A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez

smiled at him, though she felt rejected. They’d come to Wakil’s home precisely because he was supposed to have more time for her. Was she being a spoiled baby or had some heat diminished in their relationship?
    She was shown to her room on the third floor. While she was unpacking, her cellphone rang. It was her contact at the embassy telling her that a renowned Indian doctor was speaking tonight on children’s health issues at a local coffeehouse. He thought Candace would be interested in meeting the doctor given Candace’s recent work on behalf of Wakil’s clinic. She closed the phone and sat on the high bed that was covered in gorgeous handmade silk fabric, rich with color and texture. As she ran her hand across the luxurious bedspread, she smiled. This was a sure way to get Wakil’s attention. The doctor—her skills as well as her ability to get attention for her projects—was just what his clinic needed. She knew he’d cancel any plans he might have to attend this event with her so that she might entice the doctor to help the clinic. So what that Candace wasn’t the main attraction. She’d be more than happy to share the spotlight with the good doctor.

Y azmina hadn’t been feeling well all week. She was exhausted. On some mornings she found it difficult just to get out of bed. And then the chores were almost impossible to complete. But she smiled and did everything in her power to pretend she was fine. It worried her, this feeling of lethargy, and she wondered if the baby was well or whether her fall from the car, or the disinfectants she used to mop the floors, or the filthy sewage-strewn streets could have injured the baby deep inside her belly. But she couldn’t risk anyone’s suspicions—because that would be even worse for the life growing inside her.
    And it was Wednesday again. If last week there had been twenty people, tonight there would be double or even triple that, if the number of calls Miss Sunny received on the phone she wore around her neck like a talisman was any indication. People asked directions, confirmed the time. Already many had arrived to eat well before tonight’s event began. And there had been much preparation as well—the errands, the baking, the ordering, the cooking, cleaning, and straightening. It seemed as if all week led to this day.
    Yazmina was resting now on her toshak , her hands on her belly, dreaming that her baby was well, warm, and afloat in her womb. She hoped the baby had found her thumb to suck and that she had every limb in its rightful place. She wondered if the baby was dreaming of her.
    At that moment, the nausea she’d been feeling for days swept over her like the winds over the mountains, and she barely made it to the washbowl that sat on the chest. Sweating, she vomited for what seemed like hours. Eventually, she was emptied, and she took the bowl to the toilet in the rear courtyard. On her way back, she encountered Halajan, who was leaning against a wall, smoking. Yazmina had never seen a woman smoking, and on another night, she might have been startled. But considering her own physical condition and how terrible she felt, she had no judgment left for anyone else. The sun’s setting light shone on the trail of smoke as it rose into the air. But everything else was in shadows, which Yazmina was thankful for. She knew her sickened face would betray her.
    “Are you all right, lost one?” Halajan asked.
    “I am fine, thank you,” answered Yazmina. “I just needed to use the toilet and clean my bowl.” She looked up. “It will be an interesting night, won’t it?”
    Halajan kept her eyes on Yazmina. “You are curious about the doctor’s stories?”
    Yazmina lowered her eyes. “We all must be concerned for mothers and children.”
    “Yes, we must,” Halajan said. “But what matters is how quickly you do what your soul directs.”
    Yazmina’s eyes widened. “You quote Rumi. I know this from my mother, who used to sing his poems! She loved