How wonderful for you, I said, glaring at Ahmad, who shrugged. Do you want to tell me how you fell out of a tree?
Headfirst, she said, chasing a squirrel at our new house.
Into the kitchen! You, Ahmad! Into the kitchen!
•
Ahmad claimed not to understand. Kids hurt themselves all the time. It’s just a fracture, and besides, he wasn’t buying, just looking.
Just a fracture? I shouted. Just looking?
There were too many things for me to be angry about to know where to begin. He let Andi go up a tree? He’d taken her to Connecticut? To see a house? If he’d thought it was okay to take her to Connecticut, why hadn’t he told me?
It’s not like you asked, he said. You could have asked.
Why should I ask! You know how I feel about Connecticut!
You were happy to be rid of her, Ahmad said softly.
How dare you! I shouted, then lowered my voice. How dare you say I was happy to be rid of her! That’s a terrible thing to say!
That’s why you didn’t ask. Because you didn’t care. You wanted to work.
I didn’t ask, I said, my voice rising again, because I trusted you!
A small voice behind me said: Ahmad, would you draw my bath? Tink already burned himself.
Ahmad shot me a look that sent a cliché of shivers down my spine.
We ate our clams cold and in silence, in front of the TV.
25. STUNNING VICTORY
After the Friends rerun, Andi wanted Ahmad to tuck her in, but I insisted.
C’mon, kiddo, I said, and she led me, reluctantly, to her room. Her pajama tops were on backwards. How many days had she worn them? Another night wouldn’t hurt. Her room was more or less in order: on the floor, a Barbie at the Beach coloring book, Monica Lewinsky paper dolls (Monica was Andi’s idea of a superhero: on TV every night, everyone talking about her clothes. Monica’s job may have lasted a minute, but she was no temp!). On her child-size desk, a children’s dictionary, a half-empty box of crayons. In the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dozens of Nancy Drews, also a four-poster bed for Tamika.
Where’s Tink? I asked.
In exile, she said.
Again? I asked.
He wouldn’t do as he was told so I put him in the bathtub.
You didn’t drown him, did you?
How could I drown him if he’s not real?
Okay. Into bed.
She hesitated.
I want to say my prayers, she said, and got into position.
You kneel beside your bed?
That’s the way Pammy does it.
I knew she’d started doing this, but I didn’t know she kneeled — like a cherub in some Jerry Falwell newsletter. I called on my father’s ancestors for assistance.
You know, Jewish girls don’t kneel when they pray.
Really? she asked, interested. What do they do?
I didn’t know. I tried to remember scenes of synagogue prayer from movies.
They sit, I said. Sometimes they stand.
Pammy kneels.
Well, she’s not Jewish, is she? I said, beginning to despair.
I want to do it like Pammy.
Okay. I’m just telling you. So you know.
Now I lay me down to sleep …, my daughter from another planet said, then scrambled into bed.
Do you say that because you’re afraid? I asked, aware too late that the question was leading.
Of what? she asked, and I was caught. I couldn’t say, afraid of dying.
I don’t know. School beginning?
She looked at me blankly. School was three days away, an eternity in child time.
Why would I be afraid of that?
What about nightmares? You know what my mother told me to do if I had nightmares?
You have a mother?
Of course I have a mother — what did you think?
Andi shrugged. When she shrugged, her whole torso got involved, one shoulder higher than the other, head cocked, the very picture of puzzlement. I had to laugh.
If you have a mother why don’t we see her?
I stopped laughing.
Because she’s not a nice person, Andi.
Then I don’t want to know what she said about nightmares, she replied reasonably.
I don’t know why I persisted, acting the part of Cora, a character from one of my short stories, who invents tales about a grandmother her daughter never knew.
My mother said you had to tell yourself you were in a nightmare. Then you could either make the dream better or you could wake yourself up.
I tried that, Andi said. It doesn’t work.
I stared at my daughter, that miraculous mix of spirit and flesh.
Maybe you need practice, I said, still wanting to give her something, something she could use. Were you afraid when you fell from the tree?
If I fell again I wouldn’t be afraid!
Oh?
I’d pretend I was flying, she said, and spread out her arms.
I sat down on her bed, trying to take that in.
You’re supposed to tuck me in now.
I pulled the guilt quilt up to her chin, making sure her cast was outside the blankets.
Ahmad tucks me in tighter.
I want to talk to you about Connecticut, I said.
She looked at me solemnly.
I know you had a good time there.
She didn’t reply, expecting to have to wait out a lecture.
You did, didn’t you?
She nodded.
Just because you have fun there doesn’t mean it’s a good place to live. Think of the things you’d miss in New York. Your playgroup, friends at school, musicals …
Ahmad says we can go to matinees on weekends.
What about Pammy and Martina? You’d miss them, wouldn’t you?
Pammy’s stuck up, and Martina doesn’t like me anymore.
Really? Why?
I don’t know, Andi said, shrugging.
You had a fight with your friends? I asked, stunned. They’d been inseparable since Chinese-Spanish-French quadrilingual preschool.
Andi nodded.
Ahmad says these things happen.
Why didn’t you tell me?
I don’t know, Andi said, shrugging again. You were busy.
I always have time for you.
You said I mustn’t disturb you when you’re working.
I couldn’t argue with that — I had.
There’s always time. I always have time for you.
Oh, Andi said.
Really!
Okay, I heard you.
There are lots of things about New York you’d miss if you left. You don’t realize it now because Connecticut is so new.
I’d miss Ahmad more.
What makes you think Ahmad would be there without us?
It’s obvious. Besides, he told me.
That’s not certain, I said, as if that made a difference.
Plus, Andi said, the house is near a mall. There are no malls in New York City. Just stupid stores one after the other. No malls, no indoor waterfalls.
We’ll talk about this more later, I said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, having no arguments to offer now except that of my own need.
I’d have a bike, she added, and a pool. Does your mother live in Connecticut, is that why you don’t want to live there?
My mother has nothing to do with this.
It’s two against one, Andi said.
Moms have veto power, even in a democracy. Ask anyone.
You never want me to have any fun!
That’s silly. Of course I want you to have fun!
I’m staying up all night.
Fine. As long as you turn out the light.
You don’t think I can do it.
Good night, Andi.
You don’t think I can do it! she shouted as I shut her door. You don’t think I can do it!
She continued shouting these absurd words, challenging me to — what? agree with her? believe in her? I bumped into, and ignored, Ahmad in the hall. He stopped in front of Andi’s room. I heard him open her door, then I heard the shouting stop.