"Where are you going, Jazz?" I peek out of my blanket and rub my sleepy eyes.
"Shh." He tip-toes with his sneakers between his fingers, sits on the edge of my bed, and puts on the shoes, tying up the laces.
I prop myself on my elbows and shift the curtain. "It's still dark." The shorter hand of my bedside Barbie clock is slightly ahead of five, and the longer one sits between six and seven. I'm not sure of the time, but it's well before my getting-up time when the short hand reaches seven and the clock chimes. "Mum said we shouldn't go out in the dark."
He rises, wears the jacket from behind the door, and tucks his auburn hair under the woolen cap. "I'm just heading out for a run."
"But it's—"
"Shh... shh!" He lifts a finger to his lips. "You'll wake mom and dad."
I sit up. "I don't want to be alone in the dark."
He exhales. "Shall I leave the lamp on?"
"It'll still be dark outside."
"You're six, Mimi. Be brave now, will ya?" He pulls my cheeks and tucks me into my blanket. "I'll be back before you wake up." He turns, walks slowly to the door on his toes, and turns the handle.
"Jazz." I sit up again. "Can you leave the lamp on?"
He switches on the bedside lamp. "There. Anything else?"
"What if mom or dad wake up and find you missing?"
"I'll be back before they know."
"But if they ask me?"
"Tell them I am gone practicing for my race."
"What race?"
He rolls his eyes. "The one next week."
"But there isn't any?"
"Just tell them I'll be back, okay?" He pulls the blanket back over me.
He turns the door handle, opens the door slowly, and steps out. "I'll be back, okay?"
"Promise?"
He pulls the door behind him. The wooden steps creak, the door makes a twitch downstairs, and a knob clicks. I pull the blanket over my face, pinch my eyelids, and curl into a dream.
I wake up with my face drenched with sweat and pick up the bedside digital clock: 07:00 a.m.
"Mimi?" Mom knocks softly and pushes the door. "You up already?"
"Is it today?"
Mom nods, enters, and slides the drapes. A soft slab of sunlight lights up the floor. The bed next to me is made, a clean bed sheet tucked in with a pillow without any creases or stains. Mom has kept it ready in case Jazz returns. He hasn't—in the last seven years.
I rise, walk behind mom, staring out of the window, and place my palm on her shoulder. "I am sorry, mom. I should've—"
She turns, holds my face in her palms, and wipes my tears with her thumbs. "It's Jazz's birthday. Come home early in the evening. I'm making carrot cake, and his favorite...."
I wrap my arms around mom, and she pats my head gently. We both cry.
***
