What We Owe

by Golnaz Hashemzadeh Bonde

  I lay on a mattress in the living room, like a watchdog. The entire spectacle played out before my eyes. She followed him into the bedroom. In the best case, their voices were low, a few words exchanged before it got quiet. Then a few minutes later the sound of his snores. The creak of the bedsprings. And she pattered by me on tiptoe. She went into the kitchen, where she hid her bag in a cabinet. Took out what she needed. Sat down at her place. Looked in my direction and winked.

  “Sleep now, azizam.” My love.

  I smiled, blew her a kiss. Closed my eyes and listened to the sound of her pen strokes until they rocked me to sleep.

  And then everything changed. Everything changed, and it was my fault. The winter was harsh that year and we weren’t used to snow and cold, not like that. I came home from school one day with a fever and a cough that rattled my whole body. I was seven years old, as thin as a leaf, and far away from my mother. I didn’t want to make trouble, so I huddled in my corner of the living room and tried to be still, tried to be quiet. But my body was boiling and vibrating, and I just couldn’t make myself invisible. I think I was the first thing he saw when he got home. My wet, shivering body. He didn’t want me there.

  He was very particular about cleanliness. Refused to take someone’s hand if he didn’t know it was newly washed. He wanted Maryam to rinse all the fruits and vegetables with soap. She had to take out the rugs and scrub them in the sun every Friday. She cleaned the bathroom every night and every morning. Sometimes he opened the door, stuck his head in, and checked. Then he shouted her name. Maryam! Such a soft name said in the harshest tone of voice. He was displeased every time he checked.

  I think he actually liked having me live there. He liked seeing her with a child at her side in the kitchen. But when I was sick, he didn’t want me around, and I had nowhere else to go. I could see that it made her stressed. She put me in the bathroom. Let the hot water run for as long as it lasted, and then told me to remain in the steam. “It’s good for your lungs,” she said, and left. But I knew she just wanted to get me out of his way.

  “The girl will make me sick, Maryam. This won’t do.”

  I sat on the small plastic stool in the bathroom, listening to their voices.

  “Don’t worry, Masood. It’s just one night. I won’t let her touch anything. It will pass.”

  “Shouldn’t I be able to relax in my own home? Do I need to worry about germs and shit inside my own walls?”

  “She’s a child, please. It won’t hurt us, it will pass.”

  “Now you’re late with dinner! Because you’ve been taking care of the girl. She’s supposed to be here to help!”

  “Please. Of course. She helps me. She will help me tomorrow. It’s not a problem.”

  There was silence, and I knew she was hurrying into the kitchen. I pictured her, sitting on the rug in front of the stove. Rocking back and forth as she stirred her pots, like an old woman. It was the anxiety. She was completely on edge. As if she were waiting for an order. A complaint. The sound of her name, of her name flung like an accusation. Or else she knew. Maybe she knew it was coming that night. Maybe I was the only one who was surprised.

  The heat and steam in the bathroom began to subside, but I didn’t dare move. I sat there. Shivering. I heard him leafing through his papers. Heard her throw the oilcloth on the rug. Set out plates and cutlery. I heard them sit down and start eating. I knew she wasn’t coming to get me. My fingernails had turned blue and my cough cut into my chest. I turned on the water. Hoped it would be hot again, but it was still freezing. I turned off the tap and sat down. My whole body shook and my head was spinning with fever. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to go home to my mother. I wanted to go home to the kitchen floor and lie beside my father’s bedside and listen to his stories. About the earth and love. Love.

  I remember that I became angry, angry with my sister. I remember that feeling overtaking me. I got up and opened the bathroom door. Naked and coughing, I ran out. Maryam and Masood both looked up from their plates in surprise. I think we were all shocked by what I dared to do. We stood there looking at each other, and no one said anything. I ran toward my drawer in the corner of the living room. I was standing with my back to them, and I dug out my towel, tried to find my clothing. The cough made my eyes fill with tears, and I saw nothing. At that moment, I stood in my own fog, frozen by the fear of what I’d done.

  Behind me was only silence. Stillness and silence. Then I heard him stand up, throw his spoon on his plate, and walk toward the entrance hall. He put on his coat and slammed the door behind him. I didn’t dare turn around. I pulled on my pants with trembling hands. Pulled a long-sleeved shirt over my head. Took out my mattress, which was curled up next to the bureau, grabbed my blanket and pillow out of the bottom drawer. I made my bed and lay down, keeping my back to my sister. She hadn’t risen from her seat. Not a sound had escaped her. I felt ashamed. Ashamed of what I’d done to her. I figured I hadn’t had any choice, but I knew she hadn’t either.

  I dozed and woke up hours later to a thump. I sat up abruptly. The room was in darkness. Now I heard a thud, and another thump. It was coming from the bedroom. I ran to the door, put my ear against it, and listened. The muffled explosions came one after the other, but they were the only sounds. Thumps and deep breaths. Gasps. I pushed cautiously on the door, peeked through the crack. She lay on the floor, facing away from me. He stood over her, kicking his hard foot against her soft belly. She lay still, silent. I wanted to scream, but held back. Closed the door gently, and lay down on my mattress. Drowned my cough in my pillow. She was dead, I was sure of it. He had killed her, and maybe he would come for me next.

  A minute later the bedroom door was thrown open, and I heard him pass by. Walked to the front hall and disappeared into the night. I quickly got to my feet and ran, threw myself on the floor next to her.

  “Maryam, Maryam, Maryam!”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks red, yellow, almost blue. I put my finger under her nose, as you do with a sleeping baby to make sure it’s breathing. I felt nothing at first, but then it came. Weak, but it was there. She was alive. I got up again and went into the kitchen, filled a bowl with cold water, and took the tea towel from the hook. In the living room, I hesitated. Thought maybe I should lock the front door, buy us some peace. A little time. But the image of his rage was too fresh. I didn’t dare. I ran back to Maryam instead. Dipped the towel in cold water and bathed her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes. The cold water mixed with drops of sweat that fell from my feverish face and the tears running down my neck.

  “Open your eyes,” I whispered. “Please, Maryam, open your eyes.”

  Somehow she woke up in the end. Gazed up at me with those beautiful green eyes. We looked at each other silently. Then she took the towel from my hand and dipped it into the bowl. She lifted her arm with a groan and wiped my fevered brow, and I curled up and lay down close to her, and there we lay for the rest of the night. Neither of us slept; we just lay huddled together, staring straight ahead. Watchfully. Waiting for him to come back.

  When i was home over the new year’s holiday, I told my father about Maryam and her husband. I told him how he tormented her. And how she only responded with more care. I wanted Papa to talk to her. Tell her to yell back. Tell her to move on.

  I was lying on the carpet with my head in his lap, as he slowly twirled his pipe between his fingers.

  “It is a higher thing to love than to be loved, dokhtaram.”

  I looked at him incredulously. Was that all? Wasn’t he going to defend our honor? Wasn’t he going to protect Maryam?

  He glanced at my mother, standing at the stove, and I understood even though I was just a child. Mama’s tense, slender back. Her unsmiling face. I understood that he loved her without being loved back. And I knew then that this was not what I wanted. I knew I wanted to be loved, that I wanted to feel it every moment. To do the loving, that was nothing but work and disappointment.

  O
ne day aram shows me an article. i roll my eyes. Another thing she actually wants to share with Masood. But I’m the only one here. The only one left. And soon she’ll have nobody. Poor kid.

  How could we have done this to her. Our little bundle who was our entire world, who was meant to replace all the worlds that had disappeared. What if we had known. What if we had known it would end up like this? That we would tear her from our roots and our families, take her far away, and then die. Abandon her. Leave her alone in a country that wasn’t hers. Because it’s not. No matter how Swedish she’s become. There is no one here to take care of her, not like she would have been taken care of if we’d stayed. We did this to her.

  I wonder now what’s worth more. Freedom and democracy. Or people who love you. People who will take care of your children when you die.

  The article is about someone who died. It makes me angry when I realize that. Why would she show me something like that? Why doesn’t she try to protect me? I don’t want to die! I want to yell at her. Why are you showing me death?

  It’s about Kiarostami. The director. Masood’s idol. Cancer, just like me. It’s comforting somehow. I can’t say that to her, but it’s my first thought. I’m not the only one facing death with no hair, without my own body or my dignity. No one is safe. Despite talent. Despite fame. Despite money. In the face of cancer, we are all equal.

  “I wasn’t prepared for everything to end so quickly,” she says.

  Her voice is rough. I hear how she’s trying to push it down. Push it away.

  “I thought we’d get more time. More time before it was over. Before everyone was gone. Before it all . . . It was going to turn out okay in the end, Mama. Turn out good. For Dad. For you.”

  Now she’s crying. Not quietly, but like a child. She sobs and snot runs from her nose.

  “I don’t understand why it has to end like this! Why we never got to have it good. Never got any peace. He was supposed to feel better! I thought he’d be allowed to feel better! And now he’s gone.”

  She lies on her stomach on the sofa now, her face buried in her arms. I scoot over. Stroke her hair.

  “Cry it out,” I say. “Cry it out, darling. What else can you do. Cry, cry.”

  I feel her body relax. She lets go of some part of what she’s carrying inside. Something opens up in her. I continue to stroke her hair.

  “I don’t understand why everything disappears, Mama. Why everyone disappears. I don’t understand it. Don’t know how to do this. There will be nothing left. It feels like I’m hovering in midair. I just don’t understand why everything has to keep disappearing.”

  I lift my hand from her. I don’t mean to do it, but it’s as if I can’t let it linger. I want her to cry. I want her to grieve. I want her to mourn me. I don’t want her to feel sorry for herself. Grieve for her own destiny. She is the one receiving the fruits of all our labors. Of all our losses. She inherits everything we hoped for, and all the things we took for granted. Freedom. Possibilities. Life. She is the one who gets to live. And here she is, feeling sorry for herself.

  Everything disappears, I want to say to her. All worlds. All people. You are a child of war. You are a refugee. You ought to know that. Did you think it only applied to other people? Did you think we left it behind? That it’s something you can escape? Read a history book! Nothing endures. Everything will disappear and the world will become another. That’s what you come from. That’s the blood that flows in your veins. It will take generations to replace it. Generations before thousands of years of war, rebellion, and chaos are replaced by Swedish peace. Swedish constancy.

  “That’s how it is,” I say simply. My tone is harsh, but I let it be.

  “As long as I can remember everything has disappeared. As long as you live, you’ll experience the same thing.”

  but when she’s gone, i stand by the window with the article in my hand. It’s from the Internet. She’s printed it out and brought it here. For my sake. For her sake, because it was important to her. She wanted to talk about it. She wanted some form of comfort from me. Because Kiarostami is dead. I look at the paper in my hand, at the blurry image. I read the words. They’re in English but I understand:

  A tree is rooted in the ground. If you transfer it from one place to another, the tree will no longer bear fruit. If I had left my country, I would be the same as the tree.

  It hits me like a fist in the stomach. I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that was so. That this is how it would be. That there was so much that would disappear. Here I am thinking she ought to understand, but I didn’t for such a long time. Only now do I understand.

  I was standing by the window in my apartment. It was dark and cold outside. This was before the cancer. Before all this. And to think I thought I was unhappy then. My jacket hung on my shoulders, the tea glass was cradled in my hands, and each breath rose in the darkness. One after the other. Evenly. My cell phone rang next to me on the window ledge. It was Aram. I decided not to answer. I wanted to stay there a moment longer. Drink my tea. Take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Stay in my own world. I also thought, I really did, that I didn’t want to answer. I feel that way sometimes when she calls. I don’t want to answer, don’t want to give her the satisfaction of having reached me. I want her to think of me more than she does. I want to be in her head the rest of the evening, want her to wonder how I’m doing. I want her to think: I have to call Mama again. So I didn’t answer the first time, but she called again. I looked at the phone, almost let it go to voicemail. But at the last second I picked it up. I heard the sound of the subway, clattering.“Call me when it’s not so noisy!” That was the first thing I said.

  She was quiet. I think she wanted to hang up when she heard me. Heard my tone of voice. Heard my words. She must have thought there was no help to be had from me.

  “Hello, hello, are you still there? I can’t hear you.”

  She decided to try anyway.

  “Something terrible has happened, Mama,” she said.

  I don’t know why, but it didn’t move me. It should have moved me. I should have been worried. I should have been frightened. I should have had some kind of reaction. But I didn’t. Nothing at all.

  “Okay. What?”

  All I heard was the subway rumbling in my ear. So I went on.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I hung up. Looked out into the darkness again. Across the lake, into the woods. What could possibly be so horrible? It was probably nothing.

  I had closed the window and was headed for bed when she called back. I remember I sighed. Rolled my eyes. But I picked up the phone again. I did. I was probably going to say something that would have made things even worse. But I didn’t have time.

  “Dad died. Dad is dead.”

  She must have been in a quiet tunnel. It was like an echo. Dad is dead. Dad is dead. I don’t know if she said anything more. I don’t know if I said anything more. I don’t remember.

  I only know that I was thinking: We didn’t escape. We didn’t escape. We, who didn’t want to die. We, who just didn’t want to die.

  I know she’s in the room. i know she found me. A neighbor must have called her and told her an ambulance picked me up. She probably called around to all the emergency rooms. And she found me, and she came here. I don’t have the energy to open my eyes, but I know she’s sitting at the foot of the bed. On a stool, leaning forward. She never sits in the padded chairs with backrests. She never leans back. No, I know she’s sitting there leaning forward, watching over me.

  I hear the birds chirp outside. Feel the warm breeze coming through the open window caress my body. I know she’s wearing a tank top and wide-legged pants and high heels. I can hear her heels tap against the floor. She does so quietly, gently, but she can’t help herself. She is anxious, restless. She doesn’t want me to live any longer. She wants me to just get it over with and die. So it’s done. So the torment will end. For me and for her.

  Why can’t I just d
ie? I wish I would. My body is numb. I try to move, turn on my side, but I have no control. I hear her get up, her metal stool scraping against the floor. She noticed my attempt to move. She takes my hand.

  “Mama,” she says. “Mama, I’m here. I’m here, Mama. I won’t leave you.”

  Her voice trembles, breaks.

  “Mama. Mama. Mama.”

  She falls down on the floor beside the bed, holding my hand between hers.

  She starts singing, quietly quietly.

  Man o ba khodet bebar, man ba raftan hazeram.

  It’s Googoosh again. I try to squeeze her hand, but mine won’t comply. It won’t listen. It lies flat and motionless. It’s already dead in hers.

  I want to ask her to stop. Not that one. She won’t die, she won’t follow me anywhere. She’ll live, she’ll live a long time. I want to make her understand that. That if she doesn’t, everything is lost. She falls silent. Or maybe I fall asleep.

  When I open my eyes, the rain is beating against the window. It must be a new day. She’s sitting in a big sweater, with sneakers on her feet. Her face is bare, her hair in a messy bun.

  “Why do you look like that,” I say in a croaking voice. “Don’t you dress up for your mother?”

  She lets out a laugh. A short one. As you do when something isn’t funny but there’s no better way to respond. She calls for the nurse and sits down next to me.

  “How are you feeling, Mama?”

  The lump in my throat is about to explode. I want to scream. Scream! Call for help. Give a piece of my mind to whatever brought me here. Just scream. But my mouth is dry, and I can’t. I shake my head. She presses my hand. Looks away, out the window at the rain beating, beating down.