I Am Noor

Mum

Sun-
    It is 6 AM, and it's been nearly a week since I so much as glanced at my rosary. The image of the Immaculate Mother on my nighttable is beginning to collect dust. I can't remember the last time I ventured to the bookshelf to pick up my Bible.
    With each day that passes without prayer and devotion, an inner alienation becomes more apparent. I cannot even look in the direction of my holy items without a feeling of profound unworthiness.
    It is as if I've transgressed my virtue in some terrible way that eludes me. Laziness and lethargy have sapped what willpower I have left.
    As I write this, I am still in bed, wearing the same sweat-soaked nightie from the morning before. I haven't once washed, brushed my teeth, or even raked my fingers through my hair.
    A sublime voice entices me to look at my reflection in the mirror, but I don't dare. I am too afraid of what I will see.
    I have begun to dream of monsters and mayhem.

Later- I miss Twitter, Pinterest, Google, and Netflix. Lying face-down on my bed, I swim in a cesspool of self-pity and wonder when I'll get to see those luxuries again.
    Then I think of the crisis going on in Syria and all those water-logged refugees, and I feel properly chastened.
    What have you really got to complain about, Noor?
    Your pages, Sketchbook, are dog-eared and smudged with tears. Since I talk (write?) to you more than anyone else, I feel I should give you a name worthy of my only friend in the world.
    I will call you 'Dhia'. It is one of the most popular baby girl names in Indonesia.
    Dhia, Dhia, Dhia.
    I like the way that looks.

Midafternoon.
    Lying on my bed in a complete fog. Moments ago I attempted to recite the Lord's Prayer and actually forgot the words.
    I sincerely think I'm having a stroke.
   
6PM-
    Someone is knocking. Ah, Mum!
    Wait for me, Dhia.

Midnight--
    There is no sleep to be had. Before my things were confiscated by Walter, I'd watch Downtown Abbey until exhaustion overcame me-- but I can't do that anymore, can I?
    Shortly after 6 last night, Mum came to the door and called out for me.
    "Noor? You must eat, putri! Open  up and give your mother the happiness of feeding you!"
    Unable to suppress a smile, I slipped out of bed and unlocked the door. Mum stood at the threshold with a piping hot plate of ketupak in her hands; she knows how much I like rice cakes (especially with her signature veggie curry as a side).
    She looked as beautiful as ever, wearing a pale, pine-green abaya and two decorative chopstick-barrettes speared through the elegant bun at the nape of her neck.
    Her face was beaming, like the freshly risen moon...but in her eyes, sadness loitered stubbornly.
    "I may come in?"
    "Sure, Ibu. You never need to ask!" I held open the door for her and in she came, swaying gracefully to the foot of my bed. She sat primly, and I was all too happy to take the tray of ketupak off her hands.
    It smelled wonderful! There was also a tiny dish of nasiuduk, or steamed rice made with coconut milk. I hadn't been seated next to her for even a full five minutes before half the rice cakes were in my starving belly.
    "You eat like bear," said Mum, smoothing the comforter between us with a nervous hand.
     "Huh?" With the rice cake gone, I started straight away on the coconut rice.
    "Like bear," Mum repeated. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine. "Always chomp-chomp, like hungry bear. Mouth open, no wiping face. You not eat enough?"
    I remembered Mrs. Beckan, and my stomach tightened. Pushing the plate out of my lap, I felt a hot flush seep into my cheeks, and I buried my face in my hands.
    Mum shifted until she was close enough to put an arm around me. If she noticed my sweat-stained nightie or the stench that by now seemed to permeate the entire room, she didn't let on.
    "We talk, Noor," she said softly.
    "There's nothing to talk about." With my face still pressed into my palms, my voice was muffled. "I love you, Ibu! You are the best mother a girl could wish for. So why did you send me away? I had to leave everything: my brothers, my friends...I've been miserable ever since. And you never called! Not once!" I could feel tears brimming. I hated to cry.
    "I no know what to say," said Mum softly. "I send you here, to your father, to keep you safe from--"
    "From what? What could have possibly been so bad that you had to send me thousands of miles away to live with a man I hate?" I demanded. "I missed you so much. But you were never there for me, and you could have been! You could have...I mean, we could have..." I was too overcome with tears to continue.
    "I tell you."
    "...what?"
    "I tell you why I send you here."
    Hardly daring to hope, I peeked out at her through a gap in my fingers. She withdrew her arm and sat, firm, resolute, small shoulders squared. Her hands were clasped in her lap, the knuckles trembling and bone-white.
    Mum looked at the floor, and I waited. (I don't have a clock, but at that moment I could imagine one ticking.)
    "My husband died," she began, "and I am left with your brothers. So many boys!" She chuckled softly.
"So I work hard, very hard. Sell veggie dumplings in street for only little money, take picture with American tourists. Same, same, everyday, until I meet--"
    Mum paused, inhaling richly. After absently smoothing her hair, she continued.
    "I meet handsome American."
    "You mean Walter?"
    Mum shook her head. "No. Before Walter. I meet man called White Wing."
    At that moment I experienced a sudden recollection: the hulking, acrid, smoky monster from that awful nightmare. A chill bloomed at the base of my neck and trickled its way to the bottom of my spine.
    "Ibu, did he have long hair?"
    Mum peered up at me sharply.
    "In a ponytail?"
    "How you know this?"
    I bit my lip, then clasped my arms around my knees. I didn't have the heart or the stomach to tell her what I'd seen in that dream. "I-- I was just wondering."
    Mum looked away and sighed. "I meet him in road walking home one night. Nice man. Handsome. He help me with bags, next day drive me to work, so I no need walk. Play sport with your brothers sometimes, with ball and bat, soccer. And I like him." She paused. "Then I think I love him."
    By this time I was captivated and had forgotten my discomfort. "Well, did you-- marry?"
    "Ya Allah, I confess! I did not marry him, but we did what we should not do."
    My heart stopped, tripped itself, and then stopped again before ticking away like a nervous ballerina's shoes.
    "You slept with him," I murmured in disbelief.
    "Tidak, no!" Mum shook her head resolutely. "But he kiss me one night. I have fright, run away, hide from him. Take taxi to work. But cannot hide forever...and one day, he come to my dumpling stand. White Wing say to me, 'Come home. To America. You have something that belong to me.' And I tell him: 'Tidak, tidak. I go no place with you!'"
    My voice felt as if it had hidden from me. "What happened when you turned him down?" I croaked.
    Mum shrugged, a gesture unusual for her. "He get upset. Leaves. In a week, maybe two, I see a newspaper with White Wing's face on it. He waited for a train. Jumped in front. Dead."
    Mum made a sweeping motion with her hands, as though to signify a dismissal of trouble.
    I could hardly believe it. "He comitted suicide?"
    Dhia, I can't even begin to tell you the questions that swamped my poor brain at that point. Everything seemed to swim before me, and I felt faint, teetering at the chasm of total collapse.
    Dark, handsome stranger. Forbidden kiss. Careless love (lust)?
    I had begun to tremble. Mum, the most queenly, virtuous, demure woman in the world, had had almost the same encounter with a long-haired man that I'd had at the beginning of last month. Was he--
    Mum turned suddenly and grabbed my shoulders, shaking them hard. Her soft, dark eyes were now as piercing as coal, boring into my face with frenzied desperation.
    "Noor Izarra, my light, my shining sun, you must promise me to never be alone with any man!" she told me. "Come home from school and stay home. Do not go out after dark and look no man in the eye, ever! Can you promise me this one thing?"
    I could only stare back helplessly.
    It is too late for that, Ibu.
    But a question remained. I needed to know.
    "Mum, Walter isn't my father, is he?"
    With an air of defeat, Mum shook her head. "He is not."
    "Then who is he to me? To us? Why the hell did you marry him at all?"
   Then I thought of something else. "Mum...is White Wing my father?"
    Instead of answering, Mum delicately picked up the dish of nasiuduk and held it out to me.     "Eat," she said.
    "Mum, I'm full."
    "I made special for you. Eat!"
    Unwilling to make her sad, I took the dish and a spoon and scooped up a bite. It was piquant, spicy, and made my tongue feel aflame.
    Coughing and sputtering, I asked: "What did you put in this?"
    Mum smiled. The expression did not meet her eyes.
    "Clove," she replied.
    "Cloves? Are you trying to poison me?" With self control now scattered to the four corners, I hurled the dish against the far wall as though it were a scalding grenade. Porcelain shattered. Glutinous bits of rice oozed from the wall down to the floor, like those dumb rubber octopuses I used to have as a kid.
    "You know I hate cloves. You know I can't stand cloves!"
    My outburst didn't seem to phase Mum in the least. Her features softened, and she looked at my boiling, beet-red cheeks the way a doe gazes at her new fawn.
    "I made mistake back then," said Mum. "I walked alone in dark, but should have had friend. There were many djinn in those places, and I found one. No-- djinn found me."
    Mum took a deep breath before getting up and heading for the door.
    "No, Mum, please don't go!" I cried. "I'm sorry about my temper!  I'm sorry I broke the bowl! I'm sorry I'm not perfect, sorry for whatever I did, but please don't leave me!" I realized with dismay that I was beginning to sob.
    Mum stepped out of the room, then turned to look back.
    "Sometime djinn attach to family. Follow for generations. Promise me, Noor, that you will stay far from those which Allah has made from smoke."
    "I promise," I whispered.
    Smiling once more, Mum stepped out and closed the door behind her.