‘Well,’ she said, ‘he’s perfect, right?’
I chuckled, stepping out of my shoes and rubbing my toes. ‘That’s what you said about the last guy.’
‘He was perfect too, and if you had put in a bit more effort maybe you’d be engaged to a doctor now.’
‘So he was better than this guy?’ I asked. She made a noise of frustration and threw her hands up. I shrugged on a robe and let down my hair, pulling out the strong, sharp bobby pins to free the heavy curls. ‘Does it not matter at all who I marry?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘As long as it’s a good match, I don’t care who it is.’ I turned to her, eyes wide, and she crossed her arms under her breasts. ‘And if you don’t like my choices, maybe we’ll go to khataba and see who she can find.’
‘A matchmaker?!’ I gaped at her. ‘Are you insane?’
She shrugged. ‘Many people use them nowadays. What do you think, Dahlia, that there’s one perfect man out there for you? Do you think you’ll fall in love, and then he’ll come seeking your hand?’ It was on the tip of my tongue to mention Mona’s love match, but I swallowed the words down and yanked out a tangled pin, pulling three long black strands with it. ‘Children think that way,’ she continued. ‘You’re much too old for such nonsense.’
‘I’ve never said anything about a love match.’
‘Your actions speak loud enough! Tell me; tell me what’s wrong with this one? What do you object to?’
I shook my head down at the little mound of bobby pins before me, and I could only speak the truth. ‘Nothing.’
I didn’t have to look to know a smile had spread across her face. ‘So, I can tell his mother “yes”?’
The moment felt monumental. The expectations, Mama’s hopes and dreams, my fears and any courage buried in me seemed to dance in the air between us. It was not a dance; it was a battle, a frigid war I hadn’t agreed to. I could have said yes, if only to avoid another fight, on the off chance that he’d say no. I saw his warm brown eyes, his white smile, his nods and jokes. He wouldn’t object. And in any case, I couldn’t risk it, not with a voice like that.
I shook my head, and it was all she needed. Crossing the threshold, she took hold of my arm and jerked me towards her, grabbing my other bicep and shaking me hard.
‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Her fingers dug into my skin; I was not at all protected by the flimsy robe. ‘Why are you doing this to me, Dahlia? Why!’
‘I’m not doing anything to you.’ In my head it was a scream, but it came out as a whimper. ‘This isn’t about you.’
She was still shaking me, and she was so mad, when she spoke, I was hit with spittle. ‘Is this your way of punishing me? Tell me! You’re punishing me, aren’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Then give me one reason, one good reason to say no to him.’
‘I don’t have to give you any reason!’ I broke her hold, inadvertently shoving her away so she hit my dresser with her hip. The vanity swayed precariously, the big, heavy mirror threatening to tip over, until I rushed to steady it.
I was breathing hard. I didn’t look at her, my eyes focused on where mirror and table met, trying to keep it upright. ‘You can’t force me to marry him, or anyone, no matter how much you wish you could.’
She was quiet for a long moment. Long enough for me to set the mirror right. Long enough for me to pick up the toppled-over perfume bottles and tubes of lotion. Long enough that I no longer had an excuse not to look her in the eye. So quiet, and I thought there could not be anymore to say and why wouldn’t she leave and how much worse did she want me to feel?
‘Do you never want to get married?’
There were tears now, but I wouldn’t let her see them. ‘I’m not even thirty yet. It’s too soon to worry about that.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she replied, turning to leave. ‘It isn’t at all.’
In the shower I scrubbed myself raw, until my skin was an angry red – just like the showers when I was fifteen.
I realized a long time ago that, in a lot of ways, my body is not strictly mine. It’s a shared entity, something to be criticized, guarded, commented on, and violated. I learned it at twelve when Nadia said I should start shaving my legs. She sat with me in the bathroom, showing me how to lather up with lots of soap, how to go against the grain – ‘So it cuts at the root, idiot!’ – and how to tear off tiny bits of tissue to plug up nicks. At thirteen Baba decided I wasn’t dressing right. I had to wear skirts with hems below the knee and long shirts that fully covered my butt. Why I should have to hide my thirteen-year-old body from strange eyes I never asked, although I soon learned if you caught a man’s attention, no amount of baggy clothing would deter him. Sleeveless tops were forbidden and V-necks couldn’t dip too low (though at the time, there was nothing to conceal). At fifteen any sense of self I had, any sense of control, was ripped away from me, taken to a place where I feared I would never find it. At seventeen, when I was eating non-stop, Mama forced me to the memsha, a public walkway that stretches around our neighborhood, driving the car on the parallel road while I ran because nobody would marry a fat girl. At weddings, appraising eyes dissected me. In the street, men with greasy eyes let out catcalls.
That wasn’t the point. I’m digressing. Besides, I relinquished control of my body a long time ago. I no longer have a connection to it. Perhaps I never truly did. My point is that my life was not my own either. It too was something to be controlled, commented upon, and directed to the will of others.
My mind drifted while I rinsed white, rose-scented suds from my hair. I tipped my head too far back and hot water pushed up my nostril and down my airway. It happened fast. One minute I was breathing, the next I was choking, like something had been shoved in my throat. In the steam and harsh jets of water, I was convinced I was dying. Scrabbling back against the cold fiberglass door I tried desperately to suck in air, but all I got was water and steam. It was blocking my nose and tightening my throat. I reached for the door, slipped and hit warm tiles.
The autumn of my thirteenth year was exceptionally warm, and we spent every weekend at the beach house taking advantage of the long days and pleasing tides. I was gazelle-brown by week two. Always the best swimmer, I had to be bribed into getting out of the water. They never worried about me, even though I swam out the furthest, dove the deepest, and opened my eyes underwater despite the sting.
There was one scorching day. My family stayed close to shore, splashing and lazing under umbrellas jammed into the mud. Maids came out with a succession of icy glasses of water, rainbow juices, and thick wedges of pink watermelon and orange melon. The youngest cousins, only toddlers then, decorated their sandcastles with blueberries and grapes, wailing when my aunties yelled and swatted at them.
I heard the wailing from where I was, treading water several meters out. Lifting my legs, I floated on my back and stared up at an empty sky. I leaned my head back until my ears were submerged. And then, it was silent. Blue above, blue below.
The boys in the neighboring chalet lowered their jet skis in, sending rolling waves that bumped me up and down, up and down. I righted myself to avoid water up my nose. With a roar of twin engines, they raced past me, the younger one skidding to the side so a sharp spray hit me full in the face.
I dived then, deep down in the blue where no one could find me. Open mouth for a big breath like I was about to swallow the sky. Then, like a dolphin, arching into a dive. Kick, kick, bigger kicks to propel me down, down. Open eyes, the sting will go away. Further down, until I hit it, the spot where the