Under the Willow Root

Chapter 12

Ismeni waves her hand and turns back to the mirror, clearly dismissing us. Dove touches her knuckles to her lips and bows her head. She pinches my side and I hastily copy her, then we leave. We start walking again. This time, I know we're going to the kitchen. I smell food long before we get there. It's much busier than it was yesterday, and it occurs to me to wonder what time it is. Everyone seems to be preparing for a big meal, but what's the big meal of the day here? Midday or evening?

Dove installs me in the corner with a stool and a cup of soup, then disappears. I look around nervously, greedily slurping down my meal as fast as I can in case someone tries to take it from me. No one seems at all interested in me or my food, but it's not a chance I'm willing to take. I finish the soup and watch everyone hustle around the kitchen, chattering animatedly at each other.

The food smells amazing. I notice, though, that it doesn't actually look that appetizing. It looks impressive, definitely, but not exactly inviting. The goal seems to be to disguise the fact that the animal to be eaten is dead. I watch as the cooks take a roasted bird off the spit and stick all the feathers back in and recreate the head and beak with wires and paper. To my starved gaze, it's downright blasphemous. How can they stand to cover up something so clearly meant to be eaten as quickly as possible? Why in the world would they put unnecessary obstacles between that tender, juicy flesh and somebody's mouth?

They go to work on arranging a bunch of little fishes in the shape of a larger fish surrounded by piles of pale golden rice. At another station, cheeses are stacked with fruit to create a tower complete with windows and turrets. Across the kitchen, someone injects cream and jam into little pastries with a squeeze-tube. I curl my fingers around the edges of the stool to keep myself from running across the room and diving into the vat of cream face-first.

Seeing the rabid look on my face as I take it all in, the cook from yesterday hurriedly shoves another cup of broth into my hands. This time I make a conscious effort to not pour it straight down my throat so I can appreciate the rich flavor and comforting heat. I expect to want more when I finish, but I don't. I think my stomach must have shrunk with nothing to fill it for so many weeks. I just feel sleepy.

I nod off in the corner, jerking awake every few minutes as I feel myself start to fall off my stool. I'm dying to just curl up on the floor and go to sleep, but I don't want to risk getting my dress dirty in case I get slapped again. Instead I push the stool as far into the corner as it will go and lean back, hoping the walls will keep me upright. It's not comfortable, but it will have to do.

I lose track of time as I drift in semi-consciousness. Images pop into my mind's eye and out again so seamlessly that I can't tell what's real and what's memory and what's a dream. Sometimes I'm certain that I'm about to wake up in my bed at home, and sometimes I jerk awake and wonder what the shiny red wagons are and how they can go so fast. When that happens, I remind myself of my name and Baba Nadia's and that this isn't where I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be in the suburbs, where people drive cars and go to school and I can open up the fridge and get something to eat whenever I want.

But over and over again, I fall asleep and begin to doubt. Sometimes the kitchen and the bruises and scratches on my face seem real and that other place seems like the dream. Other times, I'm completely sure that I'm walking to class between Melanie and Tara, shaking off a daydream. Sometimes I don't know their names, though I recognize their faces. Sometimes I think I might be in a hospital.

Sometimes I can't remember my name.

I'm glad when Dove comes back to collect me. The walk back to our bedroom clears my head and I can recite my litany of facts as we walk. When we reach our bedroom, Dove takes my veil and puts it in the trunk, making sure I see where she's putting it. When she moves to take my dress off, I step back, shifting uneasily. I have to pee, but how can I ask? Now that I'm clean and clothed, I find my sense of modesty has returned completely. I'll let my bladder pop like a water balloon before miming that.

I find I don't need to worry. There are certain things in life that require no translation, and, as it turns out, the Pee-Pee Dance is one of them. Dove whisks me back down the hall and into a room with an honest-to-god toilet. Of course it doesn't look exactly like the toilets I grew up with, but that's clearly what it is. I glance at Dove, who doesn't look like she intends to go anywhere, then shrug and hike up my skirts.

When I'm done, I look around, half-expecting to find toilet paper. Instead there's a bowl of water. Dove points at it and picks up a small towel from the basket at my feet. She points to the water, then at me, then at the towel in her hand. I get the idea but hesitate, hoping she'll turn her back to give me some privacy. She doesn't. With a sigh, I get to work, reminding myself that just days ago I was soiling myself where I stood.

Perspective.

I drop the dirty towel in a covered basket as directed by Dove and wash my hands in a sink with running water. The faucet opens with a little lever instead of a knob, but it's a real sink. I revel in it, thinking again of the long weeks spent living like a farm animal in a dirty stall. Washing my hands seems like an unbelievable luxury. I splash some water on my face for good measure, rubbing away oil and sweat from the hot kitchen.

We return to our bedroom and I take off my dress and put it in the trunk, folding it as neatly as I can. Dove takes it out and shows me how she wants me to do it, then shakes it out and hands it back to me to try again. After several failed attempts, I get it right and Dove lets me close the trunk and get in bed. Before I slip into the covers, Dove hands me a soft nightgown to wear. I crawl into bed feeling absurdly happy to have pajamas on top of a full belly and a real bed. I pull the covers up around my ears and tuck my knees against my chest and fall asleep without wondering what will happen when I wake up.