The Good Daughter

by Amra Pajalic

  I tried to manipulate the oklagiya, but the wood pressed into my hands and made them itch. My lower back twinged as I bent over the table. My shoulders tensed and bunched up.

  Mum stared at the misshapen dough. ‘It’s okay. I’ll take over now.’ She adjusted the dough with a few strokes of the oklagiya, the muscles in her forearms taut as she manoeuvred the stick. She placed it in the middle of the table and folded the pastry over it. Lifting the oklagiya in the air with one hand, she tugged the edges with the other, stretching the pastry into a see-through sheet.

  ‘Can I have a go?’

  She passed the stick. My arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as I fought to hold it in the air. I tugged the dough, but instead of stretching it the way Mum did, I tore it.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Mum took the oklagiya and spread out the pastry sheet on the table. ‘I’ll cut that part off. Now we do the filling.’ She removed another bowl from the fridge. ‘I made the mixture for zeljanica.’

  There were so many variations, you could pretty much think of an ingredient and there would be a pita based on it. As well as my favourite zeljanica with spinach, there was krompirusa—potato, burek—meat, sirnica—cheese, tikvenica— pumpkin, maslanica—layered with butter and cheese, jabukovaca—apple, and there was also a burek variation with potato and minced meat.

  ‘Merhaba,’ Dido said as he came through the back door.

  I was too busy scribbling to return his greeting and just moved my chair out of the way to let him pass.

  ‘What’s this?’ Dido asked. ‘Bosnian women don’t write down recipes. They toss the ingredients together and make a meal.’

  ‘I’m not Bosnian then.’ I threw the notepad on the floor and left.

  ‘Come back here!’ Dido shouted. He reached for my arm, but Mum stopped him. ‘Again! Where’s her respect?’ he ranted as I stomped down the hallway. ‘A good beating would knock the stubbornness out of her. Give me the oklagiya.’

  A few minutes later Mum tapped on my bedroom door and pushed it open. I was lying on my side with my back to the door. ‘Go away,’ I muttered.

  ‘Sweetie, he didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Yes, he did. He loves putting me down.’

  She sat on the bed. ‘He doesn’t. That’s his sense of humour.’

  ‘He’s a pig.’

  ‘Don’t call your grandfather names,’ Mum scolded without conviction.

  I curled into a ball with my arms over my head.

  ‘Sabiha, please come back to the kitchen.’

  Sullenly I followed her back, but this time I didn’t take any notes while she talked. After she finished making the pita, I hid in my bedroom until dinner. When I came out, Safet was already sitting at the kitchen table.

  When dinner was over, I lay on a cushion in front of the TV. Dido was reading Bosna Magazin, the Australian Bosnian newspaper. I took the remote off the coffee table and switched the channel.

  ‘Girl,’ Dido growled behind me. ‘I was watching that.’

  ‘It’s in Greek. You don’t even understand what they’re saying.’

  He hogged the TV and watched nothing but news. He’d flip from channel to channel and watch every bulletin. Then he’d switch over to SBS and watch French, Arab, Russian, Ukrainian and, of course, Greek news.

  ‘I can understand that,’ Dido insisted.

  ‘No you can’t.’ I gripped the remote.

  ‘I can understand Ukrainian and Russian and that’s coming on next.’ Even though the Russians and Ukrainians spoke in a different dialect, we used a lot of the same Slavic words.

  ‘Mum!’ I yelled.

  ‘Bahra!’ Dido yelled at the same time.

  ‘Okay.’ Mum put her hands out for us to stop. ‘Sabiha can watch “Home and Away” while you and Safet play chess,’ she said to Dido. ‘After that Safet and I will leave and Dido will have the TV.’ It was Friday night so Mum would stay at Safet’s.

  Safet lived with his sister who had a job packing shelves at Safeway and worked the night shift. Mum was in the habit of staying at Safet’s until Safeta came back from work. Then Mum would sneak home around 6 a.m., while Dido and I were sleeping, and pretend she’d slept in her own bed. I’m sure Dido knew the truth, but he turned a blind eye.

  ‘Can you give me money?’ I asked Mum, knowing that she’d be dead to the world in the morning.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m meeting Kathleen in Brunswick Street tomorrow for her birthday.’ Six months older than me, Kathleen was turning sixteen.

  ‘But tomorrow is mejtef, ’ Mum said.

  ‘Šta se dešava?’ Dido demanded to know what was going on and Mum dutifully explained. ‘Nemože ona ićci,’ Dido spat.

  ‘Sabiha, maybe you shouldn’t go,’ Mum said.

  ‘What?’ I shouted. ‘You’ve known about this for a month and now I can’t go because of him!’ I pointed at Dido.

  ‘Smiri se,’ Safet urged me to clam down.

  ‘Shut up!’ I yelled. ‘This isn’t any of your business.’

  ‘Sabiha,’ Mum gasped. ‘Apologise immediately.’

  My eyes burnt. I should have expected Mum to gang up with them like this. ‘No,’ I said. There was a choking in my throat, but I sucked it up. I wouldn’t cry in front of them.

  ‘Go to your room.’ Mum raised her arm and pointed.

  ‘Thanks, I know where it is,’ I said, charging past her.

  I slammed my bedroom door and leant against it, listening as all hell broke loose. Both Safet and Dido were going on about how I was out of control and needed to be disciplined. Mum wasn’t saying much, apart from ‘Yes, I know’.

  I threw myself onto the bed, muffling the sound of my crying in my pillow. After a few minutes I grabbed my journal from under the bed and began writing, to vent my anger at Mum’s treachery. As I scrawled down my feelings about her, the pen nearly pierced the paper.

  The door burst open and Mum rushed in. ‘Sabiha!’ she yelled.

  ‘Did you forget how to knock?’ I demanded as I wiped my face and hid my journal under my pillow. I stayed on the far side of my bed, facing the wall.

  I heard the door close. ‘We need to talk about what just happened,’ Mum said.

  ‘Yes, we do.’ I turned to look at her. ‘You betrayed me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You knew I was seeing Kathleen this weekend and now you’re demanding I go to mejtef. What gives?’

  ‘It’s important for you to go to mejtef.’ She sat on the bed and was reaching to pat me.

  ‘If it was so important, why are you only making me go now? I am fifteen years old!’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mum said. ‘It isn’t important to me, but it is important to Dido. Think about him for a minute. He lost his wife a year ago. He spent the ten years before that living in desperate poverty in an alien part of Bosnia because he’d lost his home in the war.’

  My resolve was crumpling.

  ‘The only reason my parents had food was because we were sending them money. He’s in a new country where he doesn’t know the language and has no community.’ Mum held my hand. ‘He needs this. He needs a sense of belonging. We need to make an effort for him.’

  ‘What about me?’ I threw off her hand. ‘What about what I need?’

  ‘What if you saw Kathleen tomorrow, and the week after you went to mejtef ?’

  ‘I’m seeing Kathleen tomorrow, no matter what,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but will you have enough money?’ She held up a fifty dollar note.

  I wavered for a moment. I really did not want to go to mejtef. I could think of thousands of other things that would be much more pleasant. Having my eyes gouged, my body torn apart by wolves. But I needed that money.

  I’d used all my money on Kathleen’s birthday present. Usually it wasn’t a big deal if I didn’t have enough cash. Kathleen would lend me the money and I’d pay her back when I’d wheedled it out of Mum. But things were so weird since I moved to St Albans.
Kathleen and I just weren’t as close. I missed the friendship, and I missed the cash for pre-paid on my mobile.

  ‘Take it or leave it, Sabiha,’ Mum said.

  ‘Okay.’ I took the money. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Now you apologise to Safet—’ Mum led me to the door.

  ‘Whoa!’ I broke her hold. ‘Who said I would apologise?’

  ‘You were rude to Safet—’ Mum started.

  ‘He was rude to me,’ I interrupted. ‘He had no right to interfere—’

  ‘He’s my boyfriend and one day he might be a part of this family—’ Mum interrupted.

  ‘Or he might be your ex-boyfriend in a few weeks if your track record holds true,’ I interrupted in turn.

  Mum snatched the money out of my hand and went to walk out.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I stopped her. ‘But it’s not fair—’

  ‘I don’t care what you think,’ Mum gripped my arm. ‘He could be my chance for happiness, my chance to put everything right and to make Babo proud of me. You will not ruin this for me, Sabiha.’

  There was desperation in her eyes. While I knew that it was important for her to get respect in the community, I didn’t realise she was willing to sacrifice so much, including me.

  ‘Please,’ Mum added. ‘For me...’ She held out the money. I took it and followed her.

  ‘Je si li joj pokazala Boga njenog?’ Dido demanded to know if Mum had put me in my place. The Bosnian version of ‘Did you send her to meet her maker?’

  ‘Sabiha has something to say,’ Mum put her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to Safet, then turned around and left, my hand over my pocket where the money was. I heard Dido yelling, then Mum placating him with the announcment that I’d be going to mejtef next week.

  ‘Next week is a long way away,’ I said under my breath. I spent the night in my room writing a short story in my journal about an evil mother who abandoned her child to an orphanage in order to marry a millionaire.

  Kathleen sat at a table outside Retro, our favourite café on Brunswick Street. ‘It’s been ages,’ I hugged her. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘Me too,’ she hugged me back.

  ‘It’s so good to be out of the suburbs.’ I sat down and picked up the menu.

  ‘Hey Sammie!’ Shelley sat down opposite me.

  I frowned at Kathleen. What happened to lunch on our own? Kathleen shrugged.

  ‘Geez, I haven’t seen you since you moved,’ Shelley said.

  ‘I know.’ It wasn’t an accident. The highlight of my move to St Albans was that I didn’t have to see Shelley any more.

  Kathleen placed her bag on the table and rummaged inside. ‘Where’s my lip gloss?’ she muttered.

  ‘Have you made any friends at your new school?’ Shelley asked.

  ‘I’ve got all the friends I need right here,’ I replied.

  ‘My cousins Sharon and Karen live in St Albans. I can hook you up?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I said. As if.

  Kathleen found her lip gloss and ran it over her lips. As she dropped her bag on the ground the table shook and her coffee spilt. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’ll get you some serviettes,’ Shelley said.

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ I hissed at Kathleen after Shelley left.

  ‘She wanted to see you.’

  ‘What for?’ I demanded.

  ‘You are her friend too.’ Shelley returned and mopped up Kathleen’s coffee. ‘Thanks Shell,’ Kathleen said. Shelley always made me look bad in front of Kathleen by being Miss Perfect. ‘I have to go and wash this off.’ Kathleen pointed to the stain on her skirt.

  After she left Shelley searched through her handbag. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ She pulled out an envelope and put it on the table. ‘It’s a birthday invitation—’

  ‘I’ve got plans.’ I cut her off. Where did she get off playing like we were best buds, when we both knew we hated each other’s guts.

  Shelley opened her mouth, about to argue, but then thought better of it. ‘Don’t say I didn’t invite you,’ she said with a tight smile. She returned the envelope to her handbag and pulled out an iPod. She put the earphones in her ear. ‘Mum bought it for me. It was $250.’

  I didn’t look at it. Shelley was a show-off. When Shelley’s parents divorced, they split custody of their daughters. So her sister went to live with her mum and Shelley lived with her dad. Shelley’s mum bought her whatever she wanted because she felt guilty that Shelley didn’t live with her. Shelley wanted me to admire her iPod but, if I asked to listen to it, she’d make up an excuse not to let me touch it.

  ‘I’m listening to Pink,’ Shelley said.

  ‘How original,’ I replied. Pink was Kathleen’s favourite singer. Shelley was always doing that. Whatever Kathleen liked, so did Shelley.

  She pressed stop on the iPod and peered at my bare thighs. ‘Is that another op-shop bargain?’

  ‘No.’ I tugged my denim mini down and yanked my tank top up. Both were op-shop bargains I’d changed into at Flinders Street train station.

  It was March and it was chilly. Mum was hassling me about wearing ‘appropriate’ clothes, which meant looking like a dork, so I left the house in one outfit and changed into another. Although it was technically too cold for this outfit, I had to make a stand against Mum, even if she didn’t know it.

  ‘At least I dressed up.’ I gave Shelley the once-over.

  Her barrel torso and skinny legs were covered in a Nike top and pants. ‘I got this for half price at DFO.’ Shelley smoothed down her top. ‘It was down from $120 to sixty.’

  Every time we went out she wore her Nike crap and went on about how much it cost. She claimed her look was sporty, except instead of muscles she had a spare tyre around her waist. My theory was that she was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide her lard. I didn’t know what Kathleen saw in her.

  Kathleen returned. ‘All clear.’ She took a sip of the remains of her coffee.

  ‘Oh no!’ Shelley lifted a bag from the ground. ‘Some coffee got on your birthday present.’

  ‘I better open it now.’ Kathleen took the bag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped box with a card attached. She read it. ‘Oh,’ she gushed. ‘That’s beautiful.’ She reached over and kissed Shelley on the cheek.

  What was the big deal? As Kathleen unwrapped the box, I read the card. Dear Kathleen, You’ve been a tower of strength during all my dramas. I don’t know what I would have done without your supportive shoulder and words of comfort. I hope you have a great 16th birthday. Love forever, your best friend Shelley.

  I wanted to crumple the card. How dare she?

  Kathleen pulled out a Nike top and a Pink DVD of her Aussie concert tour a few months back.

  ‘Thanks. You’re the best.’ She hugged Shelley.

  ‘Now we match,’ Shelley said.

  ‘I’m putting it on right now.’ Kathleen stood beside Shelley. ‘How do we look?’ she asked me.

  ‘Great,’ I lied. They were like a Weight Watchers before-and-after photo.

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’ Shelley touched the DVD. ‘Since you didn’t get a chance to see her in concert.’

  Kathleen avoided my gaze as she thanked Shelley.

  ‘Why don’t you give Kathleen her present now?’ Shelley gave me a fake smile.

  ‘I’ve already given her my present.’

  ‘What did you get her?’ Shelley asked.

  ‘Tickets.’

  ‘Movie tickets,’ Kathleen interrupted. ‘We went to see Twilight over summer.’

  Shelley smiled. She thought she’d won the competition and got Kathleen the better present. Kathleen had made me promise I wouldn’t tell Shelley about her real birthday present. It was an easy promise to keep when I didn’t see Shelley, but now that her sneering face was taunting me I fought the urge to tell.

  ‘I heard it was a great movie. I hope you threw in lunch, Sammie,’ Shelley said.

  I fisted my hands. She
pissed me off. I couldn’t let her get away with this. But if I argued back Kathleen would be angry with me. She was always telling me to be the better person and not let Shelley’s insecurity rile me.

  ‘You just told me that you bought your Nike top at DFO for sixty bucks.’

  ‘Sammie,’ Kathleen gasped, while Shelley blushed.

  ‘At least my present was more than fifteen bucks,’ Shelley said.

  ‘So was mine. I bought her Pink—’

  ‘Sammie, don’t—’ Kathleen cut me off.

  ‘—concert tickets,’ I finished.

  ‘But your parents wouldn’t let you go?’ Shelley quizzed Kathleen.

  Kathleen’s parents were devout Christians and they saw Pink as the devil’s tool. They didn’t let her listen to her music and, if they found out that Kathleen had been to a Pink concert, they’d ground her for all eternity.

  ‘She slept at my place.’ I beamed at Shelley. Despite my other issues with Mum, she was the coolest parent of the group. Whenever we did something that Kathleen’s parents didn’t approve of, she slept over at my place.

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Kathleen put her hand on Shelley’s. ‘It was a surprise present.’

  ‘That’s okay…’ Shelley took a deep breath, pretending she was holding back tears. ‘The only thing that matters is that you had a great birthday. Excuse me.’ As she stood to leave there were tears glistening on her cheeks. Shit, maybe she really was crying?

  ‘Why did you have to be such a bitch?’ Kathleen hissed at me after Shelley had gone to the bathroom.

  ‘She started it,’ I muttered. ‘She was making fun of my birthday present.’

  ‘You know she didn’t mean anything by it,’ Kathleen said. ‘She does that to make herself feel better about not living with her mum.’

  ‘I’m sick of it,’ I said. It was always about poor Shelley. There was always a drama going on that demanded Kathleen’s attention. I had problems too, but you didn’t hear me going on about them twenty-four seven.

  ‘I’m sick of this.’ Kathleen got up and followed Shelley.

  My stomach dropped. I knew that I gave Kathleen the shits by arguing with Shelley all the time, but I’d never seen her so pissed off. ‘I’ll come with you.’ I stood.