I turned to thank them. The doorway was empty, though, so I walked back into the hall. The lights in the kitchen were off.
I shut my door and went into the bathroom. There was white tile, the sink was white, and I looked at myself in the mirror. A yellow happy-face sticker was in the center of the mirror. I ran my finger over it, and the mirror popped open. I pulled on it. There were small shelves inside. A few new toiletries and a piece of paper. I unfolded it. Letters and words in my language, letters and words that told me scary things.
Slice
Hammering, drilling, loud breaking. I opened my eyes in the dark room. The sounds shook the walls. My feet sinking into the carpet, I groggily reached for the light switch. When I opened my door and stuck out my head, the sunlight from the kitchen windows assaulted me. Clearly midmorning. I should be up and working. I shut my door and hurried into my shower. The soaps caressed me and left my skin feeling soft and full. The soap back home, when I could get it, was harsh and made my skin tight and dry. I wanted to stay under the warm massaging water longer, but I knew it would be something to look forward to at night. The unsettling words from the paper in the mirror spoke over and over in my head: I can’t watch him do this any longer. I love you too much. Who was the note to? And who had written it? I pulled out one of the uniforms from the closet. A black shirt with white-banded short sleeves, a white collar, and white buttons down the front, along with black pants. There were two pairs of black shoes. They were both too small, but one pair was broken in more than the other so I wore them. I combed my hair. It fell onto my shoulders, and the soap had made it shine like glossy paint. I smiled at myself in the mirror and imagined walking through my village in these clothes. Then I saw Ruka and Mewan, and my spirits fell to the earth.
A few minutes later, I was in the kitchen. It was empty other than the smell of tea. It had been picked too early, and the acidity lingered. Before, in the life before my children and husband, I had worked on a tea plantation for many years. My father had owned it, and I wanted to show him how much I could do. My brother would scoff and tell me I should learn the finances, not the art of picking tea leaves. But I wanted to know where our money came from; I wanted to feel the heartbeat of my father’s business.
I pushed through the swinging door into the sitting area. The pictures from the wall had been carefully laid on the floor; two construction workers were building shelves. They were Indians and stopped to look at me when I walked in. The older one said something to the younger, and they both leered at me. Mohamed and Ousha were absent.
“Where is Mohamed?” I politely asked the older man.
I don’t think he completely understood me, but he pointed to the front of the house and then, in a gesture I recognized from home, spun his hand around, meaning he could be anywhere outside the front door. I walked past them and wandered through the house. I opened doors to figure out where things were. Closets, toilets, small rooms full of plates and silver. A few doors were locked. Eventually I found a dusting mop and ran it over the heads of statues and the sills of windows. The last maid must have been beloved; she seemed to have kept the house spotless. At the bottom of the staircase, I looked up, unsure if I could go upstairs. The workers were laughing at something, their voices echoing through the house. I opted to open the front door and clean the small porch. Two benches and small plants in rectangular pots ran the length of each side of the space. Some dust, a thin layer of sand maybe, coated everything, and it felt satisfying to have something to clean. I looked up and spotted a woman in the same outfit as mine walking by on the sidewalk. She quickly looked away, then looked back and nodded at me. I waved, which gave her permission to look longer until she was beyond the hedges. I was happy to know there were other women like me working close by.
The train-like car pulled in the driveway. Mohamed was driving. He stepped out and looked at me without acknowledgment. Ousha came next, holding an umbrella to shield her from the sun. Her purse was as big as a shopping bag. When she saw me, she looked surprised, hurried to my side, led me indoors, and pushed me up the stairs. There, the sterile, hard feel of the first floor turned velvety warm. The browns got deeper; the accents were cool blues, with plush carpets instead of tiles, and the paintings weren’t behind glass. The texture of the paints was close and accessible. Ousha’s black-and-cream pants rippled in the air and draped over the floor behind her as she walked. She sat me in front of a mirror; the vanity was filled with cosmetics and bottles of many shapes and colors. She pulled my hair back, took a brush, and kept combing it until it was all in her hand. Then she twisted my hair in a way I couldn’t see and stuck three pins into it, creating a bun behind my head. She went to her closet and took out a sheer black hijab, settled it on my head, and pulled the folds of the neck into place. She found a burst of white feathers, from a baby bird, and attached it at my temple. I’d never felt so feminine and delicate. I touched my face to make sure it was me staring back.
Ousha patted the sides of my arms and whispered, “You should cover yourself. Mohamed is a very traditional man. But don’t cover your beautiful face.” She dipped her finger in a sparkly clear container then rubbed something on my lips. The sweet taste bounced off my lips and exploded in my mouth; with each caress of her soft finger, my lips felt more foreign. “Your teeth are perfect and white as coconut meat,” she said.
“How do you know my language?” I asked.
She put her finger to her lips and nose, and gave me a smile. It was our secret.
“You can go anywhere in the house, expect Mohamed’s office.” She pointed to a door on the other side of the hall.
“Who will clean it for him?” I wanted everything to be perfect for Ousha and Mohamed. They had given me so much.
She held her palms toward me and waved them back and forth, as if to ask no more.
There were secrets here.
Mohamed’s raised voice came from his office. Ousha looked at me, then pointed at the door. At first I thought she was directing me toward him, but then I realized she wanted me away from their bedroom. I heard him shout, followed by a thud against the office wall. A moment later, he barreled into the hallway. I took one look at his face and snapped my head toward the floor as I passed him and felt the wind of his furious momentum. A whimpering shriek came from Ousha, and then their heavy door closed, blocking any more noise.
I returned to the first floor. The men, now seated on the ground, ate meat wrapped in foil. With their mouths full, they snickered at me, pieces of their lunch visible in their mouths. I felt more dignified now after Ousha had groomed and dressed me. One of them stood up and blocked my passage to the kitchen. He reached for me and grabbed my chest, rubbing my breast roughly before I could avoid him. I’d dealt with men like this in my village. The only solution was to show them your strength. So I clenched my fist and swung. When my fist connected to his temple, his eyes rolled and he staggered back. The other two men laughed and pointed at him. Spotting a ceremonial machete on the wall, I lunged for it and lifted it off its hooks. I swung it at him as though I were cutting through the thick forest to clear more space for tea plants. I grazed his thigh and drew blood. The two seated workers stopped laughing and backed themselves against the shelves they were building. My attacker yelped and grabbed at this leg. I brought the machete up to his throat and threatened him: “I’ll kill you next time.” I knew he didn’t know my language, but he knew what I’d said. He surrendered, blood dripping to the floor. I placed the machete back on the wall, took my feather duster from my belt and dusted it lightly, then walked my original path to the kitchen.
I heard loud feet on the stairs. Mohamed’s voice boomed at the men. I pushed the kitchen door open a crack to see. They cowered as he lambasted them, pointing wildly. He was such a handsome man, his exterior cool and perfectly sculpted, but when his anger overtook him his face became sinister, his eyebrows looked like they belonged on someone else’s face, and spittle flew from his mouth, showering the person he was yelli
ng at. The worker I had cut was sent away, his blood leaving a trail marking his exit.
“Shula!” Mohamed screamed.
I straightened my back and pushed through the door. He pointed to the blood. I knew he wanted it gone from his sight. The sight of it likely sickened someone like him. I went to the closet next to my room, pulled out the mop and bucket, and added a green cleaner and water. A minute later, I was mopping up the thick blood. The men didn’t look at me once while I mopped. I had made my point.
Family Expansion
Before I went to sleep, I opened the door to my room so the light would wake me and I’d be up before anyone else. I heard someone in the kitchen. Had I overslept again? I waited to see who it was. The footsteps were heavy but clumsy. Both Mohamed and Ousha had deliberate steps. A glass shattered against the floor. Something was wrong. I got out of bed and stepped into the dark hallway; a small light was on over the stove. It was a woman, her hair draped over her hands as she widely gripped the edge of the counter.
“Ousha?” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to address her by name.
She held tightly for stability and turned her head to look at me. She was sweating; her black makeup around her eyes had run over her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I went to her, watching the floor for glass.
“It’s time,” she said.
“The baby?”
She nodded.
“Don’t move.” I quickly retrieved the broom and cleaned up the glass scattered around her feet, then took her hand and sat her on the bench against the far wall. “Is Mohamed up?”
She shook her head violently, then wiped at her tears.
“Should I wake him for you?”
“No!”
I put my hands on her belly. Birthing babies wasn’t new to me. I’d witnessed my brother’s birth when I was five, and then a string of babies had come through my arms as the village women birthed them. Ruka was born on a boat halfway up the Madu River with my mother. It was very common for the women of our village to give birth wherever they happened to be.
Ousha clenched her jaw, grabbed my arm, and made a moaning sound. It was clear the baby was coming soon. Her legs and nightclothes were wet between her legs.
“What can I do for you, Ousha?”
“I’ll be fine.”
I didn’t know what she meant; she was having a baby, whether she wanted it or not. I’d heard that women in rich countries went to hospitals to have their babies. Why was she not going? Surely she had the money. I went to the linen closet and retrieved towels. When I returned, Ousha was talking on her mobile phone. A few moments later, she hung up. “A medical team is coming. They will bring me to hospital.”
“What about Mohamed?” As soon as I asked, I knew I shouldn’t have.
“He has no interest in this.” She looked guilty as she said it.
Ousha’s body shuddered with birth pains. I helped her lie down on the floor and propped her head up with the towels I’d retrieved. Her hair was matted with sweat. She let out a gasp and grabbed for my hand. “I don’t think I’ll make it to the hospital.”
I squeezed her hand. “I’ve helped with countless births in my village. The pain overtakes you, but the baby will come. Do what feels natural.” When I had given birth to Ruka, my mother was at my side coaching me through it. This was what she had told me.
“It’s coming,” she said.
…
The medics were at the door, but the baby was almost out, so I couldn’t step away. One more push and it came. I held it by the feet and whacked the baby’s back until she cried. Then I tightly tied off the slick purple cord, grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors, cut, wrapped her in a towel, and handed her to Ousha, who had tears in her eyes. I remember the feeling as though it had only been a few weeks ago. But so much had happened since then.
I went to the door and let the medics in; they looked annoyed with me. I pointed them toward the back of the house. They examined Ousha, hooked a few machines up to her, and took readings. They looked at the baby, put a stethoscope to her chest, and shone a bright light over her body. When they were satisfied all was well, they said goodbye.
Ousha was now in a comfortable chair in the sitting room, nursing.
“What will her name be?” I asked.
“Don’t talk so loud. We’ll wake Mohamed,” she scolded me.
I felt embarrassed for letting my exuberance get away from me. “Yes.” It was all I could think of to say.
“Maryam.”
“Mmm, sweet. Is that your mother’s name?”
Ousha shook her head as if I’d offended her. She pulled Maryam from her breast and the baby whimpered, then cried. Ousha extended her to me. “There’s baby milk in the cabinet above the stove.”
I took the baby, confused why Ousha wouldn’t continue nursing her. In the kitchen, I found a bottle with a small nipple. I removed the cap, filled the bottle with formula, and stroked Maryam’s cheek. When she latched on to it, she was happy to drink, then fall asleep.
In the sitting room, Ousha pushed herself into a standing position and moved from furniture piece to furniture piece until she was at the bottom of the stairs. I watched her, unsure what was happening. “I’ll check on her in the morning,” she said, then climbed the stairs and bled into the darkness.
I looked at Maryam, who wasn’t sleeping; rather, she was blowing small bubbles of leftover milk on her lips. I grabbed two more premade bottles of milk and brought her into my room. There, I propped myself up so my back was against the wall and made sure she was swaddled tightly. When the lights were off, I imagined Mewan was in my arms. My sweet boy, who I hadn’t let go of for his first few months.
…
There was yelling in the kitchen. Then I heard the washroom door swing open and the top of the washing machine slam shut. Mohamed was screaming in his language, and Ousha was pleading with him. Maryam was asleep under my bed. I wanted her out of the way if someone decided to come into my room. Fortunately, she had woken up only once in the night. I got up, flicked on the bathroom light, and got down on my hands and knees to see how she was. She purred like a cat when she slept.
I pushed my hair back, washed my face, put on my uniform, and appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later. I caught Mohamed’s back as he left; Ousha was there with her arms held up in question.
“Why did you leave all the bloody towels out? Mohamed was disgusted.”
I lowered my head. “I didn’t know you wanted me to clean them.”
“Shula, you’re the maid. Who else is going to do it?”
I wanted to say, “I was taking care of your baby,” but I knew she didn’t care, and it wasn’t my place to speak back to her. She was my employer. “I’m sorry,” I said instead.
Ousha went back to fixing her tea and faced out the kitchen window looking to the water behind the house. Maryam began to cry. I waited a few seconds to see if Ousha would react. Her only motion was to take another sip of tea. I rushed to my bedroom, scooped up Maryam from under the bed, and patted her back. Then I brought her into the kitchen, secured a bottle in her mouth to soothe her, and walked to Ousha’s side. “Would you like to hold her?”
She looked down at the baby, then up at me. “She kind of looks like you,” she said, before turning her attention to a boat as large as the house passing through the water. “I think I might like to take a holiday after this. Sail away somewhere.” She stood up and picked a tea biscuit from the breadbox. “Someone will come today to install a crib for the baby. There should be room at the end of your bed if we move your dresser.” With that, she left the kitchen.
Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. There had been women in my village who temporarily had lost their minds after birth. Eventually they would come around and reclaim their children. It was a hard feeling to come to terms with. I was tethered tightly to Ruka and Mewan the second I laid eyes on them.
The deep grain wood and glinting of the steel appliances was harsh. Mary
am needed natural light, so I brought her to my bathroom and rinsed her with warm water, removing the rest of the dried blood and mucus from her. I used my fingers to push her hair into place. She had black hair and dark eyes, and her skin had a brown tint and was slightly furry. She looked like a baby from my country. Emiratis were light and had a distinct look, like Mohamed.
The sun was ticking up in the sky. I walked the sidewalk, to the end of the street, where it met the road. All the houses were white, with almost identical plants and palm trees. The only differences were the doors and the cars in the driveways. On the walk back, I passed some of the other workers. A few women stopped to look at the baby. They’d look at me, then at the baby and smile, with some worry.
“Are they sending you back?” one woman asked.
“No. This isn’t my baby.”
“Of course it is. Look at it.” She pointed to my hair, then Maryam’s.
“She’s the baby of the family I work for.” I was insistent.
Two of the women from Sri Lanka as well shook their head, then wagged their finger at me.
Back at the house, I opened the front doors softly; I had a feeling Ousha was sleeping. Instead, Mohamed was yelling at the men who were building the bookshelves. He seemed to be in a constant state of distress. So I kept to the front of the house, singing lullabies to Maryam. She was a calm baby, only crying when she was hungry. A few minutes later, a van pulled into the driveway, and the driver was soon at the door. Mohamed zoomed past me, lightly pushing me out of the way. I stood next to a tall marble column, with a stone statue of a robed winged woman playing a harp. A small light no bigger than the tip of my index finger illuminated it.
Empire of Mud Page 3