So you say, he said.
Don’t you start! I said, raising my voice.
Well, you’re not, really, are you?
I froze. Something was coming—I could feel it.
Andi, leave the room, please, I said.
I don’t want to leave the room. I’m always leaving the room!
Go! I said, and when she didn’t move, I gave her shoulder a little shove. Go!
It’s not right! she shouted, and slammed her door.
Lovely, Ahmad said. Just lovely!
What is it? I insisted. You said I’m not. What am I not, exactly?
Not capable of giving our daughter what she needs.
What is it you think I haven’t given her? Frilly dresses? Expensive toys? Are you trying to buy her? Do you think this is some kind of competition?
Ahmad was moving in for the kill, I could feel it, and I hated him for it. I hated his smugness, his will-to-damage, I hated him with trembling hands and pounding heart for whatever he was about to say.
You think I’m talking about things? he said, feigning disbelief. You can’t support her, this is true. You’ve never earned enough to care for her. We can agree on that.
I’m sick of your insinuations! Tell me! What haven’t I given her?!
You’re selfish, Shira! I’ve said it before. You like to claim you’re the opposite of your mother, but you are as selfish as she ever was.
How can you say that! What have I not given my daughter? Tell me!!
Love, for a start. You have no idea how to love her! You’ve never loved anyone but yourself. I don’t suppose Benny knows this yet. He will.
Rage coursed through my body, pure as the purest drug, it rushed through my veins and gathered behind my shoulders like an explosive. It took everything I had to control myself, to not say, You know something about love? Roger, the only boyfriend you ever had, left you because you’re not capable! You haven’t seen your children in a decade! It’s not like you’ve tried to see them! Tell me what you know about love!
I didn’t say these things, of course. There were places one didn’t go, places I wouldn’t go.
Benny is not my boyfriend, I said. I don’t know how many times I have to say it. Or why I have to say it.
What about understanding? he said. Andi’s unhappy—do you have any idea why?
Unhappy? Andi? Uncertainty surfaced on my face before I could stop it.
You didn’t know, did you? Well, she is, and I have proof, all the proof I need. He looked meaningfully at Andi’s Observations Notebook, in the basket of her new bike.
You didn’t!
How could he? Read her private thoughts? Had he given her the notebook just so he could spy on her, on us?
It’s all there, he said, still affecting detachment. How unhappy she is, what she thinks of you, everything.
You’re sick! I shouted. I’m going to tell her exactly what you did!
You would, wouldn’t you? he said, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter. She knows there’s no room for her in your life. We talked about it this afternoon.
What are you talking about! I screamed. You talked about what?
Connecticut. My lawyer’s working on it. Custody, if you decide not to come with us.
You’re crazy! I shouted. Anger pressed against my chest, a terrible white-heat. She is not going to Connecticut. You can’t have custody! You don’t have any rights!
I asked her this afternoon—she’s made up her mind: she’s coming with me to Connecticut. That’ll be enough for any judge. That and your staying out all night, your inability to support her. You can’t even make it to her parent-teacher conferences! Besides, why would you force her to stay with you if she wants to be with me?
She doesn’t have a say! It’s not up to her. I’m her mother!
Have you got money for lawyers? I didn’t think so.
I rushed at him and pummeled him. Fists high, I attacked him.
You frustrated, cold-hearted, son-of-a-bitch bastard! I shouted as I slapped his arms, his face—and hated him, for turning my daughter against me, for wanting to crush me, for being so good at it. He didn’t move, just collected my blows like trophies. You deserve to lose everything! I shouted. You deserved to lose Roger, and Jonah, and your children; you deserve to lose Andi! You deserve to be alone, you pathetic, horrible, disgusting man!
Mommy! I heard Andi sob. Don’t hit Ahmad!
48
A BRILLIANT SOLUTION
The energy that had frenzied my limbs evaporated. The shame of what I’d done settled into my body. I left the room, I left my crying child.
Everything Ahmad said about me was true. I was selfish, I did think only about myself. I wanted Benny—he was right. It didn’t matter that I was incapable, it didn’t matter that we would crash and burn, and Andi would get hurt. It didn’t matter because I only thought about myself. Connecticut might be better for Andi—I couldn’t see how, but shouldn’t I have been willing to consider it? I was no better than my mother. My baby knew it now, she knew it; she’d made her choice. I could give up writing, I could give up men, but I couldn’t rid myself of my mother’s taint, which was my taint, which was an inability to love and be loved. There could be no new life for me—no Romei, no Romeo, no deus ex machina could arrive out of the blue to make everything, to make me better.
I pounded my bed with my palm. I wanted to hurt myself, rake an X across my chest, score my skin and scar it; I’d take pleasure in the hemorrhage, nothing could clot my hateful blood. I huddled into myself and sobbed.
Time passed, I didn’t know how much. I couldn’t unball myself. My eyes were “destroyed,” to use Dante’s phrase, my face a sodden wash. I became aware of a calm outside my door. A quiet, like the silence after a child has left a room. I wrapped the silence around me, like a girl on the shore, wrapped in a towel, blue-lipped and reflective. I’d let my daughter see me scream and curse like a she-wolf, I’d let her see me attack Ahmad with my fists. Then she saw me walk away, defeated. I didn’t know which was worse.
Was I willing to give her up without a fight? I was not! Andi was mine, she was mine, the best, the only part of me!
I sat up, felt the chenille under my hand, the rag rug under my feet. Then stood by the door. Nothing.
I needed a plan. We had to go somewhere. I’d been in dreamland, never imagining that Andi and I might actually have to find a place to stay. We needed a place to stay, but where? Jeanette could take us for a day or two, but she had no guest room. Benny? We couldn’t stay with Benny. I could, at least, do my work anywhere, Romei’s money would support us for a while, half a year, even.
Rome! We could go to Rome! If I were there, Romei would have to publish, I’d make sure of it; Andi could go to my old school. For a semester, while I sorted things out. We could even stay, if we had to. I could meet all the new writers, maybe get a teaching gig—anything was possible!
I tiptoed across the living room to the study, scribbled a fax to Romei: Could we come to Rome, could we come now, maybe even today, Andi and I? It was an emergency, he shouldn’t delay, he should reply ASAP—then I went to find my daughter.
But Ahmad had beaten me to it.
I’m taking Andi some place where she’ll be safe. My lawyer will be in touch.
Like a heroine in a romance novel, I fell in a dead faint.
•
When I came to, my cell phone was ringing. I sprang to the phone. I’d do anything! Admit I was selfish. Move to Connecticut. Become a lifelong celibate. Anything!
Yes! I said breathlessly.
Romei seems to think you’re in some distress. May I be of service?
Benny! My fax must have been more incoherent than I’d thought.
Yes, I whispered. Come over. Please.
Two minutes later, he was there.
49
TOPEKA
He’s crazy, I said, my face in my hands. He’s taken my baby!
Does she have a passport? Benny asked. He was sitting sti
ffly next to me on the couch.
What? I said, lifting my head, then felt my heart try to push its way through my chest. Oh God! I cried, and ran to my room, where I found her passport in my drawer.
Benny took my hand when I returned.
I don’t mean to scare you, but he could have gotten her another. Are you willing to take that risk? Though I’m not sure who can stop a father traveling with his daughter.
He’s not her father. He’s not her real father.
Benny looked surprised, but didn’t ask.
If there’s even a possibility they might disappear, you have to call the police.
The police? I said, withdrawing my hand. You’re kidding, right?
I looked mutely at Benny. He walked some steps away, mumbled into his phone.
I’m talking to a lawyer, he explained to me, his hand over the mouthpiece. He says that we can explain to a judge that Ahmad is not Andi’s natural father and get an injunction preventing him from taking her out of state. It only takes effect after it’s been served, though, so we’d have to find him before he left. Once we got her back, we could get a restraining order. Did I get that right, Marty?
Looking at me, he nodded.
It wasn’t that simple, I thought. Ahmad said his lawyer would be in touch. If he’d spoken to lawyers, he’d know this already. If he wanted her out of the state, they’d be there by now. If he wanted her out of the country, they’d be on a plane. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t!
He didn’t plan this, I murmured. Tink is here. Her suitcase. Her Nancy Drews.
It’s kidnapping, Shira. If Ahmad is not Andi’s natural or legal father, he has no right to take her out of the house without permission.
He always takes her out without permission.
This is different.
I can’t send the police after Ahmad! I mumbled. That would be crazy!
But you just said …
I can’t. He couldn’t.
Benny mumbled thanks into the phone, then came to sit with me.
I can’t think about this, I said, shaking my head.
You have to.
Andi’s fine, she has to be. Duplicate passport, on a plane to Karachi, my daughter in purdah. Growing up without me, hating me, blaming me.
You have to call him, Benny said.
He won’t answer, I murmured, looking at my hands. I tried.
Then leave him a message. Convince him to come back.
I hate him, I said. I never want to see him again.
He’s your friend, Benny said.
He’s not my friend, he’s never been my friend. He won’t pick up—I’ve tried.
Take my phone. Call him. He won’t recognize the number. And if he doesn’t pick up, leave a message.
I called him a pathetic, horrible man. I hit him, Benny! I said he deserved to lose Roger, he deserved to lose his sons.
No one deserves to lose a child, Benny said.
No, I said.
I sat a while, holding Benny’s hand, squeezing it.
That’s what I have to tell him, isn’t it? I asked.
Benny nodded.
I took his phone.
It went to voicemail.
I took a deep breath. The deepest possible breath.
Ahmad, I said. You need to bring our baby home. You’re scaring her—she can’t understand what’s happening. You can’t separate us, you can’t keep us apart. You can’t keep a child from her mother, no matter what you think of me. If you do this, you’ll be no better than Mirabella. Think about it: Mirabella! Think about what she’s done to you! Are you willing to do that to me, to bring more suffering like that into the world? You can’t do that to me, or Andi. You can’t do that and think you’re better than she is, or better than me. Andi needs her mommy. Oh, please, Ahmad! I feel like I’m bleeding to death. Bring her back to me!
I looked at Benny, my hands holding my mouth, as if to keep the hurt inside. He took the phone from my hand.
You did good, he said. You did real, real good.
I shook my head. I hadn’t. To melt that man’s heart I would have needed words of fire; all I had were words of stone.
I’d like to put my arm around you, Benny said, looking miserable, but I don’t think I should.
I looked up at him. Then I was crying into his chest, his hands stroking my hair, the line of my jaw. I don’t know if he moved to me or I to him, but we were at it again, Benny murmuring my name, I clawing at his buttons. As our clothes came off in a ritual stream to my bedroom, I knew that I didn’t know what I was doing, but I didn’t care: I might disappear, my insides might evaporate if not tamped down by Benny’s loving hands.
I tried to imagine my daughter, safely sleeping; I moved my body as expected, whispered Benny’s name, grateful for his tender mercies, thought of Esther’s madness when she lost her child, thought maybe my madness wasn’t so bad. As Benny rocked into me, I thought of flying, of being lifted despite myself—as in that Celan fragment, through the nothingness we reached each other—of flying across the abyss, as if toward him, naked like a newborn, a flying girl, like Esther’s flying girl.
As Benny moaned, I stared past his shoulder at his skullcap, Mother Mary blue, on my clock radio, the clock blinking twelve noon, twelve noon, though it was well past midnight.
Two flying girls. Two girls in Romei’s mirror, one reflecting the other.
Oh my God, I said, pushing Benny off of me. No! Jesus!
Shira! he half shouted, his coital dream cracked open like a cantaloupe.
You knew! I said, staring at him, horrified. All along, you knew!
One flying girl, there had only ever been one flying girl.
With the precision of film rolling backward, the pieces shot back into place, the shattering of my life became whole.
PART SIX
TEST
50
THE FLYING GIRL
I tried to get Benny to leave, but he wouldn’t. I accused him of being Romei’s patsy, his puppet, his hired thug. Romei was bankrolling Gilgul, wasn’t he? Benny would do anything for that magazine! He’d fuck me to get information about my fucking so Romei could put it in a scene where he fucks his wife! Romei was a sick bastard, they both were! Benny had to get the hell out of my house, but he wouldn’t.
When I know you’re okay, he said, holding the sheet up to his long, skinny chest, reminding me that I was naked before him, flailing and shouting.
When you’re okay. When Andi was home, is what he meant. Andi!
I sunk back onto the edge of the bed.
Shira, Benny said, putting his hand, always warm, on my shoulder. I shook him off.
Get out of my bed, I said. I don’t care where you go, just get out of my bed.
I love you, he said.
Liar, I said, but he didn’t move, so I grabbed the nearest item of clothing, which was his shirt, and slammed the door behind me, focused my rage on Romei. I wrote him a fax in big black letters: Let me guess! I wrote. The great Romei, the ever glorious, ever victorious Romei, wants to be a superhero and give the daughter back to the mother. Only the mother doesn’t care and the daughter won’t go willingly—he knows this because Benny’s told him so—so he uses story, the daughter’s medium, to capture her attention, to try to steal her empathy. He uses her words, her images to bring the story closer, to convince her she’s “just like” her mother. His calculus is simple: daughter forgives mother, mother forgives Romei, no one has to repent, everyone sleeps cozy at night. Right? Wrong!
I sent the fax and stared at the hateful machine, which had only brought lies into my home when I had dared hope for something more, and realized: it had been Romei’s intention to break me. You think it’s not possible to create intimacy between author and reader? You think translation is shameful and shamful, the traduttore always traditore? Let’s put my money where your mouth is. I’ll write a great, groundbreaking book, which you’ll want more than anything to share with the world—only you won’t be able to, I’ll make
sure you can’t: the book will be untranslatable, every word of it untranslatable! You’ll try, translator SuperTemp, you’ll do everything you can to prove yourself wrong, you’ll sweat and strain. You’ll lose sleep and develop all manner of theory—because you will have decided that you want that intimacy. Author-reader, translator-author, woman-man, mother-daughter—there is no difference, once you accept what they have in common, once you decide they’re possible, desirable, worth the effort and risk.
Horrible man!
But he wouldn’t give up, would he? Men like Romei don’t take no for an answer. He’d keep sending pages! They’d spill out onto the floor, an infinitude of A4, taking over the study, slipping under the curtained door, into the kitchen, out the window, onto the street, through bus doors, onto the laps of dockworkers, au pairs … One reads how Eleanor changed her name to Esther, to celebrate, or at least mark, her new life—or, more likely, took her Hebrew name when she realized that, like it or not, her new life had begun.
Another reads how we left Rome suddenly in snowy March, not at the end of the school year as I’d assumed.
A third reads how Eleanor experienced her first lupus episode after delivering her only child, leaving the child in the care of Emma, her sister-in-law.
A fourth reads how Eleanor named her child Shira, after Shir haShirim, hoping the girl would experience a love that she, Eleanor, had despaired of experiencing.
A fifth reads how it hadn’t been my mother who’d left us, no, it had been my father who’d left her—and he’d had a chance to confess and hadn’t.
I hated them all. I went to Andi’s room, lay down on her bed, smelled her Andi pillow, looked up at her metamorphosis mural, imagined a new constellation there, a mother turned into stars to spare her the pain of losing a child. I put the guilt quilt into my mouth and screamed.
After that, the world was an empty vessel. I waited, but nothing happened.
I tiptoed back to my room. Benny was still there, upright on my bed. He hadn’t moved.
Why did you do it? I whispered. He held out his arms to me, as if to say, please.
Good on Paper Page 19
