The Weight of Water (11 page)
Read The Weight of Water Online
Authors: Sarah Crossan
But I don’t recognise Tata.
He has a weak beard
Which stops him from smiling
And he is thin.
He looks at the woman
Who says, ‘I know.’
But what does she know?
She takes the child upstairs
And I hear crying –
Coming from the woman,
Not from the child.
Tata leads me to the large kitchen
And makes hot chocolate
Using a clean, steel kettle.
‘It is hard thing to explain –
to a child,’ he says
Without looking at me
To see how much I’ve grown.
I don’t listen much.
His little bee sting words
Hurt.
Tata peels an orange,
The skin coming away
In one expert movement
Creating a bitter coil
On the counter.
He splits the orange in two,
Rests one half before me,
Eats the other half himself,
Pips and all.
Tata looks at the clock above the sink.
The hot chocolate is untouched
And cold
In the cup.
I am cold too
So I stand to leave.
‘Will you come and see Mama?’ I ask.
Tata looks at the clock again
And says,
In English,
‘Eventually.’
My stomach tightens into a rock
Because I am so angry with Tata.
Every time Mama looks at
Her map on the wall –
Every time Mama pulls on
Her coat and walking shoes –
Every time Mama opens up
Her purse and frowns –
Every time Mama comes to
Bed and lies awake weeping.
I am so angry that
My stomach is a stone
I wish I could throw at Tata.
Tata,
We came to Coventry to find you,
Mama and me.
We looked and looked.
Now you know we are here
I’m not looking,
I’m waiting.
I don’t want to wait and wait,
what’s the point?
Mama loves you again;
she’s sorry.
Can’t you be sorry too?
Then we can go back to Babcia,
back to Gdańsk,
home.
Please, Tata.
Kasienka
It was in the sixth-form section
Of the library.
I liked the fuchsia cover. I liked her name.
Plath. A name like a heavy breath.
And I read. Slowly I read. In English.
About Plath’s desire to die.
And I wonder if I could do that.
I wonder if I could surrender.
And take my last breaths
Instead of living with a rock
In my belly.
‘She isn’t even pretty,’
I tell Kanoro.
We are shelling peas for dinner,
Popping more into our mouths
Than we put in the pan.
‘She isn’t as pretty as Mama,’
I tell him.
Kanoro isn’t surprised.
He shakes his head.
He sees Mama’s grace,
And sometimes he creates it.
‘And the child isn’t as pretty as you,’
Kanoro says.
He knows this will make me cry,
Which I do.
To see Tata,
And Melanie,
And the baby
Briony,
Who is my sister,
Although they haven’t said so,
And I don’t ask.
It just happened,
Quite naturally,
And I never
Mention it
To Mama.
Something draws me.
It isn’t the hot chocolate;
I never can finish a cup.
It isn’t the monstrous television;
It only ever plays cartoons.
It is, maybe, the calm family feel
Of the kitchen,
Where Melanie
Throws food into the microwave,
Clothes into the washing machine,
Going about her chores with pleasure – ease –
And not complaining, or too tired to play
With the baby
Or talk to me
When Tata’s not around.
I don’t want her to be nice.
It isn’t her job.
And it makes me feel wicked
When she offers me a piece of cheesecake,
More than I could possibly eat,
With as much cream as I like.
It would be easier if
She hated me,
Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty.
She could turn me away
When I stand at
The doorstep
Hungry and tired –
The out-of-date daughter.
She doesn’t do that.
She wouldn’t.
Because she’s nice.
She makes milkshakes.
Any flavour I like.
She asks about me :
About school,
Swimming,
Poland –
Never about Mama,
Of course.
I don’t always respond.
I sulk a lot.
To show her what she is
And what she’s done.
But she doesn’t seem to notice.
She doesn’t expect me to like her.
No moods when
I ignore the child.
And when Tata’s around
She leaves us alone.
She knows she isn’t welcome,
Isn’t a part of this history
Or of us.
I want to hate Melanie,
But I can see why Tata wants her.
And sometimes, when Melanie
Leaves the room
I wish she’d stayed,
Because she’s easier to be with
Than Tata;
She looks me straight in the eye
Which is more than he can ever do.
Tata didn’t teach me to lie,
Now he’s condoning it,
Every time I land at his door
And he doesn’t mention Mama.
Every time he offers me money
To pay for my silence.
Tata took me to church
Though I protested some Sundays
Because virtue matters,
He’d said.
Tata taught me prayers
That took hours to recite –
The Holy Rosary and
How to hold the beads,
To count the prayers,
Do daily worship.
Tata wrote the rules
We had to follow –
Rules he never read
Himself
.
Tata’s ashamed
Whenever he has to see me
And be reminded of the sin
He never planned to commit.
The long-haired Lady Godiva rode naked
As a new lamb
Through the Saxon streets of Coventry.
Her husband should have loved her more.
He should have loved her enough to
Concede,
To keep her safe from Peeping Tom.
Now, in Broadgate,
There is a statue, a misplaced tribute
Outside a coffee shop.
And no one stops to look up
At the brave, bronze Lady Godiva,
Who cared more for others
Than for her own modesty,
Apart from the odd teenage boy
Who doesn’t really look at Godiva
But at something else,
And misses the point completely.
Mama listens to Madame Butterfly and
Sings along to
‘Un Bel Di Vedremo’
.
When she hits a high note,
One only she can reach,
She raises her hands
Like a soprano on stage at
The Grand Theatre.
She is so bold
I imagine she is capable of anything.
So I tell her the truth.
She shuts off the music,
Sits on the bed and twists her
Hands in her lap.
I see she is seething,
But her mouth stays still
While I tell her everything
Except who found Tata.