by Farah Cook
Wednesday, 13 November 2019
Mano is lying in bed next to me, his sharp teeth stuck on a piece of chicken bone. He is so busy gnawing it that blood and marrow spill out on the sheets. ‘Where did you get that from?’ I rub the sleep from my eyes. ‘Did Mum give it to you?’ I twitch like a spider. How long has Mano been chewing on the bone? He meows when I shove him away and leaves, tail swishing, through the narrow opening of my bedroom door. I hear a noise coming from the kitchen downstairs, and I know that Mum is in the process of making a mess. I need to stop her before matters get out of hand again.
Burning hot, my body doesn’t move, doesn’t get out of bed. I look for my phone and find it under the duvet. I snatch it and tap in the passcode. I scroll through my numbers and punch in Shafi’s. He’s not answering. I try again. Please Shaf, pick up. Nothing. I leave a message: ‘Ring me when you get this. It’s urgent.’ The tip of my finger slides down to ‘Haroon’.
‘You need to stop calling me like this,’ he said. ‘We are no longer married.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘But there’s no one else. I am all alone with Mum.’
I plug my phone into the cable next to the bedside table. The battery is almost drained. I need it charged when Shafi returns my call. And he will, I’m certain of it.
I flip over the duvet and force my legs to move. Weak and dizzy, I drag myself over to the door. I hold onto the panel and lean against the frame. I think I smell food. I am not sure, my nose is blocked. Taking a deep breath in, I stand up straight and move into the hallway. I grab the banister with sweaty palms, my body quivering from the fever. Don’t let go, keep moving. At the landing, I rail myself down the steps carefully, keeping my feet tight, toes curled as if grabbing at the floor with a hook.
‘Ami?’
I hear her sing a familiar song, the sound of her voice appeasing. I smell the different aromas coming from the kitchen. A rich smell of meat, coriander and cumin float in the air and it makes me feel sick. I make it to the door and push it open. Thick smoke stands like a curtain in front of me. I can’t see anything. ‘Where are you?’
With arms stretched out, I reach through the smog, coughing. Wafting my hand, I open the window and call out for Mum again. I don’t hear her anymore. I hear roaring sounds as if something is about to explode. I try not to panic when I see flames rising inside the oven. I get the extinguisher out from underneath the sink; a blow and the screen breaks, spitting glass all over the floor. I point the nozzle towards the fire, taking it out. I don’t stop till the foam runs out. The bottle slips to the floor. I’m stepping onto pieces of glass but there’s something else. Round plastic shells. Ripped wires hang from the ceiling above my head. Mum has pulled down the smoke alarm again. Where is she?
The smoke is clearing, and through the light veil I see the backdoor smacking against the frame. A gust of wind slips in, whips my hair around my face and I gather the long twist of it in one hand. With the other I push the door fully open and rush outside and around the side of the house. On the front stoop, I notice a pale body undressed and shivering. It’s Mum, arms hanging loose at her side. The spinal bones stretched across her back like a rope. I freeze, shocked to have found her like this. I take off the cardigan I’m wearing and push her arms through it. Her legs are covered in goosebumps. Her feet and toenails lined with mud, splashes of dirt stain her ankles. I find her chador lying on the ground, pick it up and wrap it around her.
I look up. Neighbours have come out. One of them is on the phone. He speaks in a loud voice while laughing, ‘You won’t believe this mate. She’s gone mad. Sitting naked in front of her own house as we speak.’
‘Ami, come with me,’ I pull her close. ‘Let’s get back inside the house.’
‘No,’ she shoves me away. ‘House burning, on fire. Flames, smoke. Come, come Mimi. We must go, must leave. Dangerous!’
‘It was an accident. I took out the fire, it’s OK to go back inside again.’
‘Terrible accident. Do not to blame me. Not my fault house on fire.’ Mum’s words come out all jostled. I’ve never seen her this way before.
‘It’s alright, it’s safe now.’ I cuddle her, feel the beating of her heart next to mine and begin to cry. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been able to look after you the way you deserve to be looked after. This is all my fault. If only I had been there for you and not been so dismissive.’
She wipes my tears away. I take her hand to my lips and kiss the tip of her fingers.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she smiles. ‘You are meri beti. And you don’t cry. You safe. You close to my heart.’
I bring Mum back inside the house. Long curls of smoke follow me like fog. Hot air sinks into my lungs. I can taste carbon, from the charred kitchen. In the living room I place Mum carefully in her armchair. I soak a towel in warm water, and clean the mud and dirt from her feet and ankles with the towel. Her hand rests on my shoulder, it feels warm and protective.
Outside our window, I notice that Mrs Nesbit is now standing opposite holding her phone. She is gathered by other neighbours. A well put together stay-at-home-mum bouncing an infant on her hip. The elderly retired officer who never greets me in the street. Others peek through their drapes, their prejudice clear. I sense their eyes poking and staring suspiciously at me, with pale faces. I feel as if I don’t fit into the narrow-minded neighbourhood I grew up in. I can read their lips: ‘Bloody Pakis. It’s that crazy old woman causing trouble again. And the daughter can’t ever seem to control her.’
There’s no time to get my phone from upstairs. I need to ring Haroon and tell him to come to the house. I reach for the landline. I press Haroon’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. I call the hospital and tell the secretary to put me through to him.
‘May I ask who is calling?’ she says.
‘It’s his wife.’ Immediately, I feel stupid. ‘I’m sorry. Please tell him it’s Amira, his ex-wife. I need to speak with Doctor Khan right away as a matter of urgency.’
I’m put on hold, and bite my lip so hard it bleeds.
‘Mira what’s going on?’ says Haroon. ‘Is it Shafi?’
‘No, it’s Mum.’
‘What’s happened? Can you call Shafi?’
‘He’s not answering. I didn’t know who else to call. Please. I need your help.’
‘Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something.’
‘No. Just come to the house. Please. It’s urgent, or I wouldn’t be calling!’
‘OK, don’t panic Mira.’ There’s a long pause. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘And Haroon, do not tell anyone about Mum. You know what happens if you do.’
‘I know,’ he says in a calm voice. ‘Stay in the house. I’ll be on my way.’
I hang up.
‘Ami, how are you feeling?’ I unfold the shalwar kameez I took from Mum’s drawer in her bedroom and begin to dress her.
‘Look,’ she says, pointing at the window. ‘Blue and yellow lights blinking. Christmas. It is Christmas.’
Mum’s dupatta hanging over my arm slips down.
‘No Ami, it’s not.’ I draw the curtain and see a police car parked next to the kerb of the house. Two men dressed in uniform approach the house. One brings out a notepad. ‘Don’t move. Stay where you are.’
Mum covers her ears and looks at me. A distant siren that is getting closer is upsetting her. ‘Make it stop Mimi!’ she cries. A fire engine pulls into the road and halts next to the police car. Mum takes my hand, lowers her head and shakes it. ‘PLEASE. Don’t leave me!’
‘I’ll be right back. Promise.’
‘No! Please, don’t go. Pleeease. Pleee—’
I tug her close to calm her down. ‘I’m not going to go anywhere. I’ll stay right here next to you. Alright?’
‘Promise you will never leave me.’ she repeats, clinging to me.
The doorbell rings. Mum is still not letting me go when I tell her I need see who’s at the door. I stroke
her head with gentle movements and tell her I will be back. She squeezes each one of my fingers hard, and I let her.
Haroon’s car pulls into the driveway. Nadia is in the front seat and Shafi is at the back. Another car is parked behind Haroon’s. I recognise it from last time it stood in our driveway. The same woman who has been here before from social services gets out. And she isn’t alone. She’s brought someone else with her. It’s John Buchanan from the Carers Support Group. I don’t want any of them to see Mum like this. But it’s too late. Soon they’ll all know how I failed caring for my own mother. They’ll judge me and say I am not good enough.
I pick up the dupatta from the floor and set it around Mum’s shoulders. She slumps back into the chair; her body suddenly seems lifeless. I want to tell her I am terrified. I don’t know what’s going to happen to her.
The doorbell rings a second time. I open the front door and am met by the unsmiling faces of the policemen. I show them into the living room and leave the front door open for Haroon and the rest to follow.
Mano jumps into Mum’s lap. She strokes him and begins to hum the tune of a familiar song she used to sing for me when I was a little girl.
Chapter 10
AFRAH
Wednesday, 20 November 2019
‘Where are we going, Mimi?’
I don’t think Amira is paying any attention to what I’m saying. ‘Are you listening?’
Flurries of rain whirl in the car headlights. She drives off the highway and takes the left lane, long and winding, where the trees stand like burned sticks thrashing against the wind.
‘Huh?’ Fingers clutching the steering wheel, she bites her lip. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Now I am worried. Above us, giant ravens fill the ink-coloured sky in plumes of powerful dark feathers, and a ridge of cold clouds rise above the morning mist. I peer out of the window. There’s no mistaking it, we’re somewhere rural, in the Highlands.
‘Ami, you are going to be so happy where I’m taking you,’ she smiles reassuringly. But behind her smile, my daughter reveals doubt. ‘It’s a beautiful place on the cliffside and close to the sea. You can go for walks and get plenty of fresh air.’
‘What was wrong with the air I was breathing before?’
In my mind, I see her walking by the beach and licking the drop running down her ice cream cone. She collects broken shells.
‘Nothing,’ she smiles again. ‘Wait and see, it’s going to be—’
‘Do you mean we are going on a holiday?’
‘Yes, exactly. It’s like a holiday,’ she laughs. ‘I’m taking you to a safe place, where you can rest. Where you will feel better. Like a hotel.’
She thinks I am not well. Is something wrong with me? Amira believes I am pagal. I know I am not. I bite my nails. She puts her hand onto mine and lowers it.
‘Stop the car!’ I shout out. ‘Can’t you see the dead animal lying in the road?’
She slows down. Brakes to a halt in the middle of the road. Majestic and big, a pair of button-blue eyes glare straight into my soul. The cold blood is so dark, a mucous brown dried on the black tarmac.
‘Poor deer,’ she says. ‘Must have run blindly into the road.’
‘It’s not a deer. It is a stag,’ I tell her. Monarch, to be precise, with sixteen antler points. Nadeem loved walks in nature. He taught me about Scottish wildlife. Eagles, wildcats and red deer.
Amira puts her foot down on the accelerator and turns the wheel. Swinging right around the mud-covered animal, she drives off at full speed. I turn to watch the dead creature shrink in the distance.
‘I heard it on the news,’ she says. There’s a deer problem in the Highlands.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are too many of them, and accidents appear to be normal. Drivers don’t even report them to the road commission. Can’t blame them. You get close to little or no reception out in this isolated part of the Highlands.’
Nadeem and I had looked over at the woods, our bodies in sync with the cold earth beneath us. Ahead of us the grass grew patchy, mingled with weeds and leaves. At the hem of the woods there was a vast wilderness. A space belonging to no man. Only deer. Antlers and large unblinking, curious eyes. Nadeem looked over his shoulder. I think he wanted to say, Look dear, a deer. But there wasn’t just one. Another appeared next to it. And another. A flock. Dozens, and more kept coming. We sat there in silence and watched the herd grow larger with each blink. Must have been hundreds. They just kept coming.
‘As I was saying, Ami. There’s no need for you to feel worried. Did I mention they have a garden, and right next to it there’s a forest and—’
‘What about you?’ I try to make eye contact again, lean in closer. ‘Are you not staying with me at the hotel?’ I put my hand on her shoulder. She jumps, eyes still focused on what’s ahead. A bleak landscape and fallen leaves scattering the pavement The grey getting closer to the mist that we’re driving through.
‘Mimi, answer me.’ She is quiet and I lose my trail of thought. ‘Have you read—’
‘No, nothing has been written about a missing fourteen-year-old girl, OK?’
‘Silly ladki, of course, it was front-page news.’
‘This is crazy,’ she cries. ‘You sure it was front-page news?’
I hesitate before nodding.
Amira glares at me suspiciously. ‘What happened to her?’
I say nothing and glare out the window.
‘Please try to understand. I need to feel well,’ she says. ‘You get that, don’t you? I’m only going to be better when I have some time for myself to recover from—’
I touch her forehead. It’s cold. ‘Mimi, you look pale. Are you sick?’
‘No, not exactly,’ Amira’s expression fills with worry. ‘Ami, it’s important you try to remember what I’m about to say. Maybe write it down in your black diary, so you don’t forget we spoke about it, OK?’
Amira knows about my diary. Has she read the blue and yellow bookmarked pages? Or the grey bookmarked pages? Does she know about my memories, about my dreams?
‘Ami, did you hear me?’ Her eyes have turned deep and dark like a cave. ‘Please, it’s very important.’
‘What did you say we spoke about?’ Amira’s face is clouded with something else. Something she isn’t telling me.
‘This new home I am taking you to. It is going to be so good for you.’
‘What home? I thought it was a hotel?’ Safe, rest, feel better. The words jumble inside my head and I get a feeling something isn’t right. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘We talked about this so many times,’ she bites her lip hard. Fingers curling tighter and tighter around the steering wheel, the webbing becomes visible on her white knuckles. ‘You agreed that it was fine to move out of the house.’
‘I did not.’ I raise my voice. ‘And will not.’
‘You said you wouldn’t be making any trouble.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘You have to accept that you’re going to live with others who have the same condition you do.’
What does she mean, my condition? Frustration bubbles up inside me.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never agreed to anything of the sort.’
‘You said you want to leave because you don’t want to burden me anymore. But I never considered you a burden, Ami. Never. I have no other choice right now. Please try to understand.’ I watch her tears drop and soak into her jeans.
The words come pouring out of Amira’s mouth, but I have no clue what she is on about.
‘The decision is out of my hands,’ she says firmly.
‘What decision, what are you talking about?’ I take a deep, shuddering breath.
‘You don’t remember things—’
‘Why are you making me do this?’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not leaving. Not going on a holiday. Don’t want to be in a hotel.’
‘Ami, if it was up to me, I’d
have you stay with me. But for now, you’ll have to go. There’s no other solution. The lady who came to the house when you had an accident in the kitchen, do you remember her? She was from the social services and decided it’s best that you be in a care home. It will be much securer because I can’t always be around you to make sure you’re safe.’
‘I’m not going to any dumb care home.’ I wipe away the tears pouring down my face. ‘Please, don’t leave me in a place that isn’t my home. Do you hear what I am saying? Do not leave me in any safe place where I must rest, feel better and go for walks on the beach. I don’t want to be in a garden next to the forest.’
‘It’s going to be for your own good,’ she says with a level of mistrust as if she doesn’t believe what she’s telling me. ‘Nothing bad will happen to you there. You’ll have people who care for you all the time. To make sure you’re well looked after.’
‘I don’t want that. I want you to look after me. You are meri beti. Why can’t we continue to live together the way we always have? I am not pagal!’
I don’t want to leave my only daughter to live with complete strangers who have my condition, whatever that may be. I know I cause trouble because I don’t remember things. But I can’t help it. Memories I don’t want to remember disturb me. I want to know why they disturb me and why they linger somewhere in the back of my mind. Fear is growing slowly with my denial of it all. Fear that I may be responsible for what happened to her.
I screw my eyes shut. I remember bit by bit Amira telling me something about going away while packing. The rain drummed on the roof. Amira’s voice came from the other end in my bedroom.
‘I’ve also packed your cotton salwar kameez,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave the wool, I know how it sometimes can make your skin itch. I bought you a new cardigan, you know, something nice to go with your chador. You like wearing that and you like wearing your gold bangles, don’t you Ami? I’ll pack them too, and your rings and earrings. But please wear them, don’t take them off or you will lose them. OK?’
