Mitch Albom - Finding Chika: A Little Girl, An Earthquake, And The Making Of A Family

Courtesy of the author

Why arent you writing, Mister Mitch?

Chika is lying on the carpet in my office. She flips onto her back. She plays with her fingers.

She comes here in the early morning, when the light is still thin at the window. Sometimes she has a doll or a set of Magic Markers. Other times, its just her. She wears her blue pajamas, with the My Little Pony cartoon on the top and pastel stars on the bottoms. In the past, Chika loved to choose her clothes each morning after brushing her teeth, matching the colors of the socks and the shirts.

But she doesnt do that anymore.

Chika died last spring, when the trees in our yard were beginning to bud, as they are budding now, as it is spring again. Her absence left us without breath, or sleep, or appetite, and my wife and I stared straight ahead for long stretches until someone spoke to snap us out of it.

Then one morning, Chika reappeared.

Why arent you writing? she says again.

My arms are crossed. I stare at the empty screen.

About what?

About me.

I will.

When?

Soon.

She makes a grrr sound, like a cartoon tiger.

Dont be mad.

Hmph.

Dont be mad, Chika.

Hmph.

Dont go, OK?

She taps her little fingers on the desk, as if she has to think about it.

Chika never stays for long. She first appeared eight months after she died, the morning of my fathers funeral. I walked outside to look at the sky. And suddenly, there she was, standing beside me, holding the porch railing. I said her name in disbeliefChika?and she turned, so I knew she could hear me. I spoke quickly, believing this was a dream and she would vanish at any moment.

That was then. Lately, when she appears, I am calm. I say, Good morning, beautiful girl, and she says, Good morning, Mister Mitch, and she sits on the floor or in her little chair, which I never removed from my office. You can get used to everything in life, I suppose. Even this.

Why arent you writing? Chika repeats.

People say I should wait.

Who?

Friends. Colleagues.

Why?

I dont know.

Thats a lie. I do know. You need more time. Its too raw. Youre too emotional. Maybe theyre right. Maybe when you put your loved ones down on paper, you forever accept that reality of them, and maybe I dont want to accept this reality, that Chika is gone, that words on paper are all I get.

Watch me, Mister Mitch!

She rolls on her back, left and right.

The isby-bisby spider, went up a water spout...

Itsy-bitsy, I correct. The words are itsy-bitsy.

Nuh-uhhh, she says.

Her cheeks are full and her hair is tightly braided and her little lips pucker, as if shes going to whistle. She is the size she was when we brought her here from Haiti, as a five-year-old, and told her she was going to live with us while the doctors made her better.

When...

Will...

You...

Start...

WRITING?

Why does this bother you so much? I ask.

That, she says, pointing.

I follow her finger across my desk, past souvenirs of her time with us: photos, a plastic sippy cup, her little red dragon from Mulan, a calendar

That.

The calendar? I read the date: April 6, 2018.

Tomorrow, April 7, will be one year.

One year since she left us.

Is that why youre being this way? I ask.

She looks at her feet.

I dont want you to forget me, she mumbles.

Oh, sweetheart, I say, thats impossible. You cant forget someone you love.

She tilts her head, as if I dont know something obvious.

Yes, you can, she says.

* * *

There was a night, during her first few months with us, when I read Chika The House at Pooh Corner. Chika loved to be read to. She would snuggle into the crook of my midsection, rest the book cover against her legs, and grab the page to turn it before I finished.

Near the end of that particular story, a departing Christopher Robin says to Pooh, Promise you wont forget about me, ever. Not even when Im a hundred. But the bear doesnt promise. Not at first. Instead he asks, How old shall I be then?as if he wants to know what hes getting into.

It reminded me of our orphanage in Haiti and how, the moment a visitor arrives, our children ask, How long are you staying? as if measuring the affection they should dole out. All of them have been left behind at some point, staring at the gate, tears in their eyes, waiting for someone to return and take them home. It happened to Chika. The person who brought her departed the same day. So perhaps this is what she means. You can forget your loved ones. Or at least not come back for them.

I glance again at the calendar. Can it really be a year since shes gone? It feels like yesterday. It feels like forever.

All right, Chika, I say. Ill start writing.

Yay! she squeals, shaking her fists.

One condition.

She stops shaking.

You have to stay here while I do. You have to stay with me, OK?

I know she cannot do what Im asking. Still, I bargain. Its all we really want, my wife and I, since Chika has been gone; to be in the same place with her, all the time.

Tell me my story, Chika says.

And youll stay?

Ill try.

All right, I say. I will tell you the story of you and me.

Us, she says.

Us, I say.