129th. You saw pink nails. Now you have to finish what you started. Don't tell police about the text or your sisters will be next. - 4B I dropped phone. Phone screen cracked. Someone knew my full name. Knew where I live. Knew I saw pink nails. And they were still in 4B.