steadily.
She sighed again. What was she sighing for? I was the one
being pierced. To have to live out the rest of your days hearing your granddaughter call the wrong woman Grandma. Imagine
it. That Jezebel, holding my granddaughter's hand, teaching her
things.
Not to mention the immense shame. How would I show my
face around the neighborhood, hold my head up amidst the
buzzing gossip, the pity, everyone glancing sideways and not daring to speak to me? Had she thought about that? Had she thought
what a sword she was driving through my soul? Wasn't it enough
that I was already enduring her shame? Shakilah wasn't deaf. She
could hear the whispers that had been travelling up and down the
road all week, some of them directed at me. Eh, the apple doesn't fall far
from the tree. She must have known before she came home what
would happen. Arriving with her belly so ripe, her left hand empty.
"What did I do?" I asked her, trying again to hold my voice
steady. "What has made you so angry with me, Shakilah?"
"You know," she said, quite sharply. Then she looked at me,
as if she had been waiting a long time for me to ask her that
question. Now she was waiting for me to say something else,
but I didn't know what she was referring to at all.
"No." I shook my head. "No, darling, I don't know."
"You know," she said again, defiantly and suddenly sounding
just like Ben, in the old days when Ben and I were dating, when
we were young and innocent, and he was still sweet, and in love
with me. Those were the old days. Life changes. Or maybe it
was marriage that had changed us, Ben and me, or just age. I
never knew what had made him start looking at me differently,
and in the end, it didn't matter. What I did, I had to do. But
Shakilah didn't know about any of it. I was sure she didn't know
what I had done to save her. I had been very careful. I hadn't
wanted her to carry the burden of knowing.
"What is it?" I asked, and I tried to sound gentle and loving.
"Please tell me, darling." I wanted her to understand I was her mother, that I would do anything for her, even though the truth was that
I wasn't feeling very strong, and my hands were trembling.
You think I don't remember." Her voice was almost a whisper. I saw her take in a deep breath, and then she went on, "I
remember."
I didn't know what she was talking about.
"I thought it was a dream. I thought I dreamt it."
Now I thought I knew the incident to which she was referring, but I still didn't know why she was angry at me, unless
she was blaming me for allowing it to happen. Was that it? I
didn't want to interrupt her, so I tried to study her face. But
Shakilah was looking down at her hands, and even in the dimness in the room, the last vestiges of daylight ebbing away fast,
I could sense the deadening between us. It was as if blood and
air had left your mother's body, as if her bones and skin were
only remnants of the child I had carried. Only her soul was still
wandering, blowing about like a piece of seashell in that desert
that was inside her. I didn't know what to do, except sit there
and wait for whatever else was coming, and accept it. At my
age, I could feel fate's hand when it reached in. Maybe guilt had
something to do with it. Maybe. Yes, you always have guilt,
even when you know you had no choice.
"Children don't have such dreams. Or if they do, they're
signs. The dreams are signs."
She sounded as if she had turned into a stranger, right
before my eyes. That was how she sounded. On the surface,
nothing was changing. She looked the same, with Ben's thick
eyelashes and his thick hair, which his relatives had been so
happy about, even if she wasn't his coloring. Not that they had
ever mentioned it-the only time his relatives had shown some
discretion. But I had seen it on their faces, right from the start.
As soon as they had left the hospital room, they must have told
one another, Aiya, lucky. The girl has her father's
She sighed again. What was she sighing for? I was the one
being pierced. To have to live out the rest of your days hearing your granddaughter call the wrong woman Grandma. Imagine
it. That Jezebel, holding my granddaughter's hand, teaching her
things.
Not to mention the immense shame. How would I show my
face around the neighborhood, hold my head up amidst the
buzzing gossip, the pity, everyone glancing sideways and not daring to speak to me? Had she thought about that? Had she thought
what a sword she was driving through my soul? Wasn't it enough
that I was already enduring her shame? Shakilah wasn't deaf. She
could hear the whispers that had been travelling up and down the
road all week, some of them directed at me. Eh, the apple doesn't fall far
from the tree. She must have known before she came home what
would happen. Arriving with her belly so ripe, her left hand empty.
"What did I do?" I asked her, trying again to hold my voice
steady. "What has made you so angry with me, Shakilah?"
"You know," she said, quite sharply. Then she looked at me,
as if she had been waiting a long time for me to ask her that
question. Now she was waiting for me to say something else,
but I didn't know what she was referring to at all.
"No." I shook my head. "No, darling, I don't know."
"You know," she said again, defiantly and suddenly sounding
just like Ben, in the old days when Ben and I were dating, when
we were young and innocent, and he was still sweet, and in love
with me. Those were the old days. Life changes. Or maybe it
was marriage that had changed us, Ben and me, or just age. I
never knew what had made him start looking at me differently,
and in the end, it didn't matter. What I did, I had to do. But
Shakilah didn't know about any of it. I was sure she didn't know
what I had done to save her. I had been very careful. I hadn't
wanted her to carry the burden of knowing.
"What is it?" I asked, and I tried to sound gentle and loving.
"Please tell me, darling." I wanted her to understand I was her mother, that I would do anything for her, even though the truth was that
I wasn't feeling very strong, and my hands were trembling.
You think I don't remember." Her voice was almost a whisper. I saw her take in a deep breath, and then she went on, "I
remember."
I didn't know what she was talking about.
"I thought it was a dream. I thought I dreamt it."
Now I thought I knew the incident to which she was referring, but I still didn't know why she was angry at me, unless
she was blaming me for allowing it to happen. Was that it? I
didn't want to interrupt her, so I tried to study her face. But
Shakilah was looking down at her hands, and even in the dimness in the room, the last vestiges of daylight ebbing away fast,
I could sense the deadening between us. It was as if blood and
air had left your mother's body, as if her bones and skin were
only remnants of the child I had carried. Only her soul was still
wandering, blowing about like a piece of seashell in that desert
that was inside her. I didn't know what to do, except sit there
and wait for whatever else was coming, and accept it. At my
age, I could feel fate's hand when it reached in. Maybe guilt had
something to do with it. Maybe. Yes, you always have guilt,
even when you know you had no choice.
"Children don't have such dreams. Or if they do, they're
signs. The dreams are signs."
She sounded as if she had turned into a stranger, right
before my eyes. That was how she sounded. On the surface,
nothing was changing. She looked the same, with Ben's thick
eyelashes and his thick hair, which his relatives had been so
happy about, even if she wasn't his coloring. Not that they had
ever mentioned it-the only time his relatives had shown some
discretion. But I had seen it on their faces, right from the start.
As soon as they had left the hospital room, they must have told
one another, Aiya, lucky. The girl has her father's
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