The Milk of Birds (24 page)

What do I do? Adeeba demanded. You have had babies. Tell me what to do.

Adeeba is shaking her head, but it is true. Many people from Umm Jamila were visiting me in my head, but I heard things around me. Zeinab and Fatna were crying outside. Adeeba hissed at my mother, So you lost your children. You think you were the only one? You did not lose all of them; you have a daughter who needs you. But you are going to lose her too, if you do not help. Soon she is going to be too tired to push this baby out.

I felt sorry that my mother would have no children left. Perhaps Zeinab would help, but she is too young to wash my mother's clothes and massage her legs and carry the water cans from the tap. Then I stopped thinking because of the pain, which takes you to a world separate from this one.

The next thing I heard was so beautiful I thought perhaps I had died. It was the song my mother sang to all her babies as she rocked them to sleep. The voice singing was like my mother's, only heavier and scratched, so if I was not dead, I was dreaming. The sound entered not just through my ears but through my whole body.

Forgive me, Nawra, Adeeba said. In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate. I did not mind, for the cutting was necessary, as long as the singing did not stop. The song was all around but warmest beneath my head, which lay on a pillow. Then I realized it was not a pillow at all but my mother's lap, and she was stroking my hair.

Then such a grunt I made, and my mother said, Get her up, and Adeeba hooked her arms under my shoulders. I did
not have to think what to do for my body knew, and it was not long before my mother caught the baby. Adeeba eased me down, and I did not know what had happened. It was so quiet I thought the baby was dead, but my mother said, It is a boy. Thanks be to God.

He cried.

My mother wiped him and passed him to me. I could not see him in the dark, but I could feel his weight on a new place on my body. He was lighter than a guava. I said, Did he fall from a tree? Adeeba burst out laughing. Then she trilled like a hyena.

I have named my son Muhammad, for the memory of my brother and for the Prophet, God's blessing upon him. We say, Patience is the Prophet's shadow, and patience is the shadow my boy will need. See, I cry as I speak. Adeeba says it is only because I have lost so much blood, and when it comes back I will be as prickly as a thornbush again. Already I have heard one of Halima's friends whispering that it is abomination to name the son of a criminal after the Messenger of God. When people ask my son about his father, I will instruct Muhammad to say that he did not know him, but we are all children of God.

Others have come to congratulate me and to talk with my mother, whom they had given up for mute. I am glad for their visits, but the words we say to a new mother do not make sense anymore. I remember when Ishmael was born, many told my mother, A mother of male babies has peace of mind. But I do not think anyone believes that anymore.

Umm Hakim said, A son is a belt for his mother, yet I could see the tears heavy behind her eyes.

Walida said, Even a donkey will have some rest in the future if she has a child. When Walida left, Adeeba said, I will thrash the next person who calls my nephew a son of a donkey!

My mother does not say much, but she sings to Muhammad. He is like a bird, so tiny and delicate. A week ago a new
khawaja
nurse arrived from another camp, and she says many Darfur babies are born small; that is one mercy for mothers out of our lack of food. But his body is well formed, thanks to God. My grandmother always said, Appearance is the sign of what is inside.

Of course a monkey is a gazelle in the eyes of his mother. At first Muhammad was so feeble he could not drink from my breast, but now he is sucking, so he will grow on my milk and my mother's song,
inshallah
. That which has no tail, God will drive insects away from it.

The nurse says I should eat meat so my body will rebuild blood and make milk for Muhammad.

I thank you again, K. C., for your gift. Adeeba is buying pieces of goat and charcoal. She has threatened to go collect firewood, but she has classes to teach, and I believe the only thing she can carry on her head is a hat. She says I am getting hard as horn now from so much goat in my blood.

My mother, thanks to God, even carries water cans from the tap. More softhearted than a parent is a deceiver. Because of her legs she cannot stand many hours in line, but Zeinab holds her place.

Today the
saidas
held up the line of girls to admire Muhammad, with such fine words I do not want Adeeba to write them all down, for they may attract the evil eye.

Saida Noor translated as Saida Julie took my hand. In spite of everything, you brought this new life into this world, Saida Julie said. You can accomplish anything.

The tears come now as they did then. As Adeeba says, I am a cloud with legs. But these words are for you, too, K. C., as you sit your exams. You can accomplish anything with the help of God.

Your sister, Nawra

O
CTOBER
2008

“What does ‘asperity' mean?” I ask Emily. We're studying at her house, the only place Mom lets me go on a school night to do homework.

“I don't know,” she says.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I don't know everything,” she says. She points at her dictionary. “Look it up.”

“You're faster.”

“I'm graphing equations—do you mind? You know what your problem is, K. C.? You're lazy.”

“I have a processing speed deficit,” I say. There.

“That's a good one,” she says. “Try that on Ms. DB.”

“Really.” I tell her about Dr. Redding. I haven't actually seen him since the first day, but his assistants are giving me tests—so far mostly reading aloud and sorting through pictures. His assistants are really friendly and really smart, but it's hard to tell them apart, especially since they all wear white lab coats. “It reminds me of an old James Bond movie,” I tell Emily. “Dr. Redding's the madman, and he surrounds himself with these tall, young blondes dressed up as scientists.”

“His molls,” Emily says.

“What's a moll?”

“Look it up,” she says.

“I just told you—”

“So?”

“It takes me forever.”

“Better practice then.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Who wants the best for you. My mother would be plying you with ginkgo to improve your memory.”

“Does ginkgo work?”

“Not likely, according to the American Academy of Neurology. But that was a study on eighty-five year olds.”

“What if I can't?”

“Use a dictionary?” Emily said. “Please.” Then she launches into this speech about how I'm one of the smartest, most intuitive people she knows. I wish Dr. Redding's tape recorder was running.

“You're also the quickest to give up when the going gets tough,” she says.

Maybe it's my deficit, but I can't process this. Isn't she supposed to be my friend?

She's not finished. Dr. Redding will probably diagnose me with a learning disability, she says. You don't pay someone two thousand dollars and then walk away with nothing. But then what? “You're just going to have to work smarter, work harder,” Emily says.

“It's so not fair.”

“Tell Nawra about not fair,” Emily says.

“At least Nawra's not dumb.”

“Deep down you know you're not dumb. Stop feeling sorry
for yourself, K. C. And stop expecting other people to do everything for you!”

“Some friend you are,” I say. I'd do anything for her. Without me, that creepy science camp counselor would probably be chomping on her face right now. And didn't I send her care packages all summer? I fend off her sexual harassers, go with her to dentist appointments, pick weeds with her wacky mother—and she won't even define a word she already knows!

I'm so ticked off, I jam my books in my backpack, but now I can't zip it up. I sling it over my shoulder and head downstairs to the phone, where I call Mom and tell her to pick me up.

“I'm leaving right now. Meet me on the way.”

“Wait,” Mom says. “It's dark.” I hang up.

Emily's followed me into the living room. I hand her the receiver.

“Here. You're rid of me. Now you can call one of your honors friends.”

My heart beats in my ears as Emily tries to calm me down. Spacey Stacy arrives on the scene and tells Emily to make me some tea, peppermint with chamomile, but I'm out the door.

“Wait,” Emily calls. “Don't be stupid—”

“I
am
stupid, haven't you noticed?” I yell back from the threshold. “But this is the smartest thing I've done in a long time.”

As soon as I get to the end of the block, though, my heartbeat switches from righteous to scared. Richmond just made it into the top twenty-five most dangerous cities in America. I don't want to end up like Nawra.

Groping through my backpack, I can't find my key. If a
rapist jumps me, I can't make shish kebab out of his eyeball. What would Emily say then?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, K. C. Read a therapeutic article about it, K. C.

Little Miss Honor Roll. She and Parker can go to hell hand in hand. I should stick with my own kind. Our brains may be sieves, but at least our hearts aren't full of holes.

I hang around the corner under the streetlight, swirling back and forth, talking to myself out loud so passersby will think I'm crazy and steer clear. Really I'm on high alert, and if anybody crosses toward me, I'm going to twirl and launch this open backpack full of books and hightail it back to Emily's duplex.

Mom shows up pretty fast, holding the wheel in the crook of her thumbs because she'd been doing her nails and the polish isn't dry. She asks what's wrong. I don't want to talk about it, so we just go home and do our nails together.

Dear Nawra,

Where is your letter? Are you okay? I feel like our letters have gotten all out of whack. My whole life is out of whack. I just looked the word up in the dictionary. Tell Adeeba “whack” means “a smart or resounding blow” or a “critical attack.” In that case my life is in whack because it's full of those.

Maybe I need to visit a
zar
lady.

I think Chloe's brother's
zar
spirit is a bike mechanic. Mom bought Todd a ten-speed at the thrift store that could barely shudder through two gears, so Todd wanted to return it, but I suggested Nathan. He came over and took off all the chains and wheels, and when he put it back together, Todd was whizzing past all the Tour de France types on the bike path. I don't know where you'd find a
zar
soother in Richmond, but maybe Emily's mom could post a note on the bulletin board of her vitamin store.

Small problem: I'm never going to talk to Emily again.

Dear Nawra,

All day I avoided Emily and Parker. Probably he thinks I'm lazy too. Probably behind my back, they get together with their AP friends—
You should have heard what K. C. said today!
—and laugh until they run out of SAT words for “goofball.”