Chapter 13

Rahab

I stare at her for what truly feels like eternity. She doesn't look like the woman I remember, not even in the least.

Her features are softer now, more round, like she has put on extra weight. Not in a bad way really, i'm just shocked at how different she looks. 

Her skin, the same colour as mine, shines in a soft glow where mine is cracked and dull. Her kinky hair is pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck, I stare enviously at its volume and life. 

How can two people who look so alike be so different? Basically, i'm my mom on a low budget, like very, very low budget. Whatever figure comes to mind at this point, halve it, then divide it by the square root of eighty one, that's the budget i'm talking about. God! Its so easy to dislike her, she looks so pretty, so, so... polished!

Neither of us has said a word to each other since she came in, not for lack of trying (on my part at least), but really, what do you say to the person that abandoned you years ago? 

'Hi, its been so long since I last saw you. I hope you get smothered in your sleep!' See what I mean? Sigh, I'd rather keep my mouth shut.

I still cannot believe my dad called her without informing me first, and she came (we'll talk about that later, the fact that she actually came when he called, i mean, what exactly made her change her mind this time around?). But now, back to my backstabbing father, that's not how we do things. 

During the periods when she used to come and "celebrate" Christmas with us, my dad made sure I looked my best— made sure we both looked our best. He said he wanted her to know that we were fine without her. Petty, I agree, but I supported that idea, I upheld that idea! I still do!

Now look at me, looking my possible worst and hating it. I just wish my dad told me like a week prior to her arrival, not mere minutes. I'd have made myself more presentable, and at least made my dad more coherent.

Speaking of which, my dad has been asleep, in his room, for a while now. Asleep... Not dead, considering the happenings of the last few hours, though, I have to keep checking to reassure myself. His beer induced slumber is compounded by the fact that I gave him painkillers for his aching head.

His fall, which we both tried to downplay as nothing serious because apparently, we're both certified doctors now, feels a lot worse than it did initially. I can't ignore the gash on his forehead which is still bleeding, (albeit sluggishly now) and his side that seems to be swelling by the hour... At least to me that is.

I have changed the makeshift dressing (of toilet paper and few clean pieces of cloth soaked in bleach) on his injury, three times in the last one or two hours. He needs to see a doctor... A proper doctor, and fast. 

I stand again, feeling an innate need to check up on him to be sure he's sleeping, not dead... Just sleeping.

"Where are you going?" She throws accusingly. 

The nerve of this woman. I don't respond, but instead proceed to walk away quietly. She'll understand.

"I said, where are you going?!" She shrieks. I kid you not, she actually shrieks, who even shrieks in real life?

"You haven't said a word to me since I came in, not even a greeting! That's entirely disrespectful, I will not tolerate that if you eventually come to live with me you know?"

'If you eventually come to live with me?' I hate her condescending voice, like she's doing me a favour taking me with her. Like I even want to go with her in the first place. Like she's the victim here, not me or my dad, her.

A million thoughts run through my mind at this point. But instead of blurting out any one of them, I stand very still, summoning all my rational while trying to calm myself. I take a deep breath and cough up;

"Good afternoon" 

Before exiting the dim parlour to check on my dad. No stammering, no stuttering! I have been favoured by the gods! I could just cry now, tears of freaking joy! 

Upon reaching his room, I draw back the curtain and peer inside watching the gentle fall and rise of his chest. I stand for a few more minutes checking his dressing, not too bloody, still manageable. 

I hate how my father's room smells, its like camphor, weird herbal concoctions and broken dreams. But I cannot go back out and face the woman in the parlour, because even though I hate to admit it, I dislike how ugly her presence makes me feel.

After what feels like a sufficient hour, I walk back to the parlour, mentally bracing myself to meet her, I can stomach being in the same room as her can't I?. 

She's so out of place in our quaint flat. With her crease-less caftan, so silky and flowy, sporting a multitude of colours and patterns, making her look like some rare amazonian bird trapped in a dirty house, my dirty house.

I was wrong, I really can't take being here, looking at her but not saying anything. I should leave. 

As I turn to go, I hear her bogus fabric swish as she turns around and spots me.

"I need to speak with your father"

'Your father', not 'James', or 'my husband', or even 'my ex', at this point I'll take anything. But no, its 'your father' in that distant voice. She has severed all ties with him, both physically and mentally. I mean, I expected it, but still, hearing it twists my insides, making me feel nauseous.

"I need to speak with him...now if you please. Ever since I got here, he hasn't bothered to come out of his room to see me, he was the one that called me and made it sound so urgent!" She accuses

Taking a deep breath and steadying myself, I try to answer without stuttering, but my mouth betrays me.

"S-sleeping" I say as quietly as I can manage.

"Please speak up, I don't have all day"

"He's s-sleeping" Damn! There goes the last ounce of self respect I have.

"Excuse me?" 

"S-sleep-pping" I try again, the sheer betrayal.

"You stammer?" She asks bewildered 

How does one answer this?

"When I was here you didn't stammer" 

Its so funny how she spits out the word 'stammer' like its a dirty thing. Well, i hate to break it to you but, a lot can change in almost 10 years.

"I'll fix that" she says evenly, regaining her posture.

I snort in equal parts disbelief and equal parts amusement. If she notices this, she doesn't admit.

"Anything else I should know of?" She asks suggestively. 

I blank. What is she talking about?. It takes a while before I realize what she's implying. Heat rises up to my face immediately. It is settled then, one can really hate one's own mother.

"I d-don't b-bed wet-t!..." I stammer struggling to contain my voice, my calm facade cracking.

"anym-mmore" I add more quietly.

"Good to know, I was just checking. Well, pack your things we leave in an hour— one hour!" She says emphasizing the last part.

"No!"

"What?"

"No!" I repeat. I want to say more, I realy do. But, apparently this is the only word I can say without stuttering shamefully.

"I don't have time to argue with you, if you don't want to go, I'll leave you behind. I'm giving you an opportunity here, do you understand that?"

"No" I repeat throwing a quick glance to my father's room where he is lying, drowsy and in need of care. I want to say more but I can't. Her gaze follows mine till she rests on the door to his room. 

"H-he r-reall-llly need-dds t-to g-go t-to t-the hosp-pit-tttal. I'm not-tt leaving him l-lik-kke t-this" this is the most I've said since she came in, stammering and all.

She sighs clearly annoyed by this.

"I didn't plan for this" I hear her whisper to herself.

"Well, it seems like you inherited your father's silly pride!" She bites out, directed at me. Her face is plain, showing no emotions but her voice belies something else.

"Hope you can carry him then?. That's all I can do, nothing more."

"T-to w-wwhere?"

"The hospital na. Wasn't that part already obvious? My car's waiting outside." She hisses exiting the house in quick steps, a flurry of brightly coloured fabric billowing behind her.

"Maybe driver can help you with him" She calls out, as an afterthought.

I stare at the ground, then at my feet, the relief that washes over me leaves me weak at the knees. I almost feel sleepy. It takes a while for me to realize i'm crying. Silent tears making its way down my face. I don't swipe at my face, it almost feels like admitting defeat.

"T-thank-k you" I say to no one in particular, not bothering to mask the relief in my stammering voice.