“If You Leave, You’re Gonna Die”

This is the story of Shaunte, as told by Aurora Wells…

“Don’t leave the house,” I said. “If you leave, you’re gonna die.”

Chris looked back at me, his hand still resting on the brass doorknob. My mother peered in from the kitchen, wiping her hands.

“I stared out the window of our house, a house always smelling of spices and dusty concrete, as if the urban flatlands of Phoenix held the answer.”

Chris chuckled warmly. “And how’s that, Sunshine?”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared out the window of our house, a house always smelling of spices and dusty concrete, as if the urban flatlands of Phoenix held the answer.

I knew Chris smoked cigarettes; so I said, “smoke.”

My mother said nothing.

“Tell you what, Sunshine. I’ll be back in time to kiss you goodnight.” Chris smiled, and was gone.

I remember his smile to this day — broad and bright with charisma. Even though I was only seven the night he died.

My hand was on the swell my mother’s stomach, feeling my sister Christina kick, when she told me. Voice calm like before a storm, like the calm of the ocean I had not yet seen but knew existed, saying Chris had been shot and killed that night.

The words I’d spoken without thinking echoed through my head. If you leave the house, you’re gonna die. I remembered the strange, urgent sensation of being taken by those words. And now they were true.

“I remembered the strange, urgent sensation of being taken by those words. And now they were true.”

My mother’s boyfriend was dead. The tallest man I’d ever known, he had carried me on his shoulders when my father was nowhere to be seen. He was handsome and charming, and made me laugh. Above all, he had loved me; and I him.

My mother told me a funeral was so everyone could say goodbye; I was filled with seven-year-old sorrow when she wouldn’t let me say it, too. She said she wanted me to remember Chris the way he was, not a corpse cakey with powder in the middle of a church. It seemed so unfair that my mom was trying to protect me when I was the one who could have protected Chris.

She wouldn’t tell me where the bullet came from, either. I pieced the story together from eavesdropped fragments: Chris was shot by a man he had been attempting to rob. They said he was trying to get enough money to bail his brother out of jail. (Recently an uncle who knew Chris confided that he might have been strung out, desperate for a fix. But I don’t really believe that.)

“Christina was born prematurely. I remember the days of uncertainty and lizards in my aunt’s backyard as I waited for them to come home.”

Christina was born prematurely. I remember the days of uncertainty and lizards in my aunt’s backyard as I waited for them to come home. My mom nearly died in the hospital, but they both survived. Christina only weighed five pounds.

Now my sister is 21 and five months ago, Christina had a baby. When I saw him, I couldn’t believe my eyes… he looks just like her dad. Chris was only 24 years old when he was killed. Now he has a beautiful grandson, and he never even met his daughter.

Christina's baby boy

I guess they are his gift to the world.

As for my gift, my mom still won’t talk about it. She acknowledges what happened that night (and it wasn’t the last incident of my childhood) but I can tell it scares her. It scares her because it’s always scared her. Because she gave it to me.

“As for my gift, my mom still won’t talk about it. She acknowledges what happened that night (and it wasn’t the last incident of my childhood) but I can tell it scares her. It scares her because it’s always scared her. Because she gave it to me.”

The night Chris died changed my life in a way no one could have predicted. Having that experience at seven years old forced me to trust myself. Unlike my mother, I embraced my intuition.

And because of that, I’ve felt truly intentional and grateful about each step I’ve taken on the path from Phoenix to San Francisco; from child to woman. No matter how wayward it may have appeared.

I’ve been able to follow my heart.