he grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it was her thinking of the
unfinished crib in the toolshed or the suede coat in Rasheed's closet. The baby came to
life then and she could hear it, could hear its hungry grunts, its gurgles and jabbering She
felt it sniffing at her breasts. The grief washed over her, swept her up, tossed her upside
down. Mariam was dumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner a being
she had never even seen.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn't seem quite as unrelenting to Mariam.
Days when the mere thought of resuming the old patterns of her life did not seem so
exhausting, when it did not take enormous efforts of will to get out of bed, to do her prayers,
to do the wash, to make meals for Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, of the neighborhood women
and their wealth of children. Some had seven or eight and didn't understand how fortunate
they were, how blessed that their children had flourished in their wombs, lived to squirm in
their arms and take the milk from their breasts. Children that they had not bled away with
soapy water and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhouse drain. Mariam resented
them when she overheard them complaining about misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well intended but misguided consolation.
You ’ ll have others, Inshallah. You 're young. Surely you‘ll have many other chances.
But Mariam's grief wasn't aimless or unspecific. Mariam grieved for this baby, this
particular child, who had made her so happy for a while Some days, she believed that the
baby had been an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished for what she had done
to Nana. Wasn't it true that she might as well have slipped that noose around her mother's
neck herself? Treacherous daughters did not deserve to be mothers, and this was just
punishment She had fitful dreams, of Nana's jinn sneaking into her room at night,
burrowing its claws into her womb, and stealing her baby. In these dreams, Nana cackled
with delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It was Rasheed's fault for his premature
celebration. For his foolhardy faith that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had.
Taking God's will for granted. His fault, for making her go to the bathhouse. Something
there, the steam, the dirty water, the soap, something there had caused this to happen. No.
Not Rasheed. She was to blame. She became furious with herself for sleeping in the wrong
position, for eating meals that were too spicy, for not eating enough fruit, for drinking too
much tea.
It was God's fault, for taunting her as He had. For not granting her what He had granted so
many other women. For dangling before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give her
the greatest happiness, then pulling it away.