The Good Daughter (15 page)

I stared at her like a deer in headlights. There was no graceful way to get out of this one and I should know, I'd been caught so many times. They always begged me to remember them. Once a woman asked me if I remembered her rocking me to sleep when I was six months old. I'd learnt to look at them with a faint smile and wait until they got involved in the conversation and forgot about me.

‘
Ona je isti otac
,' Nermin said.

My ears pricked. Sanela's husband had just said that I looked exactly like my father. Did that mean he knew him?

‘Yes, she does.' Mum put her hand on my shoulder and pulled me to her side. ‘Sanela and Nermin were our neighbours when I was married to your father,' Mum explained.

‘Where is Esad?' Nermin asked.

‘He lives in Hobart,' Mum answered.

My father had re-married soon after divorcing my mother. I knew he had more kids. I guess they were my siblings, but since I'd never met them and wasn't likely to, I never thought about it.

I used to pester Mum with questions about my Dad or pore over the photo album containing the few photos of their wedding and marriage. But whenever I probed Mum she took on that wounded look and changed the subject. In the end I'd stopped asking, figuring that if he didn't want me in his life, then I didn't want anything to do with him either.

‘Come here Sabiha.' Mum tugged me to the kitchen.

‘Prepare the
fildjani
,' she ordered. I went back to the living room for the demitasse coffee cups in the glass cabinet, while she got the
djezva
, the coffee pot, and spooned coffee into it.

‘I don't want to go to
mejtef
any more,' I told her as I helped.

‘Tough.' Mum placed the saucepan of milk on the stove.

I caught sight of the thick cream floating on top and turned away. ‘But you said that you owed me.'

‘No.' Mum put the kettle on to boil. ‘You said I owed you.' Mum counted the
fildjani
. ‘Okay, you know what to do now. When the water boils pour it into the
djezva
, place the
djezva
on the stove until the coffee starts frothing and then add three teaspoons of sugar. Then bring the coffee out,' Mum instructed.

‘I'm not your maid,' I said defiantly.

Mum stepped closer and grabbed my arm. ‘You are my daughter and you will do what I tell you while you're under my roof,' she whispered. ‘I'll leave you to it.' She let go of my arm and left.

I heard her crowing to the guests that I would serve the coffee and my hurt flickered into anger. The only reason she needed my help was to show off. She didn't care about me or what I wanted.

I didn't understand how we'd come to this. Mum and I used to talk to each other like girlfriends. Yet now she was turning into a dictator. The kettle boiled, I poured the water, put the
djezva
on the stovetop, then stirred the coffee and waited for it to froth.

My hand stilled. I was doing what she wanted. I was performing like a circus monkey. I lifted the
djezva
over the sink and started tipping out the coffee. No, it was too simple. I lifted the
djezva
upright. She'd only make another pot.

Looking around the kitchen for a tool of revenge my eyes settled on the sugar canister. Right next to it was the salt in an identical canister. The only difference was the name on the lid. Perfect. I spooned three tablespoons of salt into the
djezva
and put it on the tray.

Mum would be judged as a mother by how well I performed domestic tasks, especially the making of coffee. Coffee to a Bosnian is like Guinness to an Irishman. Refugees who'd been in Bosnia during the war spoke about grinding rice instead of coffee beans while under siege. It's more than a social custom, it's a source of national pride and identity.

I carried the tray to the living room. I'd thought we were friends, but if Mum wanted to play the role of the traditional mother, that left me with the role of the rebellious daughter. I clunked the tray on the glass-top coffee table.

Sanela's mum, Enisa, counted the
fildjani
, her lips moving and her head bobbing. ‘Won't she be drinking coffee?' she asked.

‘She's fifteen.' Mum poured the first
fildjan
, stirred it by gently tipping the cup, then poured the coffee back into the pot.

‘I was married when I was her age,' Enisa said.

I gave Mum a stern look. She handed me a
fildjan
on a saucer. ‘Pass this to Dido and get yourself a
fildjan
.'

I returned with a
fildjan
, handed it to Mum, then sat on the floor beside her. Now it was a just matter of who'd take the first sip.

‘She's a real beauty,' Enisa said, her
fildjan
approaching her mouth. ‘She won't have any trouble finding a husband.'

She was talking about me as if I was a heifer on the market. I opened my mouth, but Mum grabbed my hand and squeezed a warning. ‘She's got a few years yet.'

I moved my hand away and smiled as Sanela's mum tipped the
fildjan
towards her mouth.
Drink, you old bat. Drink.

‘
Pi
ku materinu
,' Dido swore loudly. Everyone froze. He'd used the traditional Bosnian profanity that translated as
Your
mother's vagina
. ‘There's salt in the coffee.'

Mum took a sip from her
fildjan
, her face puckering in disgust. ‘My apologies.' She collected all the
fildjani
. ‘I'll make another coffee.' She walked into the kitchen calling my name. ‘What did you do?' she demanded, loudly, so they could all hear what a disciplinarian she was.

‘I put sugar in it.' I lifted the salt canister.

‘That's salt.' Mum tapped the lid furiously. ‘This is sugar.' She pointed to the other canister.

‘Well?' I asked loudly—I could play this game too. ‘They both look the same.'

Mum grimaced.

I stormed out of the kitchen and slammed my bedroom door behind me. I threw myself on the bed, muffling my laughter in the pillow. It was perfect. I pictured Mum's face when she realised there was nothing she could do. On the surface it was a simple mistake anyone could have made.

After the guests left Mum came by to apologise. I played the hard-done-by daughter and tried to get out of
mejtef
again. She ‘promised' she'd think about it. I knew she was just saying that to get me off her case.

On Monday morning I woke late and smiled when I remembered it was a public holiday: I could eat my cereal in front of the TV. I crawled out of bed and opened the sliding door to the living room. My bleary eyes and sluggish brain took a moment to process what I was seeing.

The sofa cushions were on the floor and Mum and Safet were sprawled over them, their naked bodies entwined, their faces slack-jawed with surprise as they stared at me. Mum was on top and they were both red-faced and sweaty.

nightmare on wooley street

‘Ohhh!' a scream emerged from my throat, like I'd walked into a horror set and seen a dead body. ‘Fuck, fuck,' I whispered as I stumbled to my bedroom, my stomach heaving.

Mum burst into my room. ‘Why aren't you at school?' she shouted, breathless.

I glanced over and saw she'd put on a nightgown, but it was almost transparent and she was still naked underneath. ‘Eooww,' I groaned and turned away from her. ‘Because it's a public holiday.'

‘Listen.' She lowered her voice. ‘There's no need to tell Dido about this.'

‘Where is Dido?' I asked.

‘He went to meet Edin at the mosque café.'

‘So you thought it was your chance for public sex?' I grabbed my pillow and held it to my stomach, still reeling from what I'd seen.

‘It's my house.'

‘I live here too.'

‘You're right,' Mum said. ‘Listen, Sabiha, Dido would be embarrassed—'

Safet stuck his head in the doorway. ‘Why isn't she at school?' he demanded.

‘Get him out of here!' I shouted, hiding my face in the pillow. The image of his black, curly chest hair matted against his sweaty, naked torso appeared before my eyes and it made me feel ill.

Mum went into the hallway, leaving my bedroom door open so I could hear what they were saying. ‘You have to go,' she said.

‘But I haven't finished.' I heard smacking noises like they were kissing and my lips curled in disgust. ‘Send her to school so we can finish,' he said.

‘I can't,' Mum said. ‘It's a public holiday.'

He groaned. ‘Bahra, why didn't you tell me?'

‘I'm sorry,' Mum said. ‘All the days blur together. I'll come to your house as soon as I finish talking to Sabiha.'

‘I'll be waiting,' Safet said. I heard footsteps and the front door slammed.

‘Sabiha,' Mum said softly. ‘Can I come in?' I didn't answer. The bed dipped as she sat on it. ‘I didn't know today was a holiday.'

I turned to look at her. ‘Why would you?'

She flinched. ‘I know that you're angry with me.' She lifted her arm. I glared at her in case she thought about touching me. She sighed and folded her hands onto her lap. ‘But there's no point telling Dido.' She started crying. ‘I try so hard,' she whimpered. ‘I've embarrassed Babo so much over the years. I can't disappoint him again.'

Why did she always manage to make me feel sorry for her? She was the one who did the wrong thing, but I was the one who felt guilty. I knew I couldn't tell Dido. Imagining that conversation made my head swim.

‘I won't tell,' I muttered between clenched teeth.

Mum wiped her face with her hands and smiled.

‘But,' I said, before she got her hopes up. ‘I have a request—' I let my sentence hang in mid-air.

‘You're blackmailing me again?'

I refused to feel guilty. She pushed me to this. If she'd been reasonable we wouldn't have entered this war of attrition, but now I had no choice.

‘What do you want?' she asked.

‘No more
mejtef
.'

‘Dido would never allow it.' She stood and paced between my bed and the door.

‘Dido doesn't need to know everything.'

‘I can't let you drop out of
mejtef
—'

‘Fine, it's your funeral,' I said, ready to storm out.

‘But I can tell the
hodja
that you're sick next Saturday.'

I thought about it for a moment. I could just continue being sick. After all it wasn't in Mum's best interest to bust me in a lie. All I had to do was pretend to go to
mejtef
and she'd be forced to cover for me. ‘Deal.' I put my hand out.

Mum shook my hand. ‘You're impossible.'

I hugged her, momentarily full of love and joy. ‘You're the best, Mum.'

She hugged me back. ‘You know I love you and if I'd known you were home I never would have—'

‘Okay, okay…' I pulled away, the nausea returning. ‘I'll also need money to keep me out of the house on Saturday.'

‘You have no shame,' she scolded, before leaving my bedroom.

I needed breakfast. I lay back on the bed. I'd give Mum a few minutes to clean up before I went to eat.

The following Saturday I woke ‘to get ready for
mejtef
'. I wore my denim skirt with tights underneath and a tight knitted top with a scooped neckline. I put on a jacket and carried my lipstick and eyeliner with me, just in case Dido was around. With one last look in the mirror, I was ready for a day of fun. I entered Mum's bedroom and kicked her bed. ‘Pay up!'

‘What—' She wriggled like a giant trapped caterpillar.

‘Come on.' I kicked the bed again.

The last week had flown by. The only tricky part had been keeping my mouth shut about our plans for Saturday. I couldn't chance anyone at school finding out, especially not Adnan or Dina, so I'd sworn Jesse and Brian to secrecy.

Mum opened her eyes. ‘What do you want?'

I threw her handbag onto the bed. ‘For “
mejtef ”
.' My fingers made air quotations. She had her hamster-on-the-wheel look yet again. This wasn't good. ‘Fine,' I headed to the door. ‘If you don't want to keep your side of the bargain—'

‘Here.' Mum thrust a twenty-dollar note at me. I kept my hand held out. She slapped a ten-dollar note on my palm.

‘Ta.' I kissed her on the cheek.

‘Hi guys.' I was cheerful as I walked up to Brian and Jesse who were waiting at the bus stop. We were catching the 408 bus from St Albans to Highpoint Shopping Centre.

Brian kissed me on the cheek and yawned. ‘It's the break of dawn,' he squinted.

‘It's nine a.m.' I kissed Jesse on the cheek. He didn't kiss me back, but at least he didn't flinch either. We were slowly relaxing with each other. After our talk on parent–teacher night we'd been sending each other our writing via email. But somehow it was still easier communicating in writing than face to face.