My Bird

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118 47 Maman says, “Promise you won’t tell anybody.” Shahla is opening canned fruit for Maman. “I want everybody to look at my face when I am talking.” I laugh, “At your nose?” Moaning, she says, “Yes, but not at my breasts.” I stare at her face to avoid looking at her chest. Her face looks old. “It’s my bad luck that the surgeon did such an awful job. The chest should feel smooth, even with no breast. These scars upset me. The skin should be soft, like normal skin.” My heels are itching. So are my fingertips. Shahla goes out to shop. “But it’s not smooth. Sometimes I go crazy and want to put a hot iron on my chest and smooth it out.” Maman moans. “Are you in pain?” I am waiting for her to show me where it hurts. I point to her chest. She says, “No.” Her hand is searching for pain in the air. She doesn’t know the exact place it hurts. Perhaps she is in no pain at all. She moans louder as if reading my mind. I know this weeping. M Y B I R D | 119 I am used to it like an old nanny. It’s old. Her chest is not smooth because of age. Her weeping is gloomy and hoarse. But it’s a lie. I have not gotten used to this noise. I don’t like Maman’s weeping. I am not happy. I know I am frowning and don’t look anything like a cheerful and smiling nurse. Maman is unhappy too. Sickness hasn’t given her the yielding and accepting face that makes one look calm. “If Mahin were here, she would have thought of something.” I don’t know what Mahin would have done that Shahla and I can’t. The look of an impending crying fit covers her face. I bring her milk and straighten up her sheets. I arrange her medicine on a plate and repeat the order in which they should be taken. This is all because there is nothing else I can do. All patients need sympathy. And I am no good at expressing that. ...