My face burned, a red-hot flush coming to the surface. “I’m pregnant, Mother, so I guess I’m going to have to grow up.”
She switched off the stove, pushed the pot to one side. Then she turned, her pinched face just under control, and slapped me across the face.
“You little slut,” she said. “Every day I pray you’ll turn into a better person. And now this.”
I touched my cheek, uncertain if there would be more violence, instinctively moving away from the knife still lying on the chopping board.
“I’m not a slut. Rajit’s the dad. I love him. He loves me.”
“He’s not the first guy you’ve slept with, Thea – I’m not a fool. I know your reputation. It follows me every time I go to church. I’ve prayed for you so many times.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Really? You think you know that boy. You don’t, Thea. You know nothing about him.”
“I can learn.”
“You’re going to learn the hard way.”
Mother brought her face so close to mine that I could see the blood vessels in her eyes. Then she grabbed my wrists, banging me hard against the cupboard, my back against the door handle, a shock of pain down my spine. Letting my wrists go, she grabbed a handful of my primped-up hair, and slammed my head against the cherry-wood cabinet.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Dizzily, I tried to push her away, but felt the crushing weight of her stiletto through my foot. I winced, tried not to cry out.
I knew these moods. Play dead. Be limp. But this time I couldn’t do that. What if she hurt my baby? With all the force I could muster, I pushed her away. Mother’s face registered shock and she stepped back for only a moment before pushing her face into mine.
“You’re a filthy whore, Thea. Just like your mother.” Mother tucked her hand under my chin and her fumes filled my face. “Get rid of it,” she hissed. “Get rid of that baby or I will never forgive you.”
I longed for Dad then, the soft-spoken reason he offered when he dared disagree with Mother. I was crying and I tried to stop, but the sobs rose in my throat, almost choking me.
I gasped. “What are you saying?”
“You know damn well what I’m telling you. Abort it. I won’t have a crossbreed bastard in this family.”
“I thought Catholics don’t believe in abortion.”
“That’s not a baby – it’s a mistake.”
“I’m going to marry Rajit, Mother. We’ve already decided.”
“Over my dead body. You think raising a baby is easy? Marriage? Your father would be turning in his grave. God only knows how ashamed I am of you. I plucked you off the streets, raised you like my own and this is what you do to me?”
“I won’t kill my own child. I won’t.”
And I need someone to love me.
My mother straightened her skirt, ran her fingers through her hair.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours to think about it. If you do what I say, I’ll pay for it and all will be forgotten. But if you marry Rajit and keep that spawn, then pack your bags, my girl. I do not want you in my life.”
Sanusha (aged 5 ½): Some top things to know
One day, Auntie Annie took Mom to the doctor and he gave her some happy pills. They’re like magic, because some days Mom smiles a real smile even more than once. She even laughs. When Mom smiles she is really, really pretty. When she doesn’t smile she is still pretty, but not quite as good. I’m not pretty even if I smile. My mom is tall and skinny – she has the longest legs. I am short and round. I look like Asmita Ayaa and even though I love Asmita Ayaa around the world 10 times, I’m not happy that I look like her.
Here are the 5 top things I know about my grandmother:
1. When we rent a video, Asmita Ayaa sits next to Appa on the couch with Kandasamy Ajah on the other side. Mom sits on her own or sometimes with me.
2. Asmita Ayaa plays with Appa’s hair and calls him “my boy” even though he is a grown-up. Then Mom gets irritated and bites her nails.
3. There is more of Asmita Ayaa to cuddle than there is of Mom.
4. Asmita Ayaa was a lawyer once. Now she is the boss of us. Mom wants her own house so she can be the boss of us instead.
5. Ayaa’s skin bumps up and down like the moon, and make-up doesn’t help it look better. I’m not allowed to talk about that.
Asmita Ayaa and Mom get on better when Appa is away at the university. When Appa comes home, it feels like a running race of who’s going to get to Appa first. Mom kisses him (on the mouth) and Asmita Ayaa hugs him. He smiles and picks me up and tells me I am his princess. Then he goes to the cottage for a shower and a shave. When he is finished, the dinner is on the table. (We hardly ever eat in the cottage.) Appa eats fast and smacks his lips so it sounds like girlfriend-and-boyfriend smooching on TV. He has food dripping on his chin, but he doesn’t clear it off like he’s supposed to. We all eat with our hands, except Mom, who uses a knife and fork. At the end of dinner, Appa is tired and doesn’t help clear, because that’s women’s work.
I don’t understand about Appa’s job. Mom says he’s studying and working to pay the bills.
Since the happy pills, Mom has also been studying. She’s a tour guide and now she is going to use her French that my other granny made her learn at school.
In the mornings Mom goes to a place in town where she says “bonjer” and “ohrevwor”. Sometimes she brings back children’s books from the library and reads to me in French. I like the pictures. Mom says she is going to make something of herself, but I don’t know what you can make when you are already something. And when will she spend time with me if she’s so busy making it in this world?
Now that Mom smiles sometimes, she takes me to the park after Humpty Dumpty’s. This means I get to slide and swing for an extra hour every day unless it’s raining. I like the ladder that goes right into the branches of a tree the best, but because I’m so short, it’s difficult for me to get back down. Mom has to catch me and she doesn’t even care if I get mud on her clothes. We get home all dirty and we jump in the bath together. Mom’s skin is lighter than mine, but it isn’t perfect under her clothes. She has bruises. They change colour: red, blue, green. One of her newest ones is the shape of Africa, and Mom showed me Egypt and tells me about the pyramids where there are stacks of dead bodies wrapped up in white cloth. They’re kings and queens, so they don’t go into the ground or get burnt like Amoy Ayaa, although I’m too young to remember her. Mom says she is very clumsy because she bumps herself when she tries to go to the toilet at night without switching on the light. I wish she would be more careful.
“You could turn on the light,” I say, touching the bruises on her tummy.
“What?”
“Turn on the light, when you go for a wee.”
She looks at me, but she’s only pretending to smile.
“Good idea,” she says. “I’ll try that.”
With Mom, both of us pretend a lot, because she pretends to listen and I pretend to believe her.
When we get out the bath, we choose clothes that match. We like to wear the same colours, and my favourite colour is pink. Mom’s favourite colour is also pink, so that’s good. We wear pink all the time, and yesterday Mom bought a new jersey, which is soft as a bunny rabbit. She looks extra beautiful