by Cheryl Reid
After Marina was born, I told myself she would be better off without me. But now, twenty-three years later, the thought of never seeing her panicked me. I resolved in my mind, if I had to go, I would not go far, to the next town or the next, hovering near like the old Gypsy woman of my mother’s stories from home.
I sat up in bed and pulled off the black dress. The cool air hit my body. I tossed the dress on the floor, and my head spun. My head hit the pillow and the room was spinning too. Instead of easing, the whiskey’s effects grew stronger. I smoothed the black slip down over my legs. Lila’s footsteps sounded in the hall again, coming from Marina’s room. She had checked on Sophie and now the gentle night air or the whiskey bottle must be tempting her. She went downstairs for more, or maybe she was going to get the pistol and set watch, ready to protect me from what was coming.
I thought of Marina. She did not know what I knew, no notion of the bruises on my arms or the whispers that had followed me: The Arab girl who lives in Blacktown, and later, That Anna Nassad works like a nigger in her yard—she could get help, but she doesn’t know better. That’s what I remembered when it came time to decide whether Thea’s son should deliver the mail or not. When he stood outside my screen door, I thought, here is one of God’s creatures, the same as me, and I could hear it in his tired voice when he thanked me. But he was gone already. He knew the danger he was in. How stupid of me to think I could help him. I was nothing to him or his people.
I drifted in and out of sleep numbed by drink. I felt the same as I had after Mama died, sick in bed with the Spanish flu, coming in and out of a fog. Thea sat above me, pressing cool rags onto my forehead, running ice against my lips and tongue. Then Aunt Elsa came and she poked and prodded, having had no child of her own and being more practical in her method than Thea.
Elias came into my dreams, young and handsome. I felt hopeful, like the times I was half-asleep and woke to his body, warm and encompassing, on top of me. I would put my fingers in his hair, and I could believe, half dreaming, that this was love. Then the pressure in my chest surfaced like a buoy on the river, and I sat up, wondering if the last day was true. Yes, he was gone. All the feeling of when he’d been drunk or angry and found me alone, when the children were asleep or at school or outside, and he pushed or slapped me, that feeling came down like a heavy brick. When he cried and said he was sorry, he was not apologizing to me. He cried for himself, what he had become, what he had never wanted to be, an ogre like his father who had lorded over Nelly and Ivie and him.
Sophie came into the room and stood at the foot of the bed.
“Where’s my mama?” she whimpered.
“She’s not with you?” I felt a chill.
“No,” she whined, unsure of her surroundings.
The rain had turned the summer night as cool as the day had been hot.
I perched onto an elbow. My head was dizzy from the drink. Lila must have been passed out on the couch, too drunk to hear Sophie or climb the stairs. “Come in with me,” I said.
Sophie snuggled close like a cat. I remembered watching my children sleep. If Eli woke in a nightmare, I would hold him and comfort him. When he was little, I would say, “Sweet, sweet boy,” and his warm face would nuzzle my neck. I sat with them, and when I got tired, I’d curl up on their floor. Elias would not come for me if I was with them. I was happy to hear their breathing and thankful to be close.
I wished I could go back in time and hold Marina more, hold her until she understood my love for her, hold her until I understood better what I should have been for her, so that now, when it came time for her to make a choice, she might choose me.
The sliver of moon hung in the window. I pulled a sheet over our legs and ran my fingers through Sophie’s hair, the way I remembered my mother doing for me. Soon, Sophie breathed deeply, sleeping as only a child can.
Mama
Sophie’s small body emitted heat. If I moved, she inched over until we touched again. Marina had never cuddled so close. It had been a long time since I held one so dear, even longer since someone had held me. I was eight years old when Mama came to me on her last night. The nights after her death, I held my brother with the same closeness as Sophie and I shared now. I had clung to Gus, who was three years old and sound asleep, dumb to the fact that our mother was gone forever.
The last night, Mama came into the room I shared with Gus. She sought refuge in me as her pain mounted, knowing her labor had begun. She propped herself on pillows on my bed and told me story after story. She knew it could be her last chance.
I thought of Marina’s notion of me, and now Sophie’s, and how these next few days might be their last chance to know me. Sophie had heard from my lips, They think I killed him. If I stayed or if I left, there would be lies and truths and mixtures of both. What they would remember of me, I did not know.
I remembered my mother saying that night, “The babies are talking to us.” We knew she was having twins because a crease ran down the middle of her stomach like a cleft in a peach, with a baby on each side.
My ear was pressed against her belly. “What are they saying?” I asked.
“What do you hear?” Her fingers combed my hair, and her nails passed lightly over my scalp, sending goose bumps down my body.
I heard gurgles of gas, rumblings, not unlike what my own stomach said when I was hungry. “They say they are coming.”
Being the woman she was, from the place she came from, she took my words as a prophecy, and to ease her nerves she told a story I loved.
“Every year, an old Gypsy woman came to my village, pushing a cart with a diib, a wolf, tied to the wooden handle like a dog on a leash. She came in the spring, lit a fire, and kept camp on the outskirts of town. She stole from the village, but she was tolerated out of charity, for she had no family, and in our tradition, you must be generous to the needy or you bring shame on yourself and your family. This Gypsy, she doted on the wolf as if he were a lapdog, and for years, her arrival was believed a good omen, for if an old woman could tame a wolf, she could spread her charms over the soil and crops of the village.
“Our Gypsy looted from our gardens, from the market bins, the henhouses, and the butcher’s pile of bones. She took a bit from one household, and then another, so her pilfering did not upset one over the other. Still, the mothers of the village warned us to stay away, because Gypsies stole children and this Gypsy might give us to the wolf.”
Mama squeezed my arm, my leg, and then reached for my ankle. I asked if she wasn’t mistaking a big dog for the wolf.
“No, binti. It was a wolf, a huge wolf.” Mama narrowed her eyes. “We doubted my mother, though, and so we took turns climbing an ancient olive tree, not far from the old woman’s camp. My sisters climbed high, but I climbed the highest, and I saw the Gypsy stirring her pot and the wolf gnawing a bone stolen from the butcher’s alley.
“The sight of the wolf frightened me, but I was proud of how high I could go. My sisters said, ‘No, Vega, come down. She’ll see you.’ My sisters panicked and they chided me, ‘We should have listened to Mother and stayed away.’ Then the Gypsy laid eyes on us. With a toothless grin, she wiggled her finger, motioning me to come to her. The wolf sensed us, stopped gnawing, stood on his four tall legs. He sniffed the air with his wet black nose.”
At this point in her story, my body tingled, as if I were the girl in the tree facing the wolf. The cadence of Mama’s words slowed.
“My mother’s warnings came back to me, ‘Stay far from the Gypsy.’ My sisters pleaded, ‘Vega, come with us.’ Mayme tugged my leg, but I gripped the high branch for dear life. I cried. Elsa jumped from the lowest branch. She yelled at Mayme, ‘She’s under the Gypsy’s spell. I’ll get Mama,’ and ran toward home.
“The wolf pulled on his rope. The old hag waved her hand to me, as if to say, ‘Come here, little girl.’ I was numb. The wolf grinned, showing his white teeth. If I obeyed the old woman’s beckoning, I feared I would be his dinner. If I touched the ground, I bel
ieved the wolf would break his tether and chase me down.”
I squeezed Mama’s arm, so happy that she escaped the horrible fate, so happy to know the story’s end.
“The wolf licked his muzzle, and suddenly, my body regained its power. I jumped and hit the ground and ran home with Mayme at my side. Elsa and my mother met us halfway. So afraid she had lost me, your grandmother’s face was streaked with tears. She cried and cried, thinking what an awful death I had escaped. That night my father and some village men went with torches to clear out the Gypsy and her wolf. The beast bared his teeth. He sprang to the length of his tether and attacked the arm of a man. But another caught hold of his leash, and with a second rope, they looped his hind legs. They tore the wolf in two. The old Gypsy cursed them as they slayed her wolf, and she wept over the corpse as if she’d lost her only son. Her curses angered the men, and they chased her into the dark night. On their return, they burned her cart and the body of the wolf. Hidden in the darkness, she watched all her possessions and her companion go up in flames.”
The story left me tingling, and I knew if ever I had the choice, I would remember to obey my mother completely. She was silent and her eyes had a far-off look, but I waited patiently for her to speak.
“Your Aunt Elsa cared for you when you were a baby.” She stroked my hair. “She is coming to help me and Thea after the birth.” Her temples beaded with sweat.
I waited. My skin tingled, knowing with the mention of Elsa what story came next.
“I had a hat-and-finery shop in Nashville with my sisters, and our father treated us like sons, so much that he did not worry about our mingling with men in our store or in town or at church socials. We could not have done that at home. We were strong together. Independent. A new kind of Syrian girl.
“One day, my sisters and I bought a mockingbird in a cage. We fed it apples, and its songs reminded us of the songbirds back home, but now our home was here in America. I thought the bird was the same as all the birds before it and all the birds after it, and I wondered if my sisters and I were the same as our parents and if our children would be the same too, all of us doing the same things and singing the same songs, repeating life again and again, or if each of us had our own path to take. My thoughts puzzled me, but I was sad the bird was trapped in the cage, so I let it fly off. And that was days before your father came into the store.
“He was handsome but big and oafish in a store of ladies trying on hats,” she said. “When I asked if he would like to try one on, he turned red.” Her face glowed. “I pretended not to like him so he would like me more.
“He had traveled south from New York, peddling down roads, other times taking a train. Our family store was a station. We Syrians were spread all over, and one family would take a newcomer in, feed him, offer advice, and send him toward his next stopping point. That’s how my family went from New Orleans to Nashville, where we settled by the river, because it reminded us of our river in Zahlé.
“Instead of sending your father on, I married him. We decided we were Americans, and to marry for love, not as our parents arranged. Of course, his parents were in the old country and mine loved the match, so we were already free. We lived above the hat store until you were born.”
I loved the next part of her story.
“When you were inside of me, like these babies now,” she said and touched her swollen belly, “I knew you were a girl. No one believed me. Your grandmother prayed openly for a boy.” She crossed herself and kissed her fingertips. “In the old country only boys are celebrated. Your father bought a baseball glove. ‘What can a baby do with this?’ I asked. It was for his son, he said. I warned him of his pride.” She arched her eyebrow. “As soon as my laboring began, my sisters and mother began cooking a feast to celebrate.” Mama paused and seemed to smell the air. “The food, oh! The savories roasted and stewed. The aroma of fresh bread and the rice pudding for a boy, all of it wafted in where I was. They were laughing and singing and I begged them to stop. It was bad luck to celebrate before a baby’s birth.
“I asked for your father and told him, ‘They are tempting God with their pride! Make them stop until the baby is born.’ Your father stormed the kitchen and the women teased and prodded him until he had a fit: ‘You are upsetting Vega. You must stop.’ And they hushed. You finally came and your lungs filled and I was happy to see a strong girl.” She touched my face. This was my favorite part: “You tricked everybody, smart and wily, like a girl should be.”
I wondered how I was wily and smart. Most days I felt clumsy, uncertain of my words and movements, unlike her, graceful and beautiful. I wanted to trust she knew something I had yet to discover, and that one day I would be as she saw me.
“The news went around the house.” Her eyes were deep and dark like a well that has no bottom. I wanted to fall into them and gather all she knew. “Everyone grew quiet. Back home, the birth of a girl was met with silence and prayers for the next child to be a boy. Your father looked at me and said, ‘So, Vega, you give me a feisty girl?’
“I was not afraid of him. My sisters and I had come to America and supported ourselves without husbands—something we could never have done in the old country. I defied the old notions that boys should be more celebrated than girls. I answered him, ‘Yes, I give you this girl. She is a strong spirit to face you fools waiting for a boy. Such a brave girl will handle your future sons with ease.’
“Your father held you and said, ‘You heard Vega.’ And everyone laughed, cut the meat and the bread, and finished the rice pudding. We celebrated you.” That was the end of her story. She seemed content with the telling of it.
I sat near her until she fidgeted. When I moved, I saw her skin was ashen. She held her belly, and the blue veins of her hands were thick. “I feel sick,” she said. It seemed she spoke to the walls, for she would never worry me on purpose. Before I could ask what was the matter, the pain seemed to pass and she spoke again.
“My Zahlé was a beautiful place. The river flowed out of the mountain and down through town. From the promenade we watched it tumble over the rocks, and when the river was low, we waded in the cold mountain water.”
Mama bent over in pain, but then the pain passed, and she continued talking about her old life. “When it was time to harvest the olives, we camped in the orchards and ate plums and pomegranates from the trees all day. At night, a lamb would be roasted and flatbread baked over the fire. We unrolled our carpets and ate and slept beneath the stars, never covering our heads with a roof for days. The leaves of the olive trees were soft like velvet, the trunks were gnarled, and I imagined figures twisted beneath the bark. I asked my father, ‘How old are these trees?’ He said, ‘Maybe five hundred years, or maybe one thousand.’ Oh, binti, I wish you could see the olive groves.” Her fingers combed through my hair.
She went on about the tiled marketplace and the oldest street in the city, where travelers came from all over Syria, Baghdad, and Palestine to trade their goods. And then her warm house with green shutters and high ceilings, goose-feather beds and cool tiled floors, her mother’s oven and the hot flatbreads, spread with oil and za’atar, or the warm ma’amul, date cookies, she would eat when she came home from the nuns’ school.
From my doorway, Papa whispered, “Vega, it is midnight. Let the child sleep.”
“A moment more,” she said. His steps sounded across the hall and I listened as he settled into bed. My mother and I cast our gaze on sleeping Gus. I was amazed at his stillness, what a tiny, gentle creature he appeared to be when no longer spinning and churning through the house and yard.
She radiated moist heat, but I clung to her mountainous body, sensing this would be the last night she could afford me her undivided attention. Her silence lulled me and my eyelids grew heavy, though I fought to keep them open, aware of her presence.
I woke in the dark. The bed was wet. I moved slowly toward the foot, sniffing to see if I had peed, but my gown was dry. The wetness had come from her. She perched upon t
he edge of my bed. Shadows replaced her eyes, and deep lines creased across her forehead and around her mouth. Her hands dug into the mattress. She told me, “Get your papa.”
I looked to sleeping Gus, then ran to my father.
He sat up quick from the bed, as if he had not been sleeping at all. “Your mother?” He rushed past me to her.
I stood silent in the hall as he guided her out of my room into her own. She moved as if her bones were broken and each step shot pains through her body.
He passed me again, without a word, only stomping feet into his boots as he stumbled out the door.
“Binti,” Mama’s voice called. “Come here by me.” I ran to her, not knowing what was happening. The lines on Mama’s face looked like a tangle of knots. But her voice was calm. “Soon the babies are coming.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “Papa has gone to get Thea and the doctor.” To the priest after Mass and to anyone who would listen, Papa had bragged that the doctor would attend this birth. He had struck a deal with Dr. Walker in trade for free groceries delivered to his house for a year.
Her gown was soaked through. A tincture of blood stained it. Mama sent me for towels and a pan of water. I turned on the overhead light, but Mama complained it was too bright. I lit the oil lamps she kept on either side of the bed, and the amber light softened the edges of the room. It made my eyes sleepy, but there would be no more sleep. I wanted desperately to return to the quiet nest we had shared earlier, when she was mine alone.
She told me to wet the cloth and drape it on her neck. She leaned forward, her feet on the floor, toes curled under. Her thin nightgown stuck to her skin, and with some effort, she pulled it off. Her breasts were full and dark. Blue veins, like rivers on a map, curved around her engorged tummy. As she rounded her back, I rubbed the wet cloth across her skin. Drips of water rolled down the ridges of her spine. I ran my fingers through the path of water and pressed her flesh against the bone. She moaned and I knew I had given her comfort. I rubbed until my fingers went numb. She had recently cut her hair and it stuck to her neck like velvet ribbons. I asked did she want me to comb it.
