Shadow Theatre by Fiona Cheong Page A

leaving a bruise on her. This daughter I used to sing to, very softly after Ben had fallen asleep, partly so
as not to wake him, but also because I knew her eardrum was so
tiny and new, I was afraid to burst it. This daughter, whom I had
loved even before she was born. How could she say she didn't
trust me? In a voice so empty, so devoid of feeling. Had she
wandered so far from herself? What had happened to her soul
in America? What was going to happen when she went back?
Because no matter the cost, there was no question that she had
to go back, I thought. Your mother was never safe here. Even
she knew it. The question was how not to give in to my longing to keep her home, especially now that she seemed so lost,
and with another life to think about. Another soul, not yet born
and still tender. And I didn't even know about you.

    What did Shakilah mean, she didn't trust me? That was
what I was wondering when she said it.
    You know what I mean, Mama."
    She must have read the question in my eyes. Shock and confusion had paralyzed my face. She could see that, obviously. She
must have expected it. She had even hoped for it, I thought, as I
looked at her sitting there on the couch, with her hands folded
in her lap, as if she were demure and ladylike, which as a teenager she had never been. I could see she was a woman now, your
mother. I could feel within her the wall surrounding her soul, so
that I could no longer reach it. Within that wall was a desert
so bleak like the Gobi, miles of dusty sand where her soul was
wandering. Was she going to take her daughter's soul there as
well? Mama, if something happens to me, I want Eve Thumboo to take care
of my baby. I've already asked her. Not a shiver in Shakilah's voice
when she had said that, when she had looked me straight in the
eye and informed me she was going to give away my granddaughter, and not only that, but give her away to the woman
who had already grabbed one child from me.
    Finally, I found my voice, but it was shaky. "I don't know
what you mean," I told her. "Tell me what you mean, Shakilah."

    She just looked at me.
    It was close to six o'clock. Rose had left around half-past
five, with a sheepish expression on her face as she apologized for
not being able to stay for dinner that evening. Now I knew why.
Helena herself had stopped by with Bernadette, under the pretense of bringing over some of her pineapple tarts for Shakilah.
Wait till they found out about this, I thought. My headache was
building up again, a dull pain this time, a sluggish ache centered
in my crown and sending thin roots down. I could feel the darkness that was coming as I shut my eyes for a moment. The night
was already moving through the trees, heaving against our walls.
The pain ripped through my shoulders. I felt it enter my chest,
but it didn't go lower than my navel.
    "Shall I get you some aspirin?" Shakilah asked, but her voice
didn't sound willing or concerned. It sounded exhausted, fed up,
even though she was trying to hide it. As a mother, you can hear.
    I shook my head and opened my eyes. Outside, the air still
carried a dim light, the paltry glow of the sun as it was going
down, but in the living room twilight had already arrived. I
thought about switching on the lamp on the end table beside
me, but my arms felt heavy. I thought, what would be the point?
I was also afraid of what else I might see in your mother's eyes,
if the light in the room grew brighter. I couldn't look at her anymore. I stared at my hands. How ugly they had become, how
dry and old and useless. As always, I was aware of not wearing
my wedding ring. At least, I didn't have to wear it anymore.
Shakilah must have noticed this, but she hadn't said a word
about it.
    I heard her sigh. "Are you sure you don't want some
aspirin?" she asked, and I made myself speak.
    "No, I don't want any aspirin," I said. I could hear the quake
in my voice, even though I had tried to speak