saying the words makes me flush. If Anju could hear me …
She looks at me appraisingly. “So. You want a job.” I steel myself for the questions. Why do you need to work? Don’t you have a husband to take care of you? But maybe Sara has moved away from such Indian ways of thought. She only says, “Let me check with Lupe.”
I should give her something in thanks and reciprocation. But I’m not ready to speak of a life which hulks at my back like a burned house.
Behind me in the sand pit I hear screams. Dayita! She’s taken hold of Joshua’s bucket with both her hands and is set on wresting it from him. When he resists, she lowers her head and—before I can run to them—bites his arm. Joshua lets go of the bucket and stares at the small red indentations that mark his skin. Then he begins to wail. Dayita makes use of this opportunity to grab the bucket and scuttle away, unrepentant.
I’m aghast. From where did my daughter inherit this ferocity? Not from me, surely. Nor her father. His fault was always the opposite. Is it then his mother’s legacy, passed down the indifferent channelways of blood to the granddaughter whose life she wanted to prevent?
“Hey, no big deal,” says Sara. “All kids act like brats sometimes.” She rocks Joshua until he calms down, then gives him hisbottle. “Don’t take it so hard,” she adds, touching my shoulder. “Not everything your kid does is your fault. My poor mother did whatever she could to bring me up as a good Indian girl. Bharatnatyam lessons, elocution classes, a convent education, the works. And look at me! Don’t scold the kid too much, okay? She’s just a baby.” She waits until I give a reluctant nod. “Listen, I’ll call Lupe over the weekend. Why don’t you give me your number—I’ll let you know what she says.”
I tell her Anju’s number, and she writes it on the back of her palm with a red ballpoint pen. “Please call only between nine and four on weekdays,” I say, and am grateful when she doesn’t ask why. I watch her slim black silhouette until she is gone.
To live like Sara in the present, in adventure. To not care about the worms curled inside the apple of your future. Is that ever possible, once you have become a mother?
I shouldn’t blame motherhood. From the day I was born, I had a worry in each eye.
I break my promise to Sara and scold Dayita all the way back. I can’t help it. How can Sara, who’s not a mother, know how frightening it is to be responsible for another life?
My words have no effect. Dayita leans back in the stroller and observes the zigzag lights in the windows of record shops. She turns her head to watch the yellow arch of a McDonald’s as we pass. The first streetlamps are cat eyes, making her smile. From time to time she sings baby words to herself. How well she has learned, already, the art of ignoring mothers.
Tonight, Anju asked if she could have Dayita to sleep with her, just for a bit.
“If she wakes up in the night and wants to be nursed, I’ll bring her back to you,” she said. “Promise!”
“She doesn’t nurse anymore.”
“Great!” said Anju. “Now she can sleep with Sunil and me half the time. That way, we’ll be able to cuddle up with her, and you’ll get some rest.”
I wanted to say, That kind of rest I don’t need. I wanted to tell my cousin, whom I’d once loved more than myself, Don’t touch her, she’s mine.
Anju held out her arms and Dayita jumped into them, not a backward glance. Anju spun her around until she screamed with excitement. They laughed all the way to Anju’s bedroom.
It’s past midnight. Lying here, I think I still hear them laughing. Sunil’s deeper tones join theirs. But of course they’re asleep. A little moonlight, pale and sickly, trickles into this room full of my daughter’s absence. Her smell is pungence and wild grass. The tindery odor of stubbornness. I take a baby blanket and press my face into it. Even my teeth hurt with loneliness. My
She looks at me appraisingly. “So. You want a job.” I steel myself for the questions. Why do you need to work? Don’t you have a husband to take care of you? But maybe Sara has moved away from such Indian ways of thought. She only says, “Let me check with Lupe.”
I should give her something in thanks and reciprocation. But I’m not ready to speak of a life which hulks at my back like a burned house.
Behind me in the sand pit I hear screams. Dayita! She’s taken hold of Joshua’s bucket with both her hands and is set on wresting it from him. When he resists, she lowers her head and—before I can run to them—bites his arm. Joshua lets go of the bucket and stares at the small red indentations that mark his skin. Then he begins to wail. Dayita makes use of this opportunity to grab the bucket and scuttle away, unrepentant.
I’m aghast. From where did my daughter inherit this ferocity? Not from me, surely. Nor her father. His fault was always the opposite. Is it then his mother’s legacy, passed down the indifferent channelways of blood to the granddaughter whose life she wanted to prevent?
“Hey, no big deal,” says Sara. “All kids act like brats sometimes.” She rocks Joshua until he calms down, then gives him hisbottle. “Don’t take it so hard,” she adds, touching my shoulder. “Not everything your kid does is your fault. My poor mother did whatever she could to bring me up as a good Indian girl. Bharatnatyam lessons, elocution classes, a convent education, the works. And look at me! Don’t scold the kid too much, okay? She’s just a baby.” She waits until I give a reluctant nod. “Listen, I’ll call Lupe over the weekend. Why don’t you give me your number—I’ll let you know what she says.”
I tell her Anju’s number, and she writes it on the back of her palm with a red ballpoint pen. “Please call only between nine and four on weekdays,” I say, and am grateful when she doesn’t ask why. I watch her slim black silhouette until she is gone.
To live like Sara in the present, in adventure. To not care about the worms curled inside the apple of your future. Is that ever possible, once you have become a mother?
I shouldn’t blame motherhood. From the day I was born, I had a worry in each eye.
I break my promise to Sara and scold Dayita all the way back. I can’t help it. How can Sara, who’s not a mother, know how frightening it is to be responsible for another life?
My words have no effect. Dayita leans back in the stroller and observes the zigzag lights in the windows of record shops. She turns her head to watch the yellow arch of a McDonald’s as we pass. The first streetlamps are cat eyes, making her smile. From time to time she sings baby words to herself. How well she has learned, already, the art of ignoring mothers.
Tonight, Anju asked if she could have Dayita to sleep with her, just for a bit.
“If she wakes up in the night and wants to be nursed, I’ll bring her back to you,” she said. “Promise!”
“She doesn’t nurse anymore.”
“Great!” said Anju. “Now she can sleep with Sunil and me half the time. That way, we’ll be able to cuddle up with her, and you’ll get some rest.”
I wanted to say, That kind of rest I don’t need. I wanted to tell my cousin, whom I’d once loved more than myself, Don’t touch her, she’s mine.
Anju held out her arms and Dayita jumped into them, not a backward glance. Anju spun her around until she screamed with excitement. They laughed all the way to Anju’s bedroom.
It’s past midnight. Lying here, I think I still hear them laughing. Sunil’s deeper tones join theirs. But of course they’re asleep. A little moonlight, pale and sickly, trickles into this room full of my daughter’s absence. Her smell is pungence and wild grass. The tindery odor of stubbornness. I take a baby blanket and press my face into it. Even my teeth hurt with loneliness. My
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