by Farah Cook
‘Are we going somewhere?’ I ask, and suddenly feel as if I’m the child here. ‘Because if we are I’d like to make a stop at the supermarket first.’
‘No Ami, we’re not!’ She puts the sheaf of mail on the table without a glance. ‘You’ve got to stop buying things and ordering Tesco Clubcards. It’s the third in a month.’ She waves the white sheet of paper with my name on it.
‘There is a letter for me then.’ I say. Amira’s cheeks flush, she doesn’t reply. I look at it closely. ‘I’ve never ordered any Clubcards from Tesco.’
‘Never mind, I’ll prepare your breakfast and—’
‘What did you want me to do again?’ I ask.
Amira’s nostrils flare. I smile tentatively, wishing I could wipe away the cold line between us. Too much time has passed to know when it began to form or if it was always there to begin with.
‘Ami, perhaps you should go to the stimulation therapy group.’
‘What sort of group?’ I feel my face shrivel up like a raisin.
‘I told you before, it’s a special treatment that will improve your memory.’
‘Mimi, there’s nothing wrong with my memory, thank you very much.’ She cringes. She hates it when I call her by her nickname.
‘You are forgetful.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Silly ladki, why does she tell me I am forgetful when I am not. She thinks I am senile. That I am losing it.
‘You don’t remember things the way you used to. You need to exercise your memory. Write things down much more.’
‘Says who?’ I remember things, I remember them fine. ‘You need to exercise yours.’
‘Ami, sometimes medicine isn’t always enough. Give the therapy a go.’
‘If Pakistanis heard I was going to therapy, they would think I have failed. They’d think I’m mentally ill or, even worse, they’d say I’ve gone pagal – mad.’
Amira frowns.
‘It will be our secret,’ she says in a low whisper. ‘Promise.’
‘What secret, Mimi?’
‘No one will ever need to know you’re getting treated for your condition.’ The tone of her voice remains adamant. Why does she insist I should go into therapy and what does she mean by my condition? Does Amira think I am pagal? Being a little forgetful is normal and doesn’t mean I should expose it to the world. The next thing she’ll suggest is that someone else should start to care for me or that I should be sent away like Nisha to one of those places far, far away that no one ever visits.
‘Therapy isn’t for people like us, Mimi.’ I know of no immigrants who are in therapy. ‘It’s what the goreh do. White people! Why else did that woman report me to the social services? She thinks I’m pagal. Wants me gone. I’m telling you.’ I’ve seen that woman watching me. She lives across the road. What’s her name again? She used to look after Amira when she was little. Now she never speaks to me.
‘Ami, you were wandering around the neighbourhood in your nightgown at six in the morning pulling on other people’s door handles. Mrs Nesbit came out because she thought you were acting shifty. She was trying to help. And besides, we don’t know if she was the one who called the social services. It could have been anyone living on the street.’
‘I wouldn’t have gone out if you weren’t keeping me locked inside the house all day.’ I don’t think I’ve been out in months. ‘I’m not pagal, Mimi. Do you hear me? I’m not pagal.’
I’m facing Amira’s back. Her hair is twisted into a rope, black strands falling loose. She walks, her posture rigid, breath heavy, and without turning around she motions for me to follow her into the kitchen where I take a seat at the table. Feeling exhausted, I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly eleven-thirty. What was I doing until now?
A crusty slice pops up from the toaster. Amira puts it on a plate in front of me, slicks it with butter and cheese. But I never asked for it. The cupboard opens, cups clink and teabags release a dense herbal smell. Nothing fragrant. Amira wouldn’t want to make me Kashmiri chai. She says it takes too long.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I say. ‘Just add milk, pink tea leaves and cardamom seeds.’
‘What’s that?’ she puts on the kettle, doesn’t meet my eyes.
I shake my head. A plate of jalebi would be nice. Chewy and sticky, and dunked into cold milk. The other day, Amira bought mithai. I can’t remember what the occasion was, only that it was special, and that I strictly wasn’t allowed to eat it. But I did. I’ll never forget the feeling of shame and humiliation when she caught me picking barfi from the box like a child.
She swivels around, conducting a culinary orchestra. The pan is crackling and plates are rattling. It smells buttery. She’s making herself fried eggs and baked beans. Licks her fingers while eating it hot from the pan, and moves her hand to pour hot water into two cups, one she places on a coaster in front of me. I don’t touch the toast she’s prepared me. Instead I take out a peeler and knife from the drawer and reach for fruit from the basket.
Sticky apple skin scatters onto the table. I smack my lips, drying the sweet juice from my mouth, wondering if it’s Pink Lady, Gala or Honeycrisp.
Amira turns towards me with her hands on her hips. ‘What’s this now?’
‘Try one, it’s delicious.’ I say giving her a piece. ‘It’s definitely a Pink Lady.’
She glares down at me, doesn’t take the apple. Heat rises to my face and I feel stricken into shame. What did I do wrong?
‘Please don’t do that.’ She cleans the table with a cloth. ‘How many times have I said not to leave a mess when you eat. Yesterday you left sticky mango peel everywhere. That’s the reason those flies keep coming back into the house.’ She moves the plate closer, which I stare at with distaste.
‘I don’t want cheese on toast.’ I push it away. ‘I want to eat fruit.’ Or dried fruit from the jar she keeps hidden from me. I take whatever I can get from the basket. Green and red grapes, purple plums, and pile them in front of me. ‘Silly ladki.’
Her arms cross over her chest and something tells me that we’ve done this many times over. I think her patience is running out.
‘Ami!’ Her voice is laden, shoulders broad. ‘I know you have a sweet tooth, but . . .’
Do I have a sweet tooth? I am not sure.
Her mouth is still moving, lips twisting into a curl, but the sound muffles in my ears. She’s waiting for me to say something, but all I can think of are the ripe bananas sitting in the fruit basket with brown patches on their skin, perfect for a fruit chaat. I wonder if we still have the sauce from the Asian market? Amira must have put it away. Where I can’t see it. ‘Where’s that sauce for chaat? I had it the other day.’
‘What?’ Her pupils go wide. ‘Did you actually hear what I just said?’
I adjust the glasses sitting on the tip of my nose. ‘Say that again?’
‘I’m not going to repeat myself.’ She steadies her breath, maybe to calm herself down. Why is she so upset? Her face swells. Now I feel upset.
My palms flatten against the table. The veins under my skin bulging. Wiggle once, wiggle twice. She’s shaking her head, looking down at my fingers. Heavy blows of sigh.
‘If you carry on like this I’ll have you wear gloves.’
‘White ones like the Victorians?’ I smile.
She doesn’t return my smile. ‘Such a bad habit. It needs to stop, OK?’
‘You make me feel so bad,’ I say.
‘Me?’ her forehead crinkles.
‘Who else?’ I look around. It’s just the two of us.
‘I don’t, Ami.’ Her eyes are bright. She shakes her head lightly. She seems sure.
‘You make me feel awful, like I am a bad person.’
She makes me feel like shit.
I pull back my left hand and notice the words written in blue colour on my palm.
‘Mimi, when you go out can you get me the newspaper?’ I eat a handful of grapes and peer out the window. A bird with white cheeks is sitting on the branch
of the tree in our garden, craning its rufous neck.
‘I bought it last week and it is still in your bedroom, remember?’ she says the last word slowly, as though I have difficulty understanding it. But I don’t.
‘I want to read today’s paper.’ I say and rub out the ink smearing my palm. ‘Get it.’
‘I told you many times. What you get is the biweekly newspaper.’ She brings the cup to her lips and slurps the tea slowly. Curls of steam dampen the air. ‘Should be enough.’
‘But,’ I pause and draw in a deep sharp breath. ‘I need to know if anything has been written about the young girl. The one who went missing after that terrible accident.’
The incident still has an effect on me. A part of me is screaming out to forget, to let go. Another part of me needs to know what happened to her.
Amira’s face turns dark red. ‘I will not be going out to get the newspaper. I have so much to do. Laundry, hoovering, dusting. Scrubbing the bathrooms.’ Her tone is clipped. ‘I do everything around here. And your bedroom, Ami . . .’
‘What about it?’ my feeling of shame surges once again.
‘It smells,’ she creases her forehead. ‘And needs airing.’
Badtameez ladki. That’s not the way to speak to your mother. ‘That’s not necessary.’
I remind myself that Amira cleans the house often, too often. I told her to leave my bedroom the way it is and not to move anything around. I don’t want her in there going through my personal belongings. Removing my clothes. I’d be ashamed if she finds my underwear. I don’t want her to know they’re stained with pee.
‘Spring cleaning is overdue,’ she says. ‘I was hoping to go through all that clutter you’ve been hoarding. I want to clear the boxes in your cupboard. They have been in there for years. What do you keep in them anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ I coil my hand into a fist and stare at her. ‘Nothing that should concern you.’ But she never listens and urgently speeds around with that noisy hoover, up and down the stairs, plastic bag in one hand. God knows what things of mine she’s thrown out.
‘You must keep precious things in there since you insist on holding onto them.’
‘It’s no business of yours, do you hear me? Stay away from my personal belongings. You have no right to toss anything of mine away.’
Face towards me, she watches me with caution, as though she’s a child about to get smacked by its mother. Her arms fold over her chest. She seems a little hesitant to be asking me the question. ‘I have been meaning to ask, the stack of newspapers in your room . . .’
‘What about it?’ I furrow my brows.
‘Can I get rid of it, please? You’ve marked every single headline in yellow. It’s rubbish.’
Amira’s own bedroom is neat and tidy. Books in alphabetic order. Folders and pens properly arranged. A colour-coordinated wardrobe of clothes, sliding the hangers along one by one. White shirts, followed by grey then black. No wonder she thinks my room is a mess.
‘What? No,’ my words come out in a mumble. ‘Did you know a speedy driver ran that poor woman down? Did you? She was around my age, fifty-five, and it happened right by our neighbourhood.’ What was the name of the town again?
Amira laughs, shakes her head.
‘What’s so funny, Mimi?’
‘You are not fifty-five, Ami. You are seventy-five. It’s your birthday soon. I’ve booked your favourite restaurant, Anaya. Shafi said he’ll be there.’
What is she talking about? ‘I’m not seventy-five, silly ladki. Get me the newspaper.’
‘Are you still playing detective.’ She looks at me with a careless glint in her eyes.
‘Searching for a fictional story about the young girl that went missing?’
Fictional. It’s not fictional. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Don’t know where you read it. I’ve still not heard a thing in the news about it.’
My mind goes blank and I forget what I was saying. I look at my daughter for some kind of clue, but her expression is cold. ‘Say that again?’
‘Why do you keep newspapers? Her voice has risen louder than I have ever heard it.
‘Because I want to.’
‘You must have had them for years. All stupid little stories highlighted in your stupid little yellow marker,’ she mutters.
‘So what, Mimi?’ I wring my hands. I’m not entirely sure why we’re having this discussion. ‘What’s so bad about it?’ It is clear to me that she is the mother and I the child.
‘I don’t see the point! The articles feature people dying a horrible death.’
‘No, they don’t.’ She detects the trace of anger in my voice. ‘I need to know if there’s news about the young girl. She was only fourteen. It was a terrible accident.’
‘Yes Ami.’ She rolls her eyes as if what I said makes no sense. ‘Don’t get why you even read such a load of rubbish.’ Amira’s words begin to slur like a pearly white line of froth on a windy beach. Time stands still, dissolves my current existence as waves wash up old memories. I dive into them, swim through the lost ocean of my mind where I discover another version of myself. Back then I was different. I was respected, a woman with integrity.
Sunday, 8 September 2019
Today I will cook Amira’s favourite dish, korma, which I haven’t made in a while. I’ll also prepare some tandoori masala and then go buy the chicken fresh from the butcher. Where to begin? Where are the canned tomatoes and all the fresh herbs? I need garlic, ginger and turmeric. Rice – I need basmati chawal.
The room spins. I’ve lost my way. Why am I in the kitchen? What could I possibly be looking for?
‘Mimi, where are you?’ No answer. Where could that silly ladki have gone again? I open the cupboards. My fingers push the plates, glasses and cups around. Where has she put all the masalas? She always puts things away where I can’t find them. My head goes dizzy, my vision blurs. I bend over and turn to the freezer, yank out the drawers. Thick pieces of ice scatter across the floor.
‘Where are the samosas I made and filled with mincemeat and peas?’ A loud beeping sound disturbs me. I lean against the door to the freezer, it shuts, kills the annoying sound. ‘Why are there none left? I am certain I made a whole batch the other day. Teacher Sahib, are you listening?’ Of course he isn’t. I laugh. Silly me. My husband is not here. Nadeem has been gone for decades.
I take out the vegetables from the fridge and begin to chop them with a sharp knife. Steam rises in the large pot simmering with water. How did it get there, and what should I do with it? I turn around to find something to toss into the pot, anything to keep the water busy. What’s this, dhal? I fidget hesitantly before turning back to the gas hob. The blue flames rise. How do I switch it off? My hand shake violently as I turn all the knobs from one side to the other. How do I turn the oven back off? Never mind. I’ll leave it for the tandoori chicken to roast.
I cup the vegetables, chunky, not fine, and throw them into the pot, keeping my distance. Half get wasted on the floor. I wave my arm and something breaks, the sound of shattering. It’s the tea mug. I squat to pick it up, a piece of sharp glass cuts my finger. Blood streams down my wrist. I pull out the shard stuck in my finger and suck the tip, which leaves a taste of bitter metal in my mouth. I hear a noise coming from the hallway. Keys rattle in the lock.
‘It’s only me, you OK?’ The front door slams shut and I jump, my heart racing inside my chest.
‘No, I’m not OK. Who is in my house?’ Before I get to it, the kitchen door swings open. A woman with a horrified face comes in holding net bags filled with groceries. She drops one, then the other.
‘Ami, what on earth have you been doing?’ She yanks a plaster out of the first aid box.
‘Who are you?’ I say. ‘And where is my daughter?’ I push her, she stumbles and looks taken aback.
‘What are you saying? ‘I am your daughter.’ She peels the two sheets of paper away and attempts to seal my wound.
‘No, you’re not,’ I pull back my
hand. ‘My daughter is five years old and not a grown-up woman.’ Blood splatters onto the floor. The cut on my finger is deep, but I feel no pain. There’s an awful metallic stink. I feel nauseated.
‘Ami, why don’t you sit down,’ This woman places her hand on my shoulder. ‘How many times have I asked you not to cook anything? It’s dangerous.’ She switches the gas hob off and removes the pot of simmering vegetables. ‘What if—’
‘I didn’t do anything.’ The walls appear blackened and close in on me. I inhale the smell of burned wood and shiver. There’s smoke everywhere. ‘It was an accident, an accident!’
A hot stream of tears run down my cheeks. She regards me with a tilted head.
‘Ami, calm down. Nothing happened.’
‘How do you know? You’re just a silly ladki.’
I begin to bite my nails. I taste raw and tender flesh. And warm blood. She says nothing. Just stares at me, her expression blank.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, 15th January 1986
Dear Diary,
Today was interesting. Naima brought along colourful cigarettes hidden inside a velvet case. Purple, yellow, pink. So beautiful, so soft. I held a purple one between my fingers, giggling as she watched me light it and puff in smoke. It nearly chocked me. I kept coughing and she laughed. ‘Dummy, do it this way,’ she said. She took the cigarette and pressed it to her lips, inhaling and exhaling slowly. She told me they were French and that her boyfriend brought them over from Paris.
I asked her what he was doing in Paris, and she said that he goes every year with his family for Christmas. They stay in this cool château in the countryside. Naima wants to go with him, but she knows that’s not possible.
Naima is so pretty and so glam. I adore her. Of course she has a boyfriend. She is good at keeping secrets and has been with this cute French guy Oliver for one year without her parents even suspecting anything. Naima slipped the cigarette between my lips and I copied her style. She looked every inch like a chic French girl. Milky white face, straight brown hair. Glowing green eyes like a cat’s. I can see why boys swarm around her. And that small nose with a piercing. I wish I could have one too, but Mum would never ever allow it.
