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26.
AISHA HAD CRIED HERSELFto sleep every night, and the days had passed slower than the shadow of death approached. Her heart weighed so heavily, she feared it would crush the life out of her entirely. She’d found little solace in drawing the abstract image of Gabi that had previously helped her hold on to possibilities. Her tears had transformed it from a work of love to a token of grief.
She’d tried to pluck up the courage to speak to her parents, but there was never a good time with her mama consumed by Conchita’s wedding plans and her papa’s determination to spend as little time in the house as possible.
She’d let Gabi down, and that was the worst feeling of all.
The list of jobs that needed her attention daily had gotten longer, forcing her to stay closer to home. She’d been tasked with helping the elders with simple things that they’d previously been perfectly capable of doing themselves, taking food and supplies to the farthest places in the hills, which she first had to cook, or gather and prepare. The elders accosted her for hours with their tales of family and the importance of traditions, especially in times of hardship and crisis. It was a conspiracy, an intervention, she was sure of it. She’d had enough.
She’d thought she’d seen Gabi on Saturday night walking past where they were dancing. She’d lost her rhythm because her ears had thundered with her heartbeat instead of the music. When she’d looked up and Gabi had gone, she wondered whether she was already losing her mind. She was fast heading down the path that Old María had been driven down. It was the most evil of all betrayals to be isolated from love by the people who professed to love her the most.
She watched her mama scrubbing dirt from the vegetables, the light stoop in her stance that had appeared, and the silver that streaked her dark hair. She looked tired, worn down no doubt. Why did Aisha care? Why was it so hard to talk to her and so hard to walk away?
She remembered sitting at the table as a young child, drawing on the back of a piece of paper that the meat from the market had been wrapped in. In the creases, the charcoal had made a pattern that resembled the crops growing in the field. Mama had set it against the kitchen wall, pinned there by the salt cellar, until one day the picture wasn’t there anymore. Mama had told her stories as she’d cooked, and she’d explained how recipes worked, and Aisha had learned to measure the flour and knead the dough. She’d learned how to bake bread and cakes, how to create different flavours with herbs and spices, and most importantly, how to please Mama.
She had been subjected to the facts of life lesson while sat at that table too. Her mama had gutted a catfish as she’d talked, and Aisha had never understood how Mama could speak of love and how to make a baby in the same sentence. She’d come away knowing she never wanted to have children of her own. That night, she’d recited Lorca’s poems until she’d fallen asleep, and she knew love was something more than her mama’s interpretation.
There was the time when Aisha had been so sick that she’d believed she was going to die. She hadn’t minded that too much, because she would be with her abuela, her papa’s mama. Mama had said that time stands still on the other side, so you don’t feel the loss. She’d liked that idea. The cloth had felt like ice against her skin, and she’d shivered for days until one day, the sun touched her face with warmth. Mama had always been there when she’d opened her eyes, smiling at her and stroking her hair, feeding her soup and water.
When Aisha started to bleed every month, her mama’s attitude hardened. She became more fixated on marriage and children, and Aisha felt sorry for her, because she felt there was more to life, and it had saddened her that Mama couldn’t see that.
Aisha swallowed past the lump in her throat and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
The sharpness in Mama’s tone jolted Ashe. “To the fish market.” What was another lie in the stream that covered her tracks?
Mama cut the carrots with stiff movements. “Conchita has gone to get the fish already.”
“That’s my job.”
Mama turned slowly, put her hand on her hip and leaned forward, casting a shadow on Aisha that was darker than the one she already felt consumed by.
“You weren’t up in time.”
That wasn’t true. “You sent me to Señor Pérez.”
“His needs are greater than yours. You’ve become obsessed with going to the city.” She pointed to her temple. “It’s turned your head.”
“That’s rubbish.”
Mama took a pace towards Aisha and slapped her across the face.
Aisha held her cheek, lifted her chin, and gritted her teeth. The sting caused her eyes to water, but she refused to let her mama see her tears. “Te odio,” she said under her breath but loud enough to be heard.
“You don’t know the meaning of hate. But that is the insolence I am talking about. It will make you as crazy as Old María.”
Aisha gesticulated around the room. “This is driving me crazy. Can you not see that?”
Mama went back to cutting the carrots. “You have no idea how good your life is here. You think the world out there will treat you better? That you will dance for more money? That you will have richer food lining your greedy stomach?”
“I will have love.”
The whites of her Mama’s eyes made her look wild, and the way she screwed up her face gave the appearance of reeling in agony. Except there was a fierceness where there would have been meekness had Mama been truly suffering. Anger this brutal was frightening. Aisha tensed.
“You have people here who love you, and you reject them.”
Nicolás had spoken to her about their argument. She bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.
