I nudged her, but she lay still. The siren of a passing police car did not wake her. She had gone to the place the pills had taken her—the place of escape from herself.
I loathed Dad—could sink my teeth into his neck like some kind of animal. Because I should’ve escaped instead. He had held my mother up until he could do it no longer, until something had snapped in him. But I was just sixteen, and duty should have made him stronger. Duty to Mom, duty to me, duty to Brad.
Dad used to find relief by eating whole pies or boxes of ice cream in front of the hockey game. His wide, round belly telling the story of his excess.
“Wahoo! Did you see that goal, Brad, my boy!”
And Brad answering his war-whoop.
Mom was like a fallen willow, lying on the couch in the light blue housecoat that signaled her mood. A pale white-blond beauty—so unlike my own tough, dark skin. Unlike Dad, Mom denied herself food, preferring to suffer the pang of hunger as punishment for a past I couldn’t understand—didn’t want to understand. Her whispers releasing secrets that my ears didn’t want to hear.
“Why didn’t you want me?” she would moan to the demons that haunted her. “Why didn’t you love me? Please don’t hurt me again.”
Until Dad, too, had run from her demons, the demons that she fed us all. Banging around late at night, yelling, “I’ve had it!” and, “This is enough!” Thumping out the door and fleeing the scene. And Brad and I hearing it all from our beds.
“Oh, darling, don’t leave me alone. I’ll die without you.”
I crouched for more than an hour beside my mother, quiet in her bed. If only she would moan or roll over. Give me a signal that I, too, could escape into sleep. She offered nothing. How could I go to Paris when I couldn’t even leave Mom alone for a few hours?
Fighting my yearning for sleep, I set up watch at the kitchen table, down the hall from her. I got my sketchpad and charcoals, a large plastic cup with ice water, and an apple. Yet I couldn’t draw. I couldn’t eat or drink either. I could only wait for Mom to show a sign of life.
The night took on a pattern, a rhythm. I checked her breathing every fifteen minutes. Watched TV in between to stay awake. I listened for a soft sigh, a rustling, a sign of waking. It didn’t happen. A sigh was too close to living for her. She could only manage a slow wisp of air in and a trickle out. Hardly awake. Hardly alive. Still hanging on.
I thought, she only took enough to taste death, not to meet it full on. She will be back.
Who else could understand, unless they lived it, too? I couldn’t just phone for an ambulance every time I suspected. She was warning me, crying for help. Yet a nighttime trip to the hospital would be considered a betrayal. Mom could find many ways to punish those who crossed her. She controlled my every move, my every thought with a package of pills and a few well-delivered tears. Besides, the hospital would just release her after a few days or after a few weeks if it was bad. Soon after, the pattern of night watches would begin again.
* * *
THE ICE IN MY WATER HAD MELTED LONG AGO. The TV screen was gray. As the night lengthened into darkness, I had to do more.
I knelt beside Mom. She was still. If only I could will her to live. Maintain her heartbeat. Images of my mother, well and happy, ruled my thoughts, pumped through my veins, fuelled my sleeplessness. Like when she taught me to skate—pulled me around the ice rink, her boots solid and strong on the ice, my skates sliding without control. Or how she used to laugh—a high-pitched whinny through her nose.
Then I was connected, linked, with her. A cable of electricity pulled tight between us. Together, we would struggle with life and death.
I felt the haze of drugs as if I, too, had swallowed them, or maybe it was the haze of sleeplessness. I wanted to save her, to erase her suffering, to absorb it for her. If only I could help. Yet my mind became constricted by her sorrow. My limbs tied down with dead weights. Until, in a moment of weakness, sleep conquered me. On the floor beside her bed, I slept the sleep of exhaustion, the sleep of winter.
In my dream, I was floating, gliding, swallowed by water. A gentle rocking motion. My own voice singing, mocking childhood songs.
“Oh where, oh where has my mother gone? Oh where, oh where could she be?”
Then I swirled in the water to face Mom’s bulging dead fish-eyes—lost in the land of endless sleep. Lost to those of us who still wished to live.
I tugged at her body. Struggled with her to the surface. Pulled her to shore where Dad and Brad watched without making any effort.
“Help us,” I called. “Please.”
Brad, ignoring me, twisted a hockey stick around and around in the ground as if he were grinding it into the heart of some cruel beast. Dad sneered, then spit into the sand beside me.
I woke then, trembling in the shadow of my dream, with my throat on fire, my skin burning, my head clouded. I had to get help, but Mom would never forgive me if I did. What to do? What if she never woke up?
With the ache of indecision choking me, I paced the floors. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom. I breathed cool air into the fiery passages within me, the tension strangling tighter and tighter around me. I watched the night stretch on. I heard the silence of the night. Mom’s silence.
Then, with the wonder of one who has lived through eternal blackness, I watched the night turn into day. People dotted the streets. Dogs barked out warnings. Birds twittered advice. An unexpected hunger grew within me. I denied myself food, although blueberry muffins lingered on the counter and orange juice beckoned from the fridge. How could I eat? What about Mom? I should be making tea and toast for her.
Fighting the hunger until noon, I sacrificed, keeping my steady watch. I made hopeful tea for her, guarding it until it grew cold. Then Brad, with hockey sticks like porcupine quills, swept in.
I met him at the door. “Brad, she’s not awake yet. Should we call for help?”
Mom had never taken this long to wake up before.
Brad, smelling like sweat, couldn’t let himself care. “Why don’t you give her a bath? That’s what Dad used to do.”
Swinging his full shoulders around, he headed for bed.
Why didn’t I think of that? I ran the bath. Not too cold, but cold enough to wake her. When the tub filled, I pulled the thin quilt off her. Like an intruder, I undressed her, repulsed yet fascinated by this woman, this stranger, my mother. I tugged her housecoat off. Pulled her nightgown over her head. Removed her socks but not her underwear.
Nudging Brad awake, I asked him to help carry Mom to the tub.
He refused to answer at first. Covered his head with his pillow and pretended not to hear. But he had no choice. He, too, was bound to protect her from herself.
“Cover her,” he said when he saw her on the bed. I wrapped her in a sheet and grabbed one end, but Brad pushed me aside.
“I’ll carry her myself.”
He shouldered her with only a little trouble, then walked down the hall to the bathroom. Her one arm dangled behind him, white and frail. Brad dumped her in the bathtub, sheet and all, while I held her head to keep it from banging on the end of the tub. Then Brad, coolness in his eyes, turned from the shame and retreated again toward sleep. I let him go. What else could I do?
In the bath, I couldn’t look away from her helplessness, a wisp of what she could be. Watching and waiting yet for a sign of life. For more than a breath.
With the first sweet groan, the first flutter of a finger, I saw with eyes wide open what I hadn’t seen before. I saw the burden that I had come to accept. I had become my mother’s caretaker. I could affect life and death. I had control. Yet a smaller, childish voice deep inside me whispered, “Just be my mother, and I will be your daughter.”
Mom’s eyes rippled open. I seized the chance.
“Mom, where is the bottle? What did you take?”
I leaned over her face, but didn’t expect much of an answer. My mother moaned. Looked at me with glazed eyes. I couldn’t
help her.
Then she lifted a limp, dripping hand out of the bathwater and extended one shaking finger toward the shelf of towels above the toilet. She pointed the way for me. Maybe she was even asking for my help.
I jumped up, ready to take action. Felt between the soft folds. Flung the towels one by one onto the floor. Until a bottle crashed onto the linoleum and rolled against the cupboard.
Pain medication. I flipped the childproof lid off. The pills were almost gone. I flushed the rest of them. Put the empty bottle on the counter.
An idea nudged me as I wrapped a towel around Mom, helped her into her robe, and led her to the kitchen for some tea. It wasn’t enough that Mom was OK this time. Her sorrow had become too big for me to handle alone. I wanted her back, not this creature who sipped tea as if it were poison. And I wanted to be able to live my own life. I wanted to go to Paris.
With determined steps, I walked across the room to the telephone that hung on the wall with its long cord dangling down toward the floor. I picked up the receiver. I would call 911. I didn’t care what Mom would think or do. I couldn’t save her.
My finger hesitated over the buttons. I didn’t want strangers to take my mother away to the hospital like a criminal. And everyone in the Building there to watch them load her into the ambulance, like when Hunter had died.
My eyes wandered the list of emergency phone numbers taped to the wall beside the phone. Who else could help? Then I saw it. Doctor Singh. Our family doctor since I could remember. She was older than Mom. Her black hair had a touch of silver at the temples, and the skin around her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
The message service asked me if it was an emergency. I looked at Mom. She was staring into her cup, crying tears like hot tea. Lost to me again. She didn’t even notice that I was in the room, talking on the phone about her.
“Yes. It’s an emergency,” I said.
Brad continued snoring from the next room.
* * *
I FINISHED CHOOSING MY ART CLASSES in the hospital waiting room before Dad even arrived. After that, it was easy to mail the letter.
Mom was in the hospital for days. Dad stayed with us at the apartment. Brad visited her once, and he told me that Dad went almost every day, but I couldn’t make myself go.
I had betrayed her. I had turned her into the authorities. She would never forgive me.
After seven days, I couldn’t put it off much longer. I had to see her. To tell her what I had done, where I was going in only two weeks. I had to tell her about Paris.
I didn’t expect her to be different—I couldn’t let myself hope. She’d had doctors before, but they’d never seemed to stick long enough to make any real change. At least, it had never stopped the night watches. Yet maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time I could get my mother back.
I went alone. They had her in the psych ward. I had to sign in with the nurse at the desk.
“Room 401. Down the hall to your left.”
The hospital corridor smelled sour. My shoes tapped on the polished floor. The door to room 401 was open. Two beds. Mom on the one by the window. The window had bars on it.
My mother’s eyes were red and swollen. Her hands trembled. Her voice was only a whisper.
“Allie. I’m so glad …”
Mom propped herself up in the bed. Her pale blond hair was clean but it still hung limp against her face. She folded and unfolded her legs, not sure how to get settled.
“How are you, Mom?”
“I’m … OK.” She tried to smile at me. Her eyes watered. “I’m glad you came. I want to talk to you.”
She didn’t seem to remember that I had betrayed her.
“Me too.” I dared to step closer.
“You first,” she said.
“No, you.”
She looked at her hands for help. I wobbled where I stood. Her fingers clutched and skated over each other. When she looked up, I saw tears hovering on the bottom lid of each eye, anticipating the long journey down. She inhaled a jerky breath that caught me deep inside. My body became a stone statue. Cemented to the floor. Stiff with waiting for whatever was to come.
“I want you to know why I am like this. I want you to know what has been happening to me. For the last year, I’ve been remembering … these things. I … remember … horrible … things. Things that happened to me when I was a girl.”
Tears began to find the way down her cheeks. I was still stone, but my stomach was beginning to feel sick. “What things?”
“Your Uncle Alex. He used to …” She shook her head. “I can’t,” she paused then said all in a rush, “talk about it yet.”
“Oh.”
I got an unwanted memory of Uncle Alex. Family dinners—until we stopped going. A balding, large man with big hands. Uncle Alex had smoked a pipe and kept mints in his pocket. He had always hugged me a little too tight, a little too long. I remembered squirming desperately away.
My hands tightened into fists. Horrible images flashed into my mind. I imagined Uncle Alex’s fat hands on my mother. Why was she telling me this? What had he done? I didn’t know, but I could imagine the worst. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed the images away.
“Just know that I’m going to try to sort myself out,” Mom said, sounding stronger. “That I’m going to work through some things.”
I opened my eyes. “OK.” A warble crept into my voice as I reminded myself that I couldn’t rescue her. I couldn’t know if Mom was really going to get better this time. That was up to her, not me. I couldn’t be her mother any more.
A nurse rolled a cart down the hallway, glancing in at us as she passed. Mom wiped her tears away.
“Mom, I have something to tell you, too.”
“What?”
I stepped toward the bed. Leaned on it for support. “I’ve been accepted into that special arts program. A scholarship, so you don’t have to pay. It’s only for six months. Please, Mom. I want to go. Oh, I hope you say yes because I already chose my courses. Please, can I go?”
“Oh, Allie!” She began to cry all over again. “What you must have been through because of me. I’m so sorry.” She wiped her eyes and reached for me. “I’m so proud of you.”
She wasn’t mad at me. She understood. “You mean I can go?”
She paused and her voice changed to a concerned mother’s. “After I hear more about it.”
I smiled at Mom in the hospital bed. She must be hurting, but I’d had a glimpse of who she used to be. Of how proud she was of me. Of how much she cared.
“Oh, Mom.” I threw myself onto her. Wrapped arms around her in a melting hug.
A tear dripped warmth onto my cheek and slid down my neck. I squeezed her tighter. Her heart beat against mine. Her breath was in my ear. Her hand smoothed my hair.
“Tell me,” she said when I finally pulled away.
“It’s called Arts Abroad. Remember? I showed you the brochure in September.” I crossed my legs and got comfortable on the end of her bed. “I’ll be staying in a girls-only residence.” I gave her a knowing smile. “But the art classes! Wait until you hear about them!”
Easy Target
Asim
Apt. 1005
THE PROBLEM WITH BEING THE OLDEST was that I had to baby-sit. Mother worked nights cleaning office towers downtown and Father sometimes worked later than expected at the hospital. Which left me stuck at home until he came. Yet that night was a big night for me. I was going out with my friends, and nothing would keep me from it.
Except for Father. He was late. Again. That was when my little brother Nassir—a five-year-old earthquake—decided that the bathwater belonged on the bathroom floor. My sister Fatima was no help in cleaning it up. Fatima was ten years old and mad that she wasn’t in charge.
“You’re the baby-sitter, Asim,” she said without looking away from her book. Her long hair gleamed in the bright overhead light. Fatima had stopped wearing her hijab after a girl at her school had spit on her. A headscarf made her t
oo much of a target. I knew how she felt.
Then I caught the baby, Rakia, pulling a box of noodles out of the kitchen cupboard and dumping it on the clean kitchen floor. She gurgled and tried to lift a noodle with one finger.
I sighed with frustration. Where was Father? If only I could leave the mess and dash out the door. Instead, I picked Rakia up so she wouldn’t choke on a piece of hard noodle and tried to clean the mess with one hand. By the time Father walked through the door, the slow burn inside me was about to explode into fireworks.
I crunched over the spilled noodles, a dustpan in one hand and Rakia in the other. “You’re late.”
He was still wearing the loose clothing of an intern. In Egypt, he had been a doctor, but here he had to re-qualify. Father shot me a dark, stern look that said respect your father. I could only think that times had changed since he was a boy, running the market streets in Cairo.
I could hear Nassir hollering at Fatima down the hall, and she was giving it back to him double time.
“Silence,” Father’s voice was firm yet he did not yell.
The apartment became quiet and still. Fatima came running down the hall.
“Is there supper for me?” Father asked.
“I’ll get it, Father.” Fatima began to heat his meal in the microwave.
Now she helps, I thought, as I emptied the dustpan into the garbage.
Then I noticed the time. The kitchen clock showed that I was twenty minutes late already. Were my friends still waiting for me? Would they leave without me? I rushed to the room I shared with Nassir and dressed in black jeans, a new T-shirt, and a modern jacket. Western clothes. By then, Father had eaten and was preparing for his evening prayer.
“May I go now?” I asked, trying not to sound impatient.
“Are you not staying?”
“Don’t you remember? I’m going out with friends …”
Take the Stairs Page 8
