The Good Daughter (14 page)

‘And now he's too good to get a job that will dirty his hands,' Auntie Zehra sniffed. ‘Why should he when his sister Safeta works to support him? He's latched onto Bahra because she owns her house and gets a pension. If he marries her he won't ever have to work again.'

‘Zehra, stop it.' Dido sounded tired. ‘He treats Bahra well.'

Auntie Zehra was silent. ‘He doesn't look like a man who's capable of taking care of anyone but himself,' she said in a rush. She couldn't help herself.

‘If she's with him she won't be screwing around,' Dido exploded.

I wanted to yell at him.

‘Bahra deserves better than being a meal ticket,' Auntie Zehra said.

‘Do you see anyone else lining up to be with her?' Dido demanded. ‘I know you're right, Zehra, but if she marries him she'll be with a Muslim. She would have stability and respect.'

I went back to my bedroom. I hated what Dido said and I hated him for saying it, but I wanted that thing so badly I could almost taste it. Respect. If Mum married Safet, people would stop treating her like she was a joke. We'd finally be normal and Bosnians would no longer regard us as an exotic soap opera. Maybe with Safet our luck could change. I made a vow: I would stop being a bitch to Safet. If he wanted to be with Mum, then I wouldn't stand in his way.

I needed to change my headspace. I grabbed my journal and began my article for the local newspaper competition—it had to be on a community issue, so I plundered my
mejtef
experience and started scribbling about what the mosque meant to the Bosnian community. The prize was publication.

Auntie Zehra called me. She, Merisa and Adnan were putting on their shoes. Auntie kissed me on the cheek. ‘Adnan will come tomorrow to fix your bike.'

‘I'm going to
mejtef
in the morning.' Why couldn't I have a parent who was a communist?

‘I'll come in the afternoon,' Adnan said. ‘You can make me lunch as a reward.' He waggled his eyebrows.

‘Help yourself,' I muttered.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and saw Mum's pill-box on top of the fridge. Her medication was in a weekly pill-box because she had to take her tablets throughout the day. I reached for it. The Friday night compartment was full. Shit. No. It was happening again.

going cold turkey

I ran for the phone and flipped through our address book for Safet's number. ‘You forgot your meds,' I blurted when Safet put Mum on.

‘I've got the Lithium with me,' Mum said blankly. ‘I'll be fine with them and I'll take the others when I come home.'

She hung up and I felt like I'd missed an oncoming train. These white tablets were the mortar that held Mum's sanity together. If she stopped taking them it was all over.

‘What's the matter?' Dido asked.

‘I thought Mum didn't take her pills.'

‘Did she?'

‘Yes,' I said.

‘She's an adult, she can take care of herself.' He butted out his cigarette.

I returned the pill-box to the top of the fridge. It was easy for him to be relaxed. He didn't know what happened when she got sick. The way she broke into a thousand pieces and it took months for her to recover into something resembling the person she was. But thankfully I didn't have to worry about that now because she was still taking her medication.

When I came home from
mejtef
the next day Adnan was in the backyard. My bike was upside down and he was attaching reflectors. ‘Where is everyone?' I asked.

‘I haven't seen your mum,' Adnan replied. She mustn't have come home from Safet's yet. ‘And Dido was meeting someone for coffee in St Albans.'

My boom box was on the stairs by the back door, blasting a Bosnian rock song. ‘Who's singing?' I asked.

‘Bijelo Dugme.'

‘White Button,' I laughed. ‘Funny name for a band.'

‘It's no funnier than Duboko Ljubi
asto, željezna Djevica, Kotrljajućce Kamenje.'

Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, Rolling Stones.

‘Okay. Point taken.'

The song was a mixture of a folk song, a rock ballad and a classical symphony. I liked it, but could only understand one word in ten.

‘What's it called?' I asked.

‘
Pediculis Pubis
,' Adnan answered, tipping the bike upright.

‘What does that mean?'

‘You have to understand the context.'

‘You don't know how to translate it.'

Adnan laughed.

‘What?' I shouted. I was so sick of being the butt of his private jokes.

‘All done.' Adnan kicked the stand. ‘I'll translate the song...if you make me a sandwich for lunch.'

‘Fine.' I slammed the screen door behind me. He always seemed to get his way. Adnan opened the door and walked past me. He returned to the backyard with a pen and paper. While I prepared us roast beef sandwiches I heard the song rewinding and fast-forwarding.

‘It's ready,' I shouted, and sat to eat.

He came in and slid the notepad towards me.

I pointed at the paper. ‘These aren't even Bosnian words.'

‘It's Sarajevo jail slang. Inmates learnt to speak really fast in a simple code,' he pronounced proudly.

‘They're singing about crabs?'

Adnan laughed.

‘It's about a sexually transmitted disease!' I screeched.

Adnan laughed louder. ‘Come on, it's still a great song.'

‘To you maybe,' I said.

‘I'll leave you the CD to listen to.' He passed me his empty plate. ‘That was a beautiful sandwich, Sabiha.'

‘Thank you.' Why did I fall into the trap of serving him?

He patted his belly. ‘I'm still peckish.'

‘Do you want another one?' He had me over a barrel, what with the bike and then explaining the song. If only he didn't turn everything into a bargaining match.

‘Thanks,' he smiled, his blue eyes twinkling.

He ate the second sandwich in four bites. ‘That was absolutely yummy. You know what I want to eat now.' He paused, looking at the ceiling. ‘I'd love a caramel dipped in dark chocolate.

I frowned. That sounded so familiar.

‘It would make my tummy tingly,' Adnan continued.

I gasped. ‘You bastard!' It sounded familiar because I wrote in my diary that Brian's eyes were like caramels dipped in dark chocolate, and how being around him made my tummy tingly. ‘You read my diary!'

‘Of course not.' He smiled smugly.

I hit him. I got in a few slaps across his head and shoulders before he grabbed my hands. ‘Let go, you prick!' I shouted. ‘I'll kill you!' I struggled, managing to slide my hands out of his grip and belt him across the head.

Mum chose this moment to arrive home.

‘What's going on?' She pulled me away from Adnan.

‘That prick read my diary.'

‘Did you do that, Adnan?' Mum asked.

‘No.' Adnan put on a hurt face. ‘I'd never do that.'

‘He's lying.' I reached past Mum to hit him.

‘Sabiha, you can't attack a guest in our house.' Mum grabbed hold of my shoulders.

‘How can you believe him over me?'

‘I'd better get going.' Adnan stood.

‘Thank Adnan.' Mum looked at me expectantly.

‘I'm not thanking him.'

‘Sabiha,' Mum gasped.

‘It's okay,' Adnan said, as he closed the front door.

‘Sabiha, I'm disappointed in you. You should behave better than this.'

‘He should know better than to go through someone's personal belongings.'

‘Stop lying,' Mum said wearily.

I calmed down as her words cut through me. ‘When have I lied?'

‘You lied about kissing a boy in front of our house.'

‘How many times do I have to say it, he kissed me on the cheek.'

‘Suada saw you,' Mum said. ‘People are talking.'

‘So what?' I said.

‘They shouldn't be talking about us,' Mum said. ‘I'm doing everything right, but all they remember is what we do wrong.'

‘Who cares?'

‘I do. Sabiha, be good for me,' Mum urged.

‘I am.' I was on the verge of tears. ‘I'm doing everything you want—'

‘That's not true.' Mum cut me off. ‘Safet says—'

‘This is all about him, isn't it?' I demanded. ‘All you care about is impressing him.'

‘That's not all I care about—'

‘Yes it is. Since you met him you act as if I don't exist.'

‘Please, Sabiha,' Mum sighed. The phone rang. ‘Don't exaggerate,' she said over her shoulder as she went to answer it.

I waited for a moment, but she settled on the sofa, like I wasn't there. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door. I served Dido like his own personal waitress, I played the good daughter whenever we were in company, I even went to
mejtef
and gave up my Saturday morning,
and
I worried about my mother's well-being. And what did I get in return?

The second drawer of my desk was open. Adnan hadn't returned my diary to its right place. At least he hadn't found Mum's old love letters from Darko that I had hidden under my bed. But I would definitely have to find a new hiding place for my diary. I cringed as I re-read my entries. I'd written about Brian on nearly every page. I crumpled onto the bed in embarrassment. Adnan would never let me live this down. Grabbing a pen I began a new entry, all about Mum. I'd filled six pages when there was a knock on the door.

‘Sabiha?' Mum opened the door and stuck her head in. ‘Can you please help serve our guests?'

‘Are you for real?' Did she think I'd forgotten about our fight in an hour?

‘Please,' Mum pleaded. ‘I need your help.'

I wanted to tell her to get stuffed, but her look of desperation got to me. ‘All right,' I said. ‘But you owe me.'

She walked ahead of me to the living room. ‘This is my daughter Sabiha.' She made the introductions in Bosnian. Safet was on the sofa and Dido in the armchair. ‘This is Sanela and her husband Nermin, and Sanela's mother Enisa.'

‘
Merhaba
,' I said.

‘Sabiha, do you remember me?' Sanela pulled me down for a smacking kiss on the cheeks, her moustache brushing my face. ‘I used to care for you when you were little.' She put her hand at waist height.

I telegraphed an SOS with my eyes to Mum.

‘Sanela used to live in our street before we moved to Thornbury,' Mum explained.

‘You used to love to eat my
hurmashice
.' Sanela squeezed my hands. Do you remember?' She kissed my hands as if I was a baby again.