A Spare Life

by Lidija Dimkovska

  This morning, when we got up, Marta and Marija turned on their laptop first thing, like they always did. They’re sitting at the table, whispering to each other. I sent their grandpa to the market to get tomatoes, cucumbers, and a watermelon. I am making pizza. They tell me they can wait for breakfast. They’re very excited about something on the laptop. One shouts, “Look! That’s how you count.” The other whispers, “No, like this, from right to left.” “But do you count it even if it’s already circled?” It sounds like they’re doing some sort of math problem, which seems odd, since they are still on break for another few days. I don’t usually peek at their computer, except when they’re not at home. Then, out of fear, like every other mother of eleven-year-old girls, I check their browser history, but I’ve never found any suspicious websites. My father comes home from the market, and Marta and Marija take the computer to their room before coming back so we can eat. We always eat together if I’m home. The dining-room table is the center of our life. We sit there at least once a day, three times on weekends. Sometimes, before a special meal, I recite the Lord’s Prayer, but I’m the only one to cross myself. In our family, God is my business. That’s what Marta and Marija say, joking with me. They praise the pizza. I peel a cucumber for them. I twist off the top of the cucumber, and from its headless body I drag the poison from its veins, up through its open pores. The poison is white, from the bitter gut. Foam bubbles around the cucumber’s twisted neck, and the water in its body grows sweeter. I divide it for them. I think, This is how you pull bitterness from a cucumber, but from life? Beginning in my childhood, the death of those closest to me has been the bitterest foam. Tonight, with my full forty years, I confront my past, my whole life. I don’t shut my eyes all night. No, I do not have a spare life. But in this one, I have people to live for. Unfortunately, my children have also tasted the bitterness of our family misfortune. Let them, at least, eat unbitter cucumbers, and when they grow up, may they drink only sweet coffee.

  After breakfast, Marta and Marija say they’re going outside, but they want to know if Grandpa still has chalk in the garage. “Of course I have some,” he says, going down with them to get it. Then he comes back, since one of his Turkish television series is about to start. “What do they want the chalk for?” I ask. “They’re going to draw something,” he responds, which surprises me. I go out on the balcony. In front of the building, on the sloping lane in front of Uncle Kole’s garage, Marta and Marija crouch on the pavement, chalk in hand, and count aloud, over and over again. I strain my eyes, narrowing them into slits, because that’s how nearsighted people see best. My lenses stick even closer to my eyes, and I’m not mistaken, I can see quite well. In front of Marta is a big square with the number 23 inside it, and around the edge are circled: B for her husband’s name, R for rich, S for her city, and 2 for children. Marija had an even bigger square with the number 22 inside, and circled around the edge, D for her husband’s name, M for multimillionaire, L for her city, and 1 for a child. No, my eyes hadn’t deceived me. Marta and Marija are playing the fortune-telling game.