Geri

A Woman’s Woes

Her throat burned. She was sure everyone on the other side of the door could hear her. Her stomach was on fire. She held her husband’s hand. Push! She heard someone shout. You’re almost there! She felt herself drifting. It’s a girl! She looks just like her Mama! Her hands were grabbed and they felt heavy, as if a weight had been dropped on her. She looked down. A face like her own, much smaller and wrinklier. The corners of her mouth turned. The baby in her hands mirrored them, each corner raised.

She remembered as a child she begged her mother to tell her bedtime stories. She wouldn’t let her leave until she did. When the fairy tales ran out, her mother told her stories about herself. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, she said. My goal in life was to raise a beautiful daughter; she touched her hair. And here you are, my beautiful daughter. She kissed on the forehead. She giggled a little, at the last part.

She was awakened by her daughter. She turned to check on her husband. He was asleep, oblivious to the cries in the other room. She moved out of the bedroom to stay by her baby’s side, rocking the infant. When she woke up, her husband had left for work.

She spent her days alone with the baby. She scrubbed the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, and washed the dishes. The tenderness in her breasts never subsided. There were pink cracks on her nipples. They healed. Her baby demanded to be fed again. She stopped glancing at mirrors. What was wrong with her? If other women could do it, she could do it too. The ugly scar stretched across what used to be a smooth and soft surface. The stretch marks and loose skin on her belly made her look like a deflated balloon. The sex went away.

Her husband caught her blues. He disappeared slowly, then all at once. He came home late. The rice and soup were left on the table. He blamed the smell of cigarettes on work. He’d never hit her. He stopped coming home on a Wednesday night.

Her small suitcase in one hand, and a baby in the other, she moved into a rundown flat on the opposite end of the city. She was certain she wouldn’t bump into anyone she knew. The kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and living room were all cramped, no barrier separating them. Instead of white marble, the floor was made of dark brown wood typical of older houses, mould festering on the edges of each tile. Water dripped from the ceiling – from what source, she didn’t know. Exposed wires were dangling from the walls. A rotten smell came from behind them.

News of her daughter’s sickness reached her family, friends, and colleagues. People she hadn’t spoken to in a long time messaged her their condolences. Some called her. Her supervisor told her she could take as much time off as she needed to.

When the doctors had told her, she was in denial. She accused them of making a false diagnosis. She threatened to sue. There was no way her baby girl was sick – very sick. She should have seen the signs, should have been more observant. If a dog stops running around the house and stays in the same position all day, anyone would know. How could her instincts fail her?

Once, she had a conversation with her Dad about how it is easier for human beings to destroy things than to build things that could benefit everyone. It made her think about an International Relations class she took at college. Someone had asked why countries couldn’t build a defence system against nuclear weapons instead of building more nuclear weapons to maintain the power balance. The professor told them it is because defence is even more difficult and expensive.

The school called her with the news; her daughter had been taken to the hospital. It was the third time they’d tried, they said.

It was laughter that caught her attention. Snapped her out of whatever dark thought was occupying her. She turned to the source, forgetting the shadows, as if inspecting which other parts of her life they should infiltrate. It was a child with her mother’s face, only much younger and more innocent, playing with her hair. The child smiled at her, showing all her teeth as well as missing ones. The mother swatted the child’s hands away, eliciting ouch!

“Would you sit properly?” She turned to the child. “Eat your noodles and stop bothering me.” Earlier, the child was complaining she was hungry. The mother couldn’t bring herself to cook, so the two of them returned to the cha chaan tang just below their apartment. A kind of halfway house.

“I’m bored,” whined the child.

“And Mommy’s tired. I had to work all day. This is the only time I get some peace and quiet.” She raised her voice to counter the loud chatter. The smile on the child’s face faltered, scrunched up. Tears slid from the inner corners of her eyes.

It is strange how children can know exactly how an adult feels even if they do not understand the situation. Children can detect the tone in an adult’s voice at five months old. They know if the adult is happy or angry. It becomes difficult to hide anything from them. They ask questions – sometimes simple ones like pointing to an object and asking, “What’s this?” Sometimes, their questions are philosophical, like “why can’t everyone in the world be kind to one another and just be happy?” Occasionally, children ask questions where you don’t want them to know.

The sky was clear. Her colleagues smiled at her when she left the office. Right after, she shook hands with a man who reeked of cologne and infidelity. She strolled through the upscale streets. Her own reflection jumped from a spotless shop window. The image of a woman stared back at her. A designer bag dangled from her arm. This was a woman who looked as if she’d never been betrayed.

Why weren’t there any signs from the universe?

The phone rang. Then, a flick of a switch.

That morning, she spent an hour sitting in front of the toilet. She puked non-stop. The smell of vomit, pungent and foul, filled the bathroom. She left the tap running so he couldn’t hear the sound, so loud and feral she was both surprised and embarrassed that it came from her. Her throat burned, her face wet from crying.

“Babe, are you okay? You’ve been in there for an hour.” She didn’t reply. “I’m going to be late for my interview if I don’t leave now…I’ll see you tonight.” She got up from where she sat and limped to the door. She opened it.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” The corners of her mouth struggled to turn upwards. “Good luck with your interview. I know they’re going to love you.”

“Well, if I managed to win you over, I can practically win anybody over,” he said. “We will have two things to celebrate tonight.”

By celebration, he meant their two-year anniversary. He proposed to her the day of their graduation. They had tied the knot a few months later. When they first got married, some of her friends were astonished. She should be focusing on her career, meeting people, they told her. You might think he’s not going to hold you back, they said, but he will – even if he doesn’t mean to. 

Her parents, though, were encouraging. They wanted confirmation from her that this wasn’t a shotgun marriage. She told them no. They took over the wedding planning immediately. They broke the news to their extended relatives before she did.

She was relieved. She met the boy of her dreams at college, early. Nothing as incredible was going to happen again.

She paced around the living room when he left the house. Her throat still burned. Dizziness washed over her. She reached for the phone and dialled her mother’s number. Her right hand shaking as she typed on the keypad.

Her mother didn’t stop questioning her about her symptoms.

“You say you feel dizzy and you vomit when you wake up?” She nodded. “And your breasts are painful sometimes?” She nodded again. “My darling, there is only one explanation.” Her mother’s eyes opened.

“No, I’m not pregnant.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you and he still haven’t…?”

“I mean we use protection, and I’m on the pill.”

“Well, the doctor will confirm my suspicion. You know I’m always right.” A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She was about to leave her chair and walk around, when the door opened, revealing the doctor. She asked her the same questions her mother did and helped her run tests. They waited for the results. She gripped her mother’s hands. Then, she let go.

The doctor congratulated her. She was three weeks pregnant. Bile rose to her throat. Her stomach lurched forward.

“Oh darling, I’m so happy for you! You’re going to be a mother, and I can’t wait to be a grandmother!” The room suddenly gained a life of its own and closed in on her.

Her husband bought her a bouquet of flowers that night. She put them in a traditional Chinese porcelain vase she found. A gift from her parents. She filled it with water.

“Happy anniversary, baby.” He wrapped his arms around her. Baby. There was a baby growing inside her.

“The interview was a piece of cake. It was exactly as I’d expected.” An abortion?

“They offered me a good salary as well. I can buy you whatever you want.” What if he made her give the baby up for adoption?

“I love you.” What if they decided to keep it?

“What’s wrong? Are you listening to me?” She breathed.

“I have something to tell you.” She closed her eyes. “I’m pregnant.” She heard him suck in a breath. A pair of arms wrapped around her. She opened her eyes and took a look at him. His eyes were wide. She nodded and let herself go.

When she heard the news, she rushed to the hospital. There was sympathy in the voice, and maybe disapproval. How could a stranger judge? She climbed onto the taxi. A glimpse of the glass window again. The woman, gone.

She demanded the hospital staff to tell her what was going on. Where were they putting her daughter? They asked if she was the mother, yes, if the father was here, no. Leukemia and chemotherapy, she heard them in her head, as she filled in the forms. The doctors walked down a bleak hallway, until they stopped in front of a door. Put these on, they told her. They pointed at the protective clothing and mask. It’s very important that she doesn’t come into contact with any germs. You have fifteen minutes before she has to go to her next test. Fifteen minutes. Nine hundred seconds to speak to her daughter.

Lying on the bed was a small and fragile child.

“Mommy, you came. I was scared you wouldn’t come when the nurses told me they didn’t know where you were.” She could feel the wetness on her face. She leaned forward to hug her child. She stopped when she realised it was risky.

“I’m so sorry you had to be alone, my baby.” Her voice was muffled by her mask. “Mommy is here now, and I love you so, so much. You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too, Mommy. I’m happy you are here.” Her child appeared worn out. Had she always looked like that? “But Mommy, I’m sorry I made you worry. Maybe you’ll be happy when I’m gone.”

Parts of her froze. “I need you here, with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“But I ruin your peace and quiet.” Her child’s voice had a low cast, like a small candle at night.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want to eat this.”

“I know, baby, I know. But you have to be strong and get better.”

“Mommy, am I dying?”

“No, you’re not. I won’t let you.” She turned away. Outside the window were clouds. The streets were empty because of the approaching storm. Even from above, she’d never seen this part of the city so lifeless. Finally, a sign. It had come too late.

She found little comfort. She didn’t want her child to reincarnate into this world, and suffer again. All traces left of her were now buried. If her daughter was in Heaven, would she blame her? And if Heaven let her in, would her daughter still recognise her – want anything to do with her? The priest delivered his sermon. The epitaph on her daughter’s tombstone caught her: hush, my dear, be still and slumber; jolly angels guard your bed. 

She found herself coming back to the cha chaan tang she and her daughter frequented. She swore she wouldn’t. Everything remained the same. Water from an unknown source still dripped from the neglected apartment above onto the shirts of diners. People chatted loudly about which horses they were going to bet on and where to buy the cheapest ingredients for their family. The smell of beef broth soup and sweat lingered in the air. She sat in the same booth and ordered the same bowl of fishball noodles. A laugh came from the table next to hers, a child playing with her food. The mother, with dishevelled hair and shadows under her eyes, scolded her. The child cried.

She watched as the mother left. Her child struggling to catch up.

More from Creative Nonfiction & Fiction: Read “To Be or Not To Be” by Geri