Aban's Accension

Chapter 24: The Visit

Chapter 24: THE VISIT

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

Aban is in her kitchen, washing dishes, when she hears a rapping on the front door. The raps reverberate through the house. They sound threatening, not-to-be-thwarted. She stays where she is.

Thump, thump, thump. It sounds like the side of a closed fist on hard wood.

She doesn’t move. In a moment, she hears the door open, then murmurs. The door closes on a squawk, and El is beside her.

“Your mother is here. I’ve left her on the porch. But you must go talk to her.” His voice tells her he knows how hard this confrontation will be for her.

Aban freezes. Her hands drop into the warm, soapy water, making her sweat more than the air temperature has already. She sucks in air, thrusting out her ribs, and turns to tell El to say that she won’t.

He’s gone.

Slowly she removes her hands from the water. Shaking the suds off her hands, she rubs them on the front of her grey T-shirt that announces “body-centered listening resolves conflicts,” and walks carefully down the stairs.

Opening the front door, she faces Mom. Mom doesn’t look happy. Her face is a mess of harsh lines, hard eyes, firm lips; her hair is pulled back, but a few strands have escaped and stick to her forehead. Aban swallows.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Aban steps back and lets Mom in.

Mom looks around the hall, wrinkling her nose. “Well, I must say, this is dingy. This is what you chose over your own home?”

Aban ignores her and turns to climb the stairs back up.

“Where are you going?”

Aban keeps climbing, one stair at a time, gripping the handrail, suddenly needing to put both feet on each stair before she can ascend to the next one, one foot at a time.

“Come back here. I have no shame in what I want to say to you.”

Aban is at the top and turns to go down the hallway to her living room. Mom is forced to follow. Her footsteps are angry bangs on each step. Aban moves into the living room. Since there is only one chair, she goes to stand by her favourite window directly across from the front door. She stares out unseeingly. She can hear Mom looking in all the doors on her way to stand beside her. Aban senses Mom’s displeasure. She knows it well. And suddenly, she realizes how freeing it has been to live without it. She thrusts the realization away, along with her emotions.

“This is a shabby house Aban. But it doesn’t surprise me. Your grandmother didn’t take care of things. She was more interested in upsetting people. Look at how she raised your father.”

“How did she raise Dad?” Aban asks, crossing her arms. Aban can see Mom in her peripheral vision, though she tries to shut the vision out.

Mom turns to face her directly and slides closer until her body’s heat blasts Aban. Mom is taller than Aban, and she stretches her back vertical to emphasize it. “You know how she raised him. In a rundown house like this on a rundown street in a dangerous city, with no thought to his safety or comfort. He had to fight for everything he wanted. She didn’t do anything for him.”

“Was that so bad?”

Mom raises her chest and glares down her nose, “Of course it was. We cared about you. We gave you everything you needed. We made sure you were safe. Not like her. She would not respect me or our way of raising you. She didn’t like it being pointed out how wrong she was with your Dad and with you.” Mom jabs her opal-encrusted finger in Aban’s face. Her eyes darken, their pupils shrinking into points. Aban doesn’t flinch. Mom is nonplussed, and her hand slowly lowers. She regathers herself: “You know perfectly well we made the right decision for you. It cost your Dad, but he knew what was best.”