*
“What do you think about this violent side of yours?” Linda
Stern asked at the next session. “Why did you attack Teresa?” “She make me mad.”
“The way Nick did?”
“Nick. Nick. Everything Nick. Things make me mad before
Nick.”
“And did you react violently to them?”
Fatma shook her head. Uncle Oliver had never hit her, yet she feared him. Her brothers would have killed her had she raised a hand to them, even in defense.
“When did your anger become physical? When did you begin to put yourself in actual danger?”
The answer, she had to admit, was Nick.
“Do you identify with Justine when Teresa gets on her case?” She didn’t know. She had wanted to protect Justine, that
was all. She had just wanted to take care of her. She cared about Justine. Not the way she had been attracted to Elsa, though being attracted to certain women just seemed to make it easier to be friends. But Fatma felt no sexual attraction to any of the women at Haven House, nor for any of the men she encountered outside it, for that matter.
*
They were all gathered in front of the television when they saw a burly black welder who was handcuffed and shackled say to a judge, “What took you so long to find me?” His wallet had been found near the body of the latest female victim. DNA samples would later confirm him as the perpetrator.
“Bless the Lord!” Laurel hummed Amazing Grace.
“Ain’t no more ladies gonna come here no more now dat it’s safe on da streets,” Teresa said. She was squatting (her big behind like two oversized throw pillows in navy stretch pants) as she tightened the screws of a doorknob. Teresa was handy; she could fix a leak in the kitchen faucet, adjust the circuit breakers when a fuse blew, repair the torn screen on the porch door, silence a whimpering dishwasher. “No ma’am, Miss Wilma. Ain’t no more ladies gonna come here now dat it’s safe in da streets.” She stepped back and admired her work. Then she looked up at the crack in the ceiling, shook her head, and contemplated her next project. “Dis place goin’ to pot. You ladies lucky I relapsed.”
That night in her sleep, Fatma tried to strangle herself with a bedsheet.
*
“I heard you had another bad night,” Linda Stern said. “Who told you?” “Miss Wilma.” “That’s allowed?”
“I don’t tell Miss Wilma what you tell me, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Of course, that’s easy – you don’t tell me much of anything.”
Fatma smiled with satisfaction.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” “You have cigarette?”
The therapist swept her tongue over her front teeth; she had a habit of doing this.
“It’s not permitted in the building. Besides, smoke bothers me.”
“You married?” “Yes.”
Stern was not pretty. No one at the Royal Lion would have thought she was. Yet somebody did. Somebody loved her with her long sad face and her drooping eyelids and her flat chest. Somebody wanted her, chinks and all.
“In fact this is my second marriage,” she admitted. “Your husband die?”
“We got divorced.” “He hit you?”
“No.” She shifted in her seat and opened her mouth a little but nothing came out, as though she was having second thoughts about answering.
“He love you?”
“Yes. But sometimes love is not enough.” “You were how old?” Fatma asked.
She took in a deep breath. Fatma was getting too personal, and Fatma could tell that Stern was wondering how she had gotten herself into such a corner. She placed her elbow on the arm of her chair, rested her head in her hand, and closed her eyes, as though she had to think. “When I got married the first time? Twenty-two.”
“I was twelve when I marry first time. When I marry Nick, I was twenty-four, but twenty-four for me in America was like being twelve in Mombasa. I only see what was on outside.”
“You mean you couldn’t see the red flags – the problems that would lie ahead.”
“It’s different here. People. The way they act. It’s different.” “Tell me about your first husband.”
Fatma still didn’t want to talk about Daniel. Even though he had made her mad, he had been good to her. She had mentioned him once when she talked about the bad part, the part about Hussein. Stern suggested that maybe Fatma didn’t like people being too nice to her. But that wasn’t true. Fatma had liked it when her father was nice, and Auntie, and Ayasha, and even Hamal – and Sarah. Nick had been nice to her once. But she believed she liked it better when he beat her. She used to think the reason for that was the drugs he gave her afterward – the drugs that made her forget Hussein. But she didn’t tell any of this to Stern. She just waited for her to say their time was up.
*
Fatma was in the bathroom at Haven House when the doorknob got stuck. She banged on the door. She kicked it. She called out. No one heard her; they were all outside talking about the location of the vegetable garden and the flowerbeds they would plant in spring. The bathroom had no window. Her heart began to beat fast and loud. She picked up the metal wastebasket and hit the frosted glass panel on the upper half of the door. The crashing sound brought Miss Wilma into the house, where she found Fatma on the floor in a fetal position, surrounded by shards of glass, hands cut and bleeding. Teresa unfastened the lock with a screwdriver. “Lord! It was only stuck, girl!” Miss Wilma reprimanded Fatma at first, irritated that she had damaged the door because of her bad temper. Then she bent down and cradled a trembling Fatma in her arms. “What’s this about, child?” she asked as she rocked her.
*
Stern said the episode was a breakthrough. It only depressed Fatma. How could she have forgotten about the closet? The therapist said Fatma had had no choice but to forget.
There had been times when Auntie went to Saudi Arabia to visit Grandfather, leaving Fatma in the care of Uncle Oliver and the maids Lisha and Kiah. The first time it happened was when she found Uncle Oliver in Kiah’s room. She must have been eight or nine and was looking for Kiah because Lisha had gone shopping. Uncle Oliver was naked, lying on top of Kiah. Fatma remembered standing in the doorway for what seemed liked a very long time, staring with fascination. She had never before seen a man’s rump, let alone her uncle’s smooth white behind twisting and bobbing up and down like a whale in a black sea. Kiah gasped when she caught sight of Fatma; her uncle looked over his shoulder toward the door and ordered her out.
He got dressed and locked Fatma in her dark stuffy closet to forget, to wipe what she thought she had seen from her mind, because, in reality, she hadn’t seen anything, he told her. If she hadn’t seen anything, why was he putting her in the closet? she asked him. So he didn’t have to look at her, because he was sick of her, he said. Sick of the rude, naughty, outspoken child who was always in the way, the child he had taken into his home only to please his wife. If she told Auntie, he said, Auntie would send her away.
“It’s because of your evil jinn that you must be punished, that’s all,” Lisha said when she returned home and tried to console a sobbing Fatma from the other side of the locked door. “The jinn has made you behave badly, made you offend your uncle” (though Fatma guessed Lisha never knew why Uncle Oliver was cross with her, or maybe Lisha had wiped it out of her own trusting mind). Then Uncle Oliver called Lisha away, and Fatma remained petrified that when he let her out, she would discover that soldiers had come to their door. There would be pools of blood higher than her ankles. And there would be Auntie, and Lisha, and even Kiah and Uncle Oliver lying in them, with their heads blown off and their brains stuck to the walls. And if she whimpered or made the slightest noise, they would come back for her too. So she kept quiet. And in time she did forget what she had seen in Kiah’s bedroom just as she forgot what she had seen in Mogadishu the morning the soldiers woke her up and ordered the family outside in their nightclothes and into the center
of town to witness the executions.
“You feared for your life. You feared for your auntie’s life, but mostly for your mother’s life – a mother who had already abandoned you. How could you ever capture her love if she died?” The therapist said more that day than she had in months.
“But she did die.”
“And you never secured her love.”
Stern asked whether taking drugs and drinking were the same as being in the closet. How could drugs be like a closet? Fatma asked herself. She had no idea what she was talking about; she had never done drugs. Fatma decided that Stern and the counselors and psychiatrists she had seen at Shelby, and she herself, were all crazy.
*
They went back to the silence. Fine with me, Fatma thought. If Stern didn’t have anything to say, neither did she. On one visit, they were sitting there, both of them quiet, when Fatma started to say something. The therapist picked up her pen.
“I hear voices at night.”
“Are you sure you aren’t dreaming?” “I’m not always sure.”
“What do the voices say?”
“They tell me I’m bad. I don’t want repeat what they say.” “Things that your second husband told you?”
She nodded.
“It’s common to relive terrifying events – imagine the words that Nick used to brutalize you, to make you feel worthless. It’s called post-traumatic stress.”
“But maybe it’s not Nick.” “Who else might it be?” “Maybe it’s Iblis.”
“Who?”
“Devil – my bad jinn.”
She really stumped Stern with that one. If cocaine had been the devil and Fatma wasn’t using anymore, or if Nick had been the devil and he was gone, who was beating her up at night? Stern wanted to know. Fatma tried to tell her that it was her bad jinn, that she’d been hearing him since she’d stopped using and drinking, that he was telling her to do bad things to herself.
“I’m born – I was born with evil jinn,” she tried to explain. “When I walked under baobab tree, I anger my good jinn.” “You have two jinns?” Her eyes opened wide.
Fatma nodded.
“Who is your good Jinn?”
“How can I know? But he punishes me when I do bad things.” “But you’re not using or drinking right now, Fatma, so who is
beating you up at night?” “Maybe my bad jinn.”
“Fatma, you’re beating yourself up.” “Because my bad jinn tells me to.” “How can you get rid of an evil jinn?”
“No one in America can help me,” she told Stern. “Why not?”
“Only healers can chase away evil jinns.” “And where are the healers?”
“In Kenya.”
“I see.” And she really did look as though she understood. “You think it’s my jinns?”
“I think that you believe it is. That your culture says it is. So I
guess the answer is yes.”
Fatma felt good about Stern that day, and she stopped protecting Nick and Daniel and began to talk about them in a way she had never done before. Fatma wondered if the therapist had been right, if her opening up had had something to do with the murderer having been caught. She began to wonder about a lot of things having to do with other things, thinking differently about things than she had before. In the months that followed, she talked about her childhood, her mother and father, Auntie and Uncle Oliver. She unlocked the box she had been carrying around with her for thirty years. The secrets flew around the room like bits of confetti. Some mounted through the skylight and were carried off by the wind, never to return. Some, however, like the memory of the closet, came back and hit her on the head harder than a punch from Nick ever had.
Her therapist kept saying that Fatma had been “traumatized” by what she’d seen in Mogadishu. Over and over again she used the word. She said that it had all gotten jumbled: the executions, the abandonment by her mother, Daniel’s deception and weakness, Nick’s beatings. “I choose Nick. He wasn’t weak,” Fatma insisted. Stern nodded and raised her eyebrows, as though that had been the response she was looking for. Hadn’t she been searching for a hero? Someone to save her? The only thing Fatma still saw was that she was stupid – had always been stupid. That was really why Nick had turned on her, why so many people hadn’t wanted her. “And by the way,” Stern added, “abusers are the weakest.”
*
“Why did you start doing drugs?” Stern asked. “Nick. I already tell you.”
“Why did you get involved with Isaac?” “For money.”
“That you needed?” “That I wanted.”
“Why did you drink so heavily?” “Elsa.”
“Really?”
“I liked how it make me feel.” “How did they all make you feel?” “They make me forget.”
“Same as cocaine.” Fatma nodded. “Kind of like being in the closet. And the executions. They were your fault too.”
“No. How can they?”
“They couldn’t be, but you believed they were your fault, didn’t you? Because you were bad. You were so bad that your own mother gave you away. Wasn’t that the reason your uncle put you in the closet? Not because you were stupid, but to forget what you had seen, because, like Lisha said, it was all your fault?”
“That’s why they send me away to America.”
“And is that why Nick beat you? Not just to give you drugs afterward.”
“I wanted to get high because I wanted to forget Hussein.” “Do you think Nick ever really loved you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he beat you?” “People who love me turn on me.”
“People like your mother? Like your uncle? But why do they turn on you?” Her eyes were fixed on Fatma’s; Fatma couldn’t look at her.
“I don’t know.” She was crying now.
“Why wouldn’t they turn on bad Fatma? Daniel must have been weak. Why else would he love you? Ever yone turns on Fatma. Bad Fatma. That’s what you think, isn’t it? You’re a bad little girl.”
Tears streamed down Fatma’s face. They dropped onto her hands that lay folded on her lap. She didn’t wipe them away. She wanted Stern to see them. She waited for her to say she was sorry and apologize the way Nick used to, after he hurt her. But Stern never apologized.
*
Sarah said that, when Fatma didn’t release her thoughts, they fermented like soured wine that she angrily spit out. “You may act tough,” she said, “but you’re feeling worthless.” She told her to picture the places that made her happy and secure: the beach in Mombasa, the corner in Lisha’s room above the kitchen where she used to hide. She taught her to repeat: I am valuable and so I protect myself; I have courage to make good choices; I face the unknown with confidence. When Fatma was lonely, she asked Laurel or Justine to take walks with her. And, remembering that her father’s blood flowed through her as freely as her mother’s, she found her own higher help. Muhammad Hakeem, the mighty warrior, had been humble enough to acknowledge his weaknesses and wise enough to ask for help in desperation. Now she too reached out, reminding herself over and over again what her father’s good brother had told so many years before. You are strong, little Fatma – you are brave; you are the good general Muhammad’s daughter.
Iblis quieted down somewhat, which made her nights more tolerable. Sometimes he never surfaced at all. But she knew he was there watching and waiting. She could feel him roaming her mind, searching for that crack through which he could emerge, ready at any moment to lay a hand on her, a force always to be reckoned with.
*
It was common for the women who had shown some progress at Haven House to get a job, small occupation in town to help them become accustomed to being on their own, to assume responsibility. Fatma began to work four hours a week at Sundry Undies. From cartons she removed bras and panties, bathrobes and nightgowns, slips and teddies, and hung them on racks or placed them on shelves, being careful not to mix up the sizes. Sometimes she had to iron garments that had become wrinkled in
shipping. Other times she took inventory and counted how many of each style, color, and size were left on display. They were quality garments, ones Nick would have loved.
It was work similar to what she’d done at the African Artifacts shop, and a chance to get away from Haven House and do what she had always loved to do – make money. But most importantly, it helped her self-esteem because the women at Sundry Undies trusted her. They weren’t afraid to be with her in the store without a supervisor, nor were they reluctant to leave her alone by the cash register while they were in the storeroom or dressing room with a customer. They trusted her with the money they gave her for coffee and sandwiches. It was only four hours a week, two hours on Tuesdays and two on Thursdays. Four hours of working with legitimate businesswomen like her mother had been. And on the mornings she couldn’t bear to drag herself out of bed because even the simplest routine was too much, her father’s strong hand pulled her from the covers. You have not yet slid away! he whispered.
*
She’d been at Haven House a little over a year when green buds were forming on the trees and Miss Wilma took her aside. “I think it’s time we begin planning your trip,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement, her smile vast. Defiant gray hairs had begun to spring from her straightened black hair like corkscrews. It appeared to Fatma that Miss Wilma was eagerly anticipating the departure of all five of the women at Haven House and that she was throwing Fatma out first. Reading Fatma’s thoughts, Miss Wilma placed her palms squarely on Fatma’s shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Sarah and Linda Stern and I believe you’re ready, and that it’s necessary at this point for your recovery to go back to Africa. To find your son. To revisit the life you closed the book on long ago.”
A New Identity
“When’s the last time you renewed your passport?” Sarah asked.
While Fatma had more than enough money left to finance her eight-week stay in Mombasa, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her passport.
Sometimes It Snows In America Page 18