The Good Daughter (5 page)

Mum poked her head into my room. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Ever heard of knocking?'

‘Come with me,' Mum commanded.

She was standing behind the kitchen table. ‘Today we're making
pita
.' She handed me a pen and paper.

‘What's this for?'

‘To make notes.' She put on her apron.

‘Will you test me?'

‘Yes.'

‘This is a waste of time. I don't need to cook.' I put the pen down.

‘What will you do when you get married and have children?' Mum asked.

‘Takeaway,' I snarled.

‘Let's hope you make enough money to buy takeaway,' Mum said.

‘Maybe I'll marry a chef.'

Mum let out a bark of laughter. ‘As if a man who cooks all day for a living will come home and cook for you.'

‘I know how to make
pita
.' I slouched in the chair. ‘I've seen you do it enough times over the years.'

‘Okay,' She put her hands on her hips. ‘Tell me how you make the dough?'

I drew a blank. Of course I'd never paid attention. ‘Flour and milk,' I said decisively.

Mum's eyebrows rose. ‘Not quite.' She placed a bowl on the table. ‘To make dough you need one tablespoon of salt, four cups of flour and two cups of warm water.' She waited for me to take down the recipe. I started writing. It wouldn't hurt to learn. I mean, I loved
pita
.

‘Place the flour into a bowl.' Mum counted with her plastic measuring cup. ‘Then add the salt and stir.' She held the jug of water with her right hand and poured it into the bowl while stirring with her left hand. ‘Have a look.' She tipped the bowl. ‘You knead until it forms into a ball of dough and leave it to rise for twenty minutes.'

I stood. ‘I'll come back in half an hour.'

‘Nice try.' She took a plate off the bench-top. ‘This is dough I prepared earlier.'

I smiled at her television-chef imitation. Remembering myself, I formed my mouth into a straight line. There was no way I'd let her think I was enjoying this.

‘As you can see, I kneaded this dough, then flattened it onto the plate and rubbed oil onto the top.' Peeling off the Gladwrap, she placed the pancake dough on the table, in the middle of the white tablecloth.

She smoothed the dough using the Bosnian version of a rolling pin, a long stick the length of a broom handle, called an
oklagiya
. The
oklagiya
holds a special place in Bosnian life. Apart from cooking, it's also used to measure kids and to beat kids. Whenever Mum told me stories about her childhood she'd inevitably end it with, ‘And then Mum chased us with an
oklagiya
.'

Thankfully she'd never shared that tradition with me. Mum's idea of discipline was talking to me until I buckled under the weight of her emotional blackmail.

Mum placed her fingers in the middle of the stick and rolled her hands onto it, while maintaining even pressure over the whole expanse of dough. After each roll she jerked the dough in another direction, flattening it evenly. ‘Have a go.' She held out the stick.

I tried to manipulate the
oklagiya
, but the wood pressed into my hands and made them itch. My lower back twinged as I bent over the table. My shoulders tensed and bunched up.

Mum stared at the misshapen dough. ‘It's okay. I'll take over now.' She adjusted the dough with a few strokes of the
oklagiya
, the muscles in her forearms taut as she manoeuvred the stick. She placed it in the middle of the table and folded the pastry over it. Lifting the
oklagiya
in the air with one hand, she tugged the edges with the other, stretching the pastry into a see-through sheet.

‘Can I have a go?'

She passed the stick. My arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as I fought to hold it in the air. I tugged the dough, but instead of stretching it the way Mum did, I tore it.

‘That's okay.' Mum took the
oklagiya
and spread out the pastry sheet on the table. ‘I'll cut that part off. Now we do the filling.' She removed another bowl from the fridge. ‘I made the mixture for
zeljanica
.'

There were so many variations, you could pretty much think of an ingredient and there would be a
pita
based on it. As well as my favourite
zeljanica
with spinach, there was
krompirusa
—potato,
burek
—meat,
sirnica
—cheese,
tikvenica
— pumpkin,
maslanica
—layered with butter and cheese,
jabukovaca
—apple, and there was also a
burek
variation with potato and minced meat.

‘
Merhaba
,' Dido said as he came through the back door.

I was too busy scribbling to return his greeting and just moved my chair out of the way to let him pass.

‘What's this?' Dido asked. ‘Bosnian women don't write down recipes. They toss the ingredients together and make a meal.'

‘I'm not Bosnian then.' I threw the notepad on the floor and left.

‘Come back here!' Dido shouted. He reached for my arm, but Mum stopped him. ‘Again! Where's her respect?' he ranted as I stomped down the hallway. ‘A good beating would knock the stubbornness out of her. Give me the
oklagiya
.'

A few minutes later Mum tapped on my bedroom door and pushed it open. I was lying on my side with my back to the door. ‘Go away,' I muttered.

‘Sweetie, he didn't mean to upset you.'

‘Yes, he did. He loves putting me down.'

She sat on the bed. ‘He doesn't. That's his sense of humour.'

‘He's a pig.'

‘Don't call your grandfather names,' Mum scolded without conviction.

I curled into a ball with my arms over my head.

‘Sabiha, please come back to the kitchen.'

Sullenly I followed her back, but this time I didn't take any notes while she talked. After she finished making the
pita
, I hid in my bedroom until dinner. When I came out, Safet was already sitting at the kitchen table.

When dinner was over, I lay on a cushion in front of the TV. Dido was reading
Bosna Magazin
, the Australian Bosnian newspaper. I took the remote off the coffee table and switched the channel.

‘Girl,' Dido growled behind me. ‘I was watching that.'

‘It's in Greek. You don't even understand what they're saying.'

He hogged the TV and watched nothing but news. He'd flip from channel to channel and watch every bulletin. Then he'd switch over to SBS and watch French, Arab, Russian, Ukrainian and, of course, Greek news.

‘I can understand that,' Dido insisted.

‘No you can't.' I gripped the remote.

‘I can understand Ukrainian and Russian and that's coming on next.' Even though the Russians and Ukrainians spoke in a different dialect, we used a lot of the same Slavic words.

‘Mum!' I yelled.

‘Bahra!' Dido yelled at the same time.

‘Okay.' Mum put her hands out for us to stop. ‘Sabiha can watch “Home and Away” while you and Safet play chess,' she said to Dido. ‘After that Safet and I will leave and Dido will have the TV.' It was Friday night so Mum would stay at Safet's.

Safet lived with his sister who had a job packing shelves at Safeway and worked the night shift. Mum was in the habit of staying at Safet's until Safeta came back from work. Then Mum would sneak home around 6 a.m., while Dido and I were sleeping, and pretend she'd slept in her own bed. I'm sure Dido knew the truth, but he turned a blind eye.

‘Can you give me money?' I asked Mum, knowing that she'd be dead to the world in the morning.

‘What for?'

‘I'm meeting Kathleen in Brunswick Street tomorrow for her birthday.' Six months older than me, Kathleen was turning sixteen.

‘But tomorrow is
mejtef
, ' Mum said.

‘
Šta se dešava
?' Dido demanded to know what was going on and Mum dutifully explained. ‘
Nemože ona ićci
,' Dido spat.

‘Sabiha, maybe you shouldn't go,' Mum said.

‘What?' I shouted. ‘You've known about this for a month and now I can't go because of him!' I pointed at Dido.

‘
Smiri se
,' Safet urged me to clam down.

‘Shut up!' I yelled. ‘This isn't any of your business.'

‘Sabiha,' Mum gasped. ‘Apologise immediately.'

My eyes burnt. I should have expected Mum to gang up with them like this. ‘No,' I said. There was a choking in my throat, but I sucked it up. I wouldn't cry in front of them.

‘Go to your room.' Mum raised her arm and pointed.

‘Thanks, I know where it is,' I said, charging past her.

I slammed my bedroom door and leant against it, listening as all hell broke loose. Both Safet and Dido were going on about how I was out of control and needed to be disciplined. Mum wasn't saying much, apart from ‘Yes, I know'.

I threw myself onto the bed, muffling the sound of my crying in my pillow. After a few minutes I grabbed my journal from under the bed and began writing, to vent my anger at Mum's treachery. As I scrawled down my feelings about her, the pen nearly pierced the paper.

The door burst open and Mum rushed in. ‘Sabiha!' she yelled.

‘Did you forget how to knock?' I demanded as I wiped my face and hid my journal under my pillow. I stayed on the far side of my bed, facing the wall.

I heard the door close. ‘We need to talk about what just happened,' Mum said.

‘Yes, we do.' I turned to look at her. ‘You betrayed me.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Yes, you did. You knew I was seeing Kathleen this weekend and now you're demanding I go to
mejtef
. What gives?'

‘It's important for you to go to
mejtef
.' She sat on the bed and was reaching to pat me.

‘If it was so important, why are you only making me go now? I am fifteen years old!'

‘You're right,' Mum said. ‘It isn't important to me, but it is important to Dido. Think about him for a minute. He lost his wife a year ago. He spent the ten years before that living in desperate poverty in an alien part of Bosnia because he'd lost his home in the war.'

My resolve was crumpling.

‘The only reason my parents had food was because we were sending them money. He's in a new country where he doesn't know the language and has no community.' Mum held my hand. ‘He needs this. He needs a sense of belonging. We need to make an effort for him.'

‘What about me?' I threw off her hand. ‘What about what I need?'

‘What if you saw Kathleen tomorrow, and the week after you went to
mejtef
?'

‘I'm seeing Kathleen tomorrow, no matter what,' I said.

‘Yes, but will you have enough money?' She held up a fifty dollar note.

I wavered for a moment. I really did not want to go to
mejtef
. I could think of thousands of other things that would be much more pleasant. Having my eyes gouged, my body torn apart by wolves. But I needed that money.

I'd used all my money on Kathleen's birthday present. Usually it wasn't a big deal if I didn't have enough cash. Kathleen would lend me the money and I'd pay her back when I'd wheedled it out of Mum. But things were so weird since I moved to St Albans. Kathleen and I just weren't as close. I missed the friendship, and I missed the cash for pre-paid on my mobile.

‘Take it or leave it, Sabiha,' Mum said.

‘Okay.' I took the money. ‘I'll do it.'

‘Now you apologise to Safet—' Mum led me to the door.

‘Whoa!' I broke her hold. ‘Who said I would apologise?'

‘You were rude to Safet—' Mum started.

‘He was rude to me,' I interrupted. ‘He had no right to interfere—'

‘He's my boyfriend and one day he might be a part of this family—' Mum interrupted.

‘Or he might be your ex-boyfriend in a few weeks if your track record holds true,' I interrupted in turn.

Mum snatched the money out of my hand and went to walk out.

‘Okay, okay,' I stopped her. ‘But it's not fair—'

‘I don't care what you think,' Mum gripped my arm. ‘He could be my chance for happiness, my chance to put everything right and to make
Babo
proud of me. You will not ruin this for me, Sabiha.'

There was desperation in her eyes. While I knew that it was important for her to get respect in the community, I didn't realise she was willing to sacrifice so much, including me.

‘Please,' Mum added. ‘For me...' She held out the money. I took it and followed her.

‘
Je si li joj pokazala Boga njenog
?' Dido demanded to know if Mum had put me in my place. The Bosnian version of ‘Did you send her to meet her maker?'

‘Sabiha has something to say,' Mum put her hand on my shoulder.

‘Sorry,' I said to Safet, then turned around and left, my hand over my pocket where the money was. I heard Dido yelling, then Mum placating him with the announcment that I'd be going to
mejtef
next week.

‘Next week is a long way away,' I said under my breath. I spent the night in my room writing a short story in my journal about an evil mother who abandoned her child to an orphanage in order to marry a millionaire.

Kathleen sat at a table outside Retro, our favourite café on Brunswick Street. ‘It's been ages,' I hugged her. ‘I missed you.'

‘Me too,' she hugged me back.

‘It's so good to be out of the suburbs.' I sat down and picked up the menu.

‘Hey Sammie!' Shelley sat down opposite me.

I frowned at Kathleen. What happened to lunch on our own? Kathleen shrugged.

‘Geez, I haven't seen you since you moved,' Shelley said.

‘I know.' It wasn't an accident. The highlight of my move to St Albans was that I didn't have to see Shelley any more.