parallel truth

[intheheart]

Title: parallel truth
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Joanna finally understands what happened.
Date: Late 2009
Notes: References Scheherazade Lies and Scars. For the full story, read Gravity and In The Creases.


Fatimah was dying, and everyone knew it.

That almost made it easier, in a way. It wasn't some morbid imagining, some trick of her own mind; her mother really was dying, offical diagnosis and all.

Ironically enough, for Joanna at least, they thought it was endometriosis at first. The symptoms were so similar; pelvic pain, difficulty standing. A small, mean part of her had been glad that her mother would finally understand what she'd gone through, before she'd known the problem. Then came the official word, endometrial cancer, too far advanced, and the words of her friends echoed in her head: go to the doctor, for heaven's sake, it could be cancer.

And what was she supposed to do now?

Hugh was her rock now, a godsend, steady at her back no matter what happened. She'd come home crying inexplicable tears, when in fact Deborah said their mother was doing well. She'd had strange, manic urges to go out and do something after phone calls speaking of deteriorating conditions. He'd managed them all, stood by her through every mood. And now, as she sat in a hospice room in Washington DC, searching for something to say, he was still there, silent and calm, his hand warm and dry in hers.

Everything was muted here: the walls painted a sterile white, the floors a dull brown, the only vivid color a splash of yellow daffodils in a sterile white vase on the dull brown table. Even her mother was diminished, a small, withered husk of the vital presence Joanna remembered from her child. Or so she thought, anyway, while her mother stared out the window. When Fatimah turned her eyes back to her daughter, the weakness evaporated, flashed into steam by that which burned in her. I am dying, her eyes seemed to say, but not right now.

"Joanna," she said, even her voice cracked and harsh, and coughed. "Good."

The covers were a dull orange against her frail hands. The color did not flatter her at all; it made her look sicker.

"Yes, Mema," Joanna replied, mechanically, and felt Hugh's hand tighten in hers. "I’m here."

"Good," Fatimah said again. "You're the last. I called them all, you know. They're all here. I don't know if Deborah told you."

Deborah had not told her, not that Joanna knew exactly what it was her sister was supposed to have mentioned. Them all could mean her scattered siblings, or her mother's friends, or even the entire extended Amala clan. But there was a safe answer regardless. "That's good, that they came."

Her mother ignored her. "It's because you live so far away," she said, her eyes unfocusing. "California. God, I hated that place. So hot and dry. My mother said we were a desert people and that I would be happy there, but I hated it. I needed green things... and of course your father..." Her eyes sharpened again, abruptly, focused on Hugh. "You."

Joanna tensed; he squeezed her hand again, and nodded courteously to her mother. "Ma'am."

"You're good to my daughter," she said. It was not a question.

Hugh lifted his eyebrows. "I am," he said. "To the best of my ability."

Fatimah nodded, accepting that, and sighed. "You're a good man. I should not have shouted at you."

"Thank you," he replied, "but it's not necessary. You were worried for your daughter. Any... any parent would understand that."

It was Joanna's turn to squeeze his hand comfortingly, at the stumble in his voice. "Mema," she said, "what does that have to do with anything?"

To her surprise, her mother chuckled, a dry rasping sound that tore at her nerves and heart. "The things that one does at the end of one's life. Making amends, child, and giving answers where they need be given, and perhaps a few words of advice for those of you who deserve it. You chose a good man. See that you keep him."

"That won't be a problem," Hugh murmured.

Her mother's eyes sharpened again. "I am dying, not deaf," she informed him. "And I need to speak to my daughter alone. Go away."

Hugh inclined his head in her direction again, but it was to Joanna that he spoke. "Will you be all right?"

She nodded, speechless, and rested her head on his shoulder for just a moment.

"Get along," her mother said from the bed, acidly. "You have the rest of your lives for that. I don't."

Comforting as it was to see the old Fatimah in action, it was not particularly pleasant. Joanna shot her mother a look, but kissed her husband's cheek and let him go. He paused on the doorstep, threw her a worried look, but her mother cleared her throat pointedly, and out he went.

"There," Fatimah said. "Now that he's gone. Was there anything you wanted to ask me?"

Joanna blinked, surprised. "To... ask you? Not particularly. Well, why you disapproved of Hugh."

Her mother gave her a very dry look. "Besides the fact that he isn't Muslim and is far too old for you? Nothing in particular. As I said, he's proved to be a good man."

"That's an odd phrasing," Joanna said. "He is a good man. He never had to prove it."

Her mother laughed. "Oh, men always have to prove themselves, my darling. All of them. Never trust one until he has, and even then... well, you do it at your peril."

The odd thing was that Fatimah didn't sound particularly angry about that, or bitter, just... factual. Joanna, at a total loss as to how to procede, could only say, "Hugh didn't. Not to me."

"Then you're a fool," her mother said, in that same matter-of-fact tone. "But you always were, you and Ruth and Nadia. You and Ruth at least had the sense to stay away from the obviously bad ones; I wish I could say the same for Nadia. Her latest boyfriend is even worse than the last, if you can imagine."

Joanna, who hadn't met any of Nadia's boyfriends since Maryam's father, had nothing to say to that. Eventually, the silence became too much for both of them to bear, and her mother said, "If you have anything to ask or say, do it now. They try to hide it from me, but I know I don't have much longer."

"What happened when I was seven?" she asked.

It popped out. Joanna had not intended to ask about that long-ago time of screams and shouts and covering her ears in the darkness. But there it was, hovering between them.

Her mother stared at her for a long, silent moment, and Joanna almost withdrew the question. "Be careful what you wish for," she murmured at last, to herself, and then asked, "What do you remember?"

"Not much," Joanna said, and shrugged. "Screaming, fights, silences. I was only seven."

"Yes." Her mother sighed, and the burning in her eyes damped suddenly, smothered by a wave of ash. "Well, I suppose you're old enough to understand, now, and I did say you could ask. Your siblings don't know, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't air my dirty laundry after I die."

Joanna stiffened, beginning to regret coming here at all, much less saying anything. "Deborah knows," she said. "She always said it wasn't her place to say."

"She was right," Fatimah said, and sighed again. "Well. Here is the short version, then: when you were seven years old, your father fell in love with another woman and had every intention of leaving me-- of leaving us-- for her."

That... was so much worse than whatever Joanna's seven-year-old mind had concocted that she sat still for a moment, speechless. "I... why didn't he?" she asked, finally.

Her mother smiled a smile that had nothing of humor or mirth about it. "I don't know," she said, simply. "He never said. I assume the girl-- God, she was so young! Younger than you, so much younger. I remember looking at her and thinking 'what a child. What does he see in her?' At any rate, I assume she broke it off, because he certainly never mentioned her again, and she didn't appear anywhere. I looked."

"Was that why we left California?" Joanna asked, slowly. "So he wouldn't see her again?"

Fatimah shook her head. "No. We moved because there were good jobs out here. I won't deny that I wanted out of that house and that place, but I did not ask your father to move for me. I asked nothing at all of him, after that. Not that he would have given me anything at all."

Joanna was still working through the questions in her mind, and couldn't even begin to follow up on that. "I don't understand. If he cheated on you, if he was going to leave you, why would you stay with him?"

"Because it was 1980, I had five children and a sixth in my belly, no job, and no resume," her mother replied, bluntly. "Although you can be sure that I got one, after that. What would I have done? Where would I have gone? No, I stayed because I had no other choice, and later because I had gotten used to the whole business. Better to be safe than sorry." She hesitated, then asked, "Do you see now, Joanna? Why I say that men must prove themselves?"

"No," Joanna said. "You didn't love him. It's not the same if you love them." She had to believe that, or...

Fatimah snorted. "I did love him, you silly girl," she replied. "Foolishly and unreasonably like all silly girls do. Why do you think I agreed to marry him?"

So many revelations at once-- Joanna couldn't keep up. "I don't-- I thought it was arranged--"

"Arranged doesn't mean forced," her mother said. "Of all the barbaric ideas. No, I loved him, and then he proved himself, and I let that go."

Something in Joanna's expression must have been stricken, because her mother heaved a sigh and added, "Don't go getting any more foolish ideas in your head than you absolutely must. I did like him again, after a while, and after all he is the father of my children. His promises may be worthless, but you don't need promises, in a marriage. You only need... equity."

Joanna shook her head, blindly. "That sounds so cold."

"It has to be," Fatimah replied, and shrugged. "I had to be. He still loves her. I have to face that every day. I have to wake up every morning in this damned place and know that when I die, he will not mourn me like he has mourned her. I hope and pray that you never understand how that feels, child, but understand that if you do, I will not be surprised."

It was that, somehow, that cleared away the confusion and focused her mind with diamond sharpness. "No," she said, then, and looked up.

Fatimah was watching her, a puzzled look on her face. "No what?"

"You asked me if I understand," Joanna said. "The answer is no. I understand why... why you look at things the way you do, and why you don't trust my husband. But Hugh is not my father."

"Obviously," Fatimah said. "Don't be foolish."

"He's not your husband," Joanna said. "He's mine. I love him. I trust him. And he would never do to me what Baba did to you." He had his own ghosts, true, that she would not show to her mother. But those ghosts had never once come between them. She vowed privately that they never would.

Her mother shrugged. "Of course not. He's proved himself. I told you that."

"He never needed to prove himself to me," Joanna said, simply. "And if that makes me a fool, than I had rather be a fool than a wise woman."

Fatimah grunted, and settled back against the cushions of her bed. "If you say so, child."

"I do," Joanna said, firmly, and stood. "If there's nothing else..."

Her mother shook her head, waved a hand as regally as a queen. "Nothing," she said, lifting her chin. "No. You may go." Joanna accepted the dismissal-- it was nothing more or less than she had received from her mother all her life-- and turned to go, when Fatimah added quietly, "Only, Joanna..."

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Your sisters said the same. Even Nadia, and she has far less cause than you." Fatimah sighed. "I do not think I am wrong, my love, but you four must go your own way."

"I have," Joanna answered. "And I am happy, Mema. I wish you could believe that."

Fatimah closed her eyes. "I hope and pray that you remain so," she said.

Joanna had to be satisfied with that.