I enter the kitchen and the first thing I see is that the plastic plate, cup and utensils are no longer on the counter. I open the microwave and see that the food is no longer there. Instead there are two empty glass plates in the sink, the plates on which I had dished out the food, the plates on which the food would have been heated up.
Hours later, about nine o’clock, my cell phone rings, and Mama is on the line. ‘So you took the food to him?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘By the time I went to finish up the preparation, he had already come and taken it himself. I’m surprised I didn’t even hear the microwave beeping when he finished heating up the food.’
She is quiet on the line.
‘I must have been in the bathroom,’ I tell her.
She is still quiet.
‘Mama?’ I say. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But you disappoint me. I don’t ask you for much, but this is radiation we’re talking about. It would not have killed you to let me give him your number. For God’s sake, it is radiation we’re talking about.’
I say, ‘Mama, I couldn’t handle the possibility of getting harassing calls or text messages from him on my phone.’
‘All you had to do was just let me give him your number, so that you would have known when to prepare the food, when to place it for him on that table by his door. Is it too much for me to ask you to prepare his food for him? It’s not like I was asking you to cook it. All I was asking was for you to dish it out.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It was not too much to ask. And I didn’t mind preparing the food. But Mama,’ I say, ‘why didn’t you call him? Why didn’t he call me from his doorway, like he’s done before? He could have stood there and just told me that he was ready for his food.’
‘You could have just allowed me to give him your number,’ Mama says.
‘There you go again,’ I say. ‘Always putting him first. Always putting his needs before mine.’
‘Putting his needs first?’ she asks. ‘I’ve never once put his needs before yours.’
I think of Boston and the Florida trip, of him hitting her, and still she went back to serve him a second time. And all the while neither she nor I ate. I think of my bleeding lips, and of her telling me not to say anything to the cops. Do you want to be responsible for sending a diabetic man to jail? I think of sneaking in and out of the house, because Mama did not want to anger him by demanding that I be allowed to come back home. I think of writing that email. Of being here now at the house.
She says, ‘He could have contaminated the items in the kitchen with his radiation. You think I was concerned for him when I asked you to prepare the meal for him? No,’ she says. ‘My concern was for you and for me. Not wanting the radiation to seep out to us. And here you are telling me how I put him before us.’
I tell her that if she was so concerned for our safety, she could have done as I had suggested; she could have called him and then gotten back to me with a time when he would be expecting to have the meal.
‘You disappoint me,’ she tells me. ‘Accusing me of catering to him, as if I don’t have a head of my own, as if I don’t have my own priorities.’
I don’t answer. Instead, I sit on my bed, shaking my head slowly from side to side.
A few nights later, he calls my name from his room, like he did the days following the first procedure, the surgery. Those times, his request was simple: he only asked for a glass of water.
I imagine he is by their bedroom door, standing at the top of the three steps that lead into his room. My room is past the living room, down the hallway, on the opposite side of the house. My door is only a crack open, so I don’t see him, but I imagine that he’s wearing his blue-and-white-striped pyjama pants and his white singlet. He screams my name, though not really screaming, just shouting it so that I can hear. ‘Uchenna!’ he says.
I have just come out of the bathroom. I have tossed the towel on my bed, and I am unfolding a pad from its plastic wrapping, about to stick it onto my underwear. It is past 10 p.m.; by now, he should be sleeping.
I look at my door, and it occurs to me that I am completely nude, and that he could, in that very moment, be making his way slowly to my door. So I respond hurriedly, in order to catch him on time. ‘I’m not dressed,’ I say. ‘I can’t come out right now.’
His response comes right away, without even a moment of hesitation.
‘Don’t you dare snap at me,’ he shouts. ‘Don’t you dare!’ Then, ‘If you know what’s best for you, better put on your clothes and get me a glass of water!’ He clears his throat loudly and adds, ‘Or else.’
For a moment, I want to explain myself to him. I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be angry with me, because I did not mean any of it disrespectfully. But before I can get my mouth to open up, I hear his footsteps fading away, and then I hear his door slam shut.
I sit on my bed, holding the pad in my hands, imagining colourful butterflies, mutated butterflies filling up all the empty space in my room. I imagine tumours on many of them, and frightful metamorphoses of each and every tumour that I see, so that in the end, the diseased butterflies can hardly be separated from the healthy ones. I cringe. I feel the blood from my insides dripping out. I imagine that it is staining the yellow sheet under me. But I don’t do a thing to thwart the stain.
The next day, I pack my bags and prepare to leave. Mama stands at my doorway and watches me fold my blouses, watches me place them into my suitcase.
‘I still need you here,’ she says. It comes out dry, monotone. ‘I don’t see why you’re leaving so suddenly.’
I place the blouse that I am holding in the suitcase. I turn around so that I am facing her, looking straight into her eyes. I say, ‘You are an emotionally abusive mother whose greatest function in my life has been to perpetuate your husband’s abuse. It has always been and always will be about him. About not making him angry, about taking care of him, about giving him food this way and that. He will always be your number one priority. And so, you see, I have no business being here.’
I surprise myself, because it’s not as if I’ve ever thought of any of this before. I surprise Mama, too. ‘Hush,’ she says. ‘Don’t say such foolish things!’
But I insist. ‘No, Mama,’ I say. ‘It’s really true. I mean every word of it. Catering to an abusive person is one thing, but forcing others to do the same, whatever your reasons, is its own form of abuse.’
She raises one hand to her face, covers her eyes with it. ‘You accuse me of being emotionally abusive?’ she asks. Her voice is soft, as if she’s pleading, as if she’s hoping that I’ll change my mind and come up with a different verdict about her.
I look at her, just watch her. I don’t say a thing.
‘Me?’ she begins again, her voice breaking. ‘You really think that I have been emotionally abusive to you?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ I say. It is then that her shoulders begin to shake. I know that she is crying, that what I said really is hurting her.
‘Me?’ she asks one last time. She mumbles, and somewhere in the middle of the blubbering, I think I hear her say something about life being all about sacrifices.
She really gets into the crying now, her shoulders heaving, her breath catching and releasing, catching and releasing. I look at her, she is pitiful, and something in me wants to enjoy this moment. Something in me wants to smile and say, ‘Now you feel what I feel.’ But then I look at her again. And she looks more pitiful than she has ever looked all the times that Papa hit her or screamed at her. More pitiful than she looked even with her black eye in Boston. It occurs to me that I am the one making her feel this way. And I realize that it’s not at all something to smile about.
‘Anyway, he’s back to normal now,’ I say. ‘You really don’t need me any more.’
She shakes her head, tells me that she does. She needs me more than I can imagine, she says. She cries hard, and her voice trembles, but I don’t allow the tears or the trembling t
o sway me. Instead, I stand there, robot-like; and as I watch her sobbing continue, it begins to feel like something is being lifted out of me, something heavy and light at once. She is begging me to stay, but I barely hear the words. Instead, I’m imagining that that thing in me is fluttering away.
He comes out of their bedroom as I am about to take my luggage down the stairs, in the direction of the front door. I pretend that I do not notice him.
When I am midway down the staircase, he says, ‘Once you leave, don’t think you can come back. You’re not welcome here unless I say you are.’
I walk the rest of the way down the staircase. And I think that one day, God willing, I will have a husband and at least one child of my own. And chances are that my husband and I won’t always see eye to eye. So, maybe sometimes I’ll find myself yielding to him, because, after all, I’ll love him very much. Still, I’ll love him not quite as much as I’ll love my child.
I grab hold of the door knob and pull open the door. Outside, the sky is blue and white. I can feel a soft breeze, and I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
‘Do you hear me?’ Papa asks as I step out. ‘Don’t think you can set foot here again without my permission. You understand?’
I turn back in his direction, and I nod, a slow and wistful nod. And I wonder if he even knows why I’m leaving.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to my friends, mentors and teachers at Penn State, Rutgers, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and elsewhere. You are too many to list, but you know yourselves.
Special thanks to Jan Zenisek, Deb West and David, the custodian.
Special thanks also to Rae Winkelstein, Lori Martin, Montreux Rotholtz, Emily Ruskovich, Michael Martone, Robin Hemley, Allan Gurganus and Marilynne Robinson.
Heartfelt thanks to Jin Auh, Ellah Allfrey and Jenna Johnson, for believing so strongly in me.
John Freeman, I’m not sure where I would be without you. My most heartfelt thanks to you.
Visit www.hmhco.com or your favorite retailer to order the book.
About the Author
One of Granta’s six New Voices for 2012, CHINELO OKPARANTA grew up a Jehovah’s Witness. She lived in Nigeria until the age of ten, when her family came to the United States. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she has also taught middle school, high school, and college.
Happiness, Like Water Page 18
