The Night Counter
Page 23
Brenda stared at the ceiling. Bob shook his head. “Brenda, I can’t ban you from the building, given your parents’ positions here and how often your daughter needs to be here, but please don’t come back to the bazaar until you can look without taking,” he cautioned. “It is a charity event, after all. You ladies have a nice day now.”
Bob left, and the pervert surveyed the three generations of women as they jiggled their legs and assessed one another.
“Mom, it’s a disease,” Brenda said. “I can’t help it.”
“Unlike your brothers, you are not a doctor. So I’ll be the one to decide what is a disease and what isn’t,” Hala said. “Let’s just diagnose shoplifting as another one of your screwups and add it to the list.”
Decimal sneezed, hoping that would work as a better distraction. Instead of a hug or Kleenex, Hala gave her a frown.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here, Decimal?” Hala said gently. “I went to your allergist, I went to your ophthalmologist, I went to your ENT specialist, and I couldn’t find you. Then I thought about you writing that letter to my mother and all the things I didn’t want you to tell her about … and that’s when I knew which floor to go to.”
Brenda put her arm around Decimal. “I didn’t think there was any reason to worry you about this,” she said. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Don’t hide behind your daughter,” Hala admonished her. “Are you keeping this one or not? Three unwanted pregnancies in one lifetime. I’m a gynecologist, and I have a daughter who is such a complete idiot. Idiot enough to come to the very medical center where her mother became a counselor on birth control education because of her mistakes.”
“Fine, Mom,” Brenda answered. “Just go and pretend you never knew this happened. Decimal will take care of me.”
“No, Decimal is going down to my office,” Hala ordered. “I’ll stay with you. That’s what moms are for, not daughters.”
“I don’t need you to do that,” Brenda said.
“I have to stay,” Decimal stated.
Brenda shook her head and motioned Decimal to the elevator.
“You know, in the village my parents came from you would have been shunned for this,” Hala said. “You’re lazy, you’re irresponsible, you’re selfish, you’re cheap, you’re promiscuous, you’re …”
Decimal hated it when Hala started her Brenda list, the only list she remembered without having to write it down.
“Gran, please stop,” she begged. “She didn’t do anything wrong. Honest. She really isn’t pregnant.”
“Decimal, stop defending her,” Hala said.
“Yeah, Decimal,” Brenda said. “I can handle this myself.”
“Decimal, go down to my office, now,” Hala ordered again. “Someone half your mother’s age would know how to not get pregnant.”
“Just go down to Gran’s office,” Brenda pleaded.
But fifty-five minutes had passed since Decimal had asked the nurse about how long the wait would be. “Decimal Jackson,” the nurse called out.
The pervert watched three generations of women glare at one another in confusion and fear.
“What’s going on, Decimal?” Hala steeled herself to ask at last.
“Nothing,” Brenda interjected. “Nothing.”
“But Mom—” Decimal began.
“I said ‘nothing,’ Decimal,” Brenda warned her just as the nurse returned.
“Are you ready, Miss Jackson?” The nurse smiled. “Nice to see you, Dr. Abdullah. We’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry.”
“Decimal?” Hala said, looking at her with the last traces of hope left in her.
“I didn’t mean to get pregnant, Gran,” Decimal told her.
“Oh, God, no,” Hala breathed. “Brenda, how could you let this happen to your own daughter?”
“The point is I’m being responsible, Mom,” Brenda said. “I brought her here because I told her she was getting a birth control and abortion consultation even before we went to the clinic because I didn’t want this happening ever again.”
Accusing pairs of eyes shifted around until Hala began to cry softly, followed by Brenda. Decimal reached into her Hello Kitty bag and handed them each a Kleenex. “Let someone else take my place,” she told the nurse. “I don’t need to see the doctor, after all.”
“What are you doing, baby?” Brenda said.
“Look at your mother,” Hala warned. “Don’t make the same mistake she did.”
“I’m not a mistake,” Decimal snapped. “You’re the one who always says I’m a gift from God. Were you just saying that to make me feel better?”
Hala sat down. “No,” she answered, not totally convincingly.
“I’ve been writing to your mother, Gran, and I’ve realized a lot of stuff doing that,” Decimal continued. “I was thinking about how she raised ten kids and she barely knew English. Still, she did a pretty good job, and I already got a head start because I speak English. And none of Mrs. Abdullah’s kids seem so messed up.”
“That’s because you don’t know them,” Hala said. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“You’re a gyno; you should know,” Brenda said.
Brenda put an end to the discussion of how with that. Hala didn’t need Paolo and other stuff in her head, just as there was probably so much stuff Hala didn’t want Mrs. Abdullah to know. Just as Decimal was going to bond with this person inside her and tell her stuff that she would not want Brenda to know.
“Decimal, having this baby because of an eighty-five-year-old lady from a Podunk village in Lebanon is incredibly stupid,” Hala said. “For a highly intelligent teenager.”
“Mom, remember when we used to play Who’s the Worst Off in the Room?” Decimal ventured. “Well, you never picked you, and neither did I.”
“I hid you from all the rough parts,” Brenda replied.
“Nah-uh,” Decimal said. “In fact, I’m not going to tell my kid even 40 percent of the stuff you’ve told me you’ve gone through.”
Decimal sat down next to Hala. “Gran, everyone says my mom is a loser for having a kid when she did and stuff. Can you imagine how much more of a loser she’d be without me to keep it together for her? What if I would be lost without this person inside me, you know?”
“What about college, baby?” Brenda asked. She ran her fingers through Decimal’s hair and adjusted her hairpin.
“Gran was telling me just today how the U is a perfectly fine place to go to school,” Decimal said. “It’s not Ivy League, but it’s not the crap school you said it was when you decided not to go to college. Maybe we could try a baby-sitting system.”
“That didn’t work with you,” Brenda said. “That’s why I decided it was a crap college and quit.”
“I’m better at figuring out things than you,” Decimal reminded her.
Brenda jiggled her leg. Hala held it down. Then Decimal put a hand on Hala’s leg to stop her jiggling.
“I’m only one-third happy about this and the rest just scared poor,” Brenda said, readjusting her shirt and bra. “You have no idea what this is doing to me.”
“I do,” Hala said.
Decimal sneezed, and the other two each handed her a Kleenex.
LATER THAT NIGHT, Decimal took the prenatal vitamins Hala had given her, along with a long list of other things for her allergies and sight and hearing issues. Decimal read through the list one more time and then put on her baggiest flannel pajamas and curled up in bed to finish writing her letter.
The only time in my life I miscounted anything was my menstrual cycle. I calculated it at 28 days, but it really was 26 days. I think that’s why I’m pregnant. I’m sure none of this is coming as a shock to you as I’m sure Gran will have called you by now to cry about it, the way Brenda cried in front of Gran. I hope you were nice to her.
When I thought the right thing to do was have an abortion, I thought about not telling Brenda, but then I thought if there was anyone I knew who wo
uld understand and stuff, it would be Brenda. She pretty much threw stuff around for two whole days. Then she calmed down and told me she’d kill me if I told anyone about this and that we’d take care of it together. She got extra mad when she thought about how she’d sat down and told me all about sex and how to avoid it and somehow I hadn’t listened. I had been listening—it’s just that I wasn’t thinking about her much when I was with Paolo. Anyway, Brenda said not to tell Tyrone especially because he would flip out if he knew his daughter was sleeping around. I personally don’t think having sex three times in your life with the same guy really qualifies as “sleeping around.” But I’m not looking forward to telling Tyrone.
The popular girls figure I’m a loser. But you know what, at least I’m not one of those kids hooked on drugs, or with some fatal disease. But what do I know—the parents of those kids are probably going “well, at least my kid’s not having a kid.” And I can only imagine what the parents who get all worked up about their kids missing tennis practice and stuff would think if they had me for a kid. But really it’s not so scandalous—I mean, Paolo and I are the same age, it’s not like he was a teacher or something gross like that.
Mrs. Abdullah (I don’t want to call you Great-Grandmother Abdullah in case that makes you feel your age), writing to you has really helped me make this decision. And this kid will be one-eighth your genes. That’s pretty cool, huh? I’m two months along, so that means I have 210 to 220 days to think about a name, probably closer to 220 days, as I heard first babies come late. I have a lot of pills to take. Gran talked to Dr. Wang to get his input on my extra prenatal care because of my allergies. I could hear her crying on the phone when she was talking to him. He’s the only person she’s ever really been able to open up to in a crisis. Kind of romantic, don’t you think? Maybe I’ve made a mistake so big it will bring them back together.
I felt bad because I heard Gran telling Dr. Wang that because they are doctors people are always asking them questions about how to live well but they wouldn’t ask if they could see what a mess their kids were. She said the only questions they could answer for sure were those you could diagnose with the EKG or ultrasound or MRI, and even then you couldn’t be totally sure.
You can always visit us. Brenda and I would visit you but whether we went by car, bus, air, we’d barely have enough money and stuff to cover one of us, let alone both of us.
I noticed tonight in the mirror that I had a big, fat zit on the right side of my chin. I can just tell it’s juicy inside. Really what I wanted to see is if I looked like a mother in the mirror. I think I do.
Lots of Love,
Aisha “Decimal” Jackson
IT WAS THE dawn of the next morning when Scheherazade forced her hand out of Fatima’s fortress grip so that she could fold the Hello Kitty letter closed. The more Scheherazade had read, the tighter Fatima’s grip had gotten.
“This girl is thanking me for her decisions? Allah Yustar,” Fatima screamed. “I talked to Hala three days ago, and all she said was that there was a nice summer breeze. No mention of this child ever in the last seventeen years of weather reports, and this child is now having a child. Even when Hala comes to visit, she never comes with her daughter, sometimes her sons—two doctors, nushkar rabna, praise the Lord. I just assumed her Brenda had become a spinster and it caused her too much pain to talk about it, like it does me with Lena.”
Unable to find a response that would not offend her further, Scheherazade tried massaging Fatima’s shaking hands.
“Speak,” Fatima commanded. “I’m sure you want to reprimand me for having another daughter that didn’t marry a Muslim. Well, you can’t because he converted. It was easy, a meaningless gesture to make us happy.”
“It wasn’t meaningless if it was to make you happy,” Scheherazade pointed out.
“He was still from China,” Fatima answered.
“So? Some of the best tales I tell take place in China. Like the ebony horse who made a prince of a man. Kan ma kan, fi qadim al-zaman, there was, there was not in the oldness of time—”
“It’s not about the Chinese, ya hamra,” Fatima interrupted. “They are very smart. If we didn’t invent the Arabic numerals first, the Chinese or the Indians would have, but this Chinese boy was not from our village, not even close. Ibrahim knew how hard it was to marry an outsider. We were sure he would leave Hala for a Chinese girl. I did not want her to be sad later. And look at the results—a child like this. I thought Amir would be the death of me.”
“Perhaps if you had been more welcoming of Dr. Wang,” Scheherazade wondered.
“We were,” Fatima said. “All the loans we took out for Hala’s medical school—we refused when Dr. Wang offered it to pay us back when they became wealthy, as if we didn’t have pride. But his parents … they wanted him to marry a Chinese girl, and so they spoke to Hala in Chinese even though they knew English. That would make her cry.”
“Perhaps you spoke to Dr. Wang in Arabic,” Scheherazade said.
“No, I did not,” Fatima replied. “In fact, I didn’t say a word to him at all in any language. And yet they eloped without telling me.”
“Oh, child, do not marry a stranger you meet. Our chaff is better than foreign wheat,” Scheherazade quoted from one of her own stories.
Fatima nodded. “I told Hala how neither Ibrahim nor Marwan would have dared to treat me badly because then my uncles would have taken care of them—come all the way over from Lebanon to do it—and everyone in the village would have known,” she said. “Their whole family would have been shamed. But when a girl marries an outsider, she doesn’t have that protection.”
“He was not a stranger to her.”
“Ha, his parents used to call Hala the white girl like that was bad,” Fatima recalled. “But Millie said being white was the best thing you could be. She said her husband wouldn’t have minded our kids dating each other if he thought of us as white instead of darkies. I had to remind Millie my daughters didn’t date anyone—of any color. They just married.”
“And Hala ended up with two boys and one girl and six grandchildren,” Scheherazade said. “Smallah, smallah, she has more descendants than any of your other children. I would call it a successful marriage.”
“Even though she is a gymnologist, I do not think she planned on three children,” Fatima said. “She always said that I had five times too many kids, so I think she only wanted two, which is the number of times she separated from Dr. Wang.”
“You divorced your husband,” Scheherazade countered.
“Only once, and I waited a long time before I did,” Fatima said. “I gave it a chance. For sixty-five years, I gave it a chance. She should have tried longer. Perhaps if they had not separated the first time, their daughter wouldn’t have become such a bad girl. All but one of my girls were long ago married when I divorced. I could not wait on Lena any longer.”
“You and Dr. Wang agree on condemning Hala’s girl,” Scheherazade said. “With so much in common with him, it’s a shame you were one of the causes of his first separation.”
“Do not accuse me of their unhappiness,” Fatima seethed. “It takes time to admit that happiness between two people has left forever.”
“Where did your happiness go?”
“It wasn’t the disappearance of happiness so much as the appearance of sadness.” Fatima sighed. “We were too peaceful. Too peaceful. We hardly talked for thirty years.”
“Ah, you could no longer trust him with your words,” Scheherazade said.
“I still trust him.”
“What is love if not trust?” Scheherazade said. “My husband did not behead me because he trusted me to be faithful, unlike his first wife had been with her servant.”
“I am not a heroine like you,” Fatima said, defending herself. “But my Hala was born in a time of heroes and rationing. There was even a shortage of births. It was the end of the world war. I was one of the few that had a husband too old to go in the military, so I kept on hav
ing babies. Hala was the third girl in a row, so I felt Ibrahim’s fear even though she was a happy child. … She always gave me things, things she made at school, look, even her diploma.”
Fatima pointed out a framed photocopy of Hala’s diploma from the University of Michigan medical school. Then she flicked Decimal’s letter away from her bed.
“Those who give like to get,” Scheherazade said. “Give her the house.”
“What would people say in the village square about her family?” Fatima shuddered. “Inshallah, I have Amir and Tiffany, which makes it much easier for me to die from the shame that will surely get me now.”
“But Amir can’t—” Scheherazade censored herself as Fatima was too shaken by the letter to take any more bluntness. “Accidents have been happening since before the jahiiyaa, the time of ignorance. We do not abandon people for accidents, and I think Hala understands that.”
“I did not protect my children well from accidents,” Fatima said as heavy tears formed in her eyes.
“Surely you cannot be this tormented merely by babies born out of wedlock, as shameful as that is?” Scheherazade clucked as she gently wiped away Fatima’s first tear with the edge of her veil.
Fatima pushed the veil away. “Khallas. Enough,” she pleaded. Scheherazade thought to inquire a little further. But Fatima lifted her hand to make her stop talking, and Scheherazade understood that Fatima’s thoughts were no longer about Hala.
Then she fell silent for the longest period since Scheherazade had met her. Scheherazade attempted a slightly different approach. “So if you had a daughter that married from the village, she would have been your happiest child?”
“But I do have a daughter who married from the village,” Fatima said, slowly looking at Scheherazade again. “Miriam. Ibrahim’s first child.”
“Ah, the firstborn.” Scheherazade smiled, trying to get back to the prideful Fatima. “Always so dear.”
“Her face was the plainest of all my daughters,” Fatima said. “But it was never easy to see her face because she was always looking at the ground, especially when the children at school began making fun of her. She had a twisted foot when she was born.”