COMPLICITY - A TALE OF NOW

Lissy is already dressed, her dolls arranged next to the bed in the space that is sometimes a boat, sometimes a park, and often a doctor’s office. The toys are all hues, different nationalities, from newborn to school-age, with sizes that don’t really make sense when placed next to each other. The two Barbies, who were inexpertly gifted to my daughter, live in the closet. Their boo-zooms, career ensembles, and matching footwear are of no interest to the kindergartner. “Hello, little girl!” I say.

“Hello, little mother,” she smiles.

“Whoa, why does Susan have all those Band-Aids on? What happened?”

“Nothing. She’s just pretending.”

“Doing the drama queen thing again?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe next time, though, she shouldn’t use the whole box. Okay? Just in case you or I need one?”

“Okay. But sometimes she won’t listen, though.”

“I understand. Cereal or French toast?”

“I had cereal yesterday.”

“So, French toast?”

“No, cereal.”

“Got it. Make sure you wear a sweater today. It’s absolutely freezing.”

“I am very tired of winter. It’s not cozy like before Christmas. Now, it’s just like dark all the time. It makes me feel alone.”

“Oh, honey! You’re not alone! I’m here.”

“Daddy’s not.”

“I know.”

“Brain cancer isn’t fair.”

“It’s not.”

“Can Mila come over this weekend? I didn’t know before, but she is very fun to play with in the dress-up corner.”

“Good idea. Let’s ask her mother at the bus stop. Chop-chop!”

“What’s that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

Twenty minutes later, we are approaching a multi-colored collection of parkas jumping around to keep warm.

“Mommy?”

“Offspring?”

“Yesterday in music, Mrs. Miller was ugly to Mila.”

“What do you mean?”

“When she asked to go to the water fountain because she had hippos.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when you have hiccups in a different language. But then Mrs. Miller told her to speak in English. And she said illegals are vermins and drains.”

“Jesus, honey. That was very unkind. I’ll say something–”

again

“–to the principal.”

“That would be good. But maybe don’t say who told you. There’s Mila! Can we have a sleep-under instead of just a regular playdate?”

My head is swimming. “What’s a sleep-under?”

“It’s like a sleepover, but everybody sleeps in their own bed after pizza. Five is not old enough to be away from mothers at night. And then we would have breakfast together the next day. Louisa told about how to do it in sharing circle.”

A black van is idling at the bus stop, effectively blocking the pickup area. Its presence is confusing. “Mila’s mother isn’t here! How can we make arrangements then?”

“Maybe she’ll be here this afternoon at drop—”

“Mommy! Wait! What are they doing! Those men! Why is he picking her up like that? Mommy, stop him! Mila’s scared!”

My heart begins pounding. It’s a raid.

The child’s scream is the sound of abject terror. It’s bottomless. She’s trying to kick free of the jack-booted agent. Either embarrassed or hurt by the response he uses the inside of his elbow to get compliance.

The other kids start running. I’m the only adult present. A car passes honking. The passenger is sticking his head out. He’s hooting. Everything feels hyper-real and underwater. Lissy is hysterical.

“What are you doing? Stop it!” I command.

“Government business, lady. Mind your own.”

“Let go of her! She’s five, for Christ’s sake! She has a bloody nose—”

“Lady, you have three seconds to back off before I take you—and your kid—in, too. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

©Erika Raskin 2025

Charlottesville-based Erika Raskin writes what she worries about. The author of Allegiance (an all-too-real novel about American fascism), Best Intentions (a finalist in the Library of Virginia People’s Choice about medical malpractice in the system itself), and the YA novel Close. She is the fiction editor of Streetlight Magazine. Complicity is up on Washington Writers Publishing House.