Her daughters were. The littlest one most of all, whose father—unlike the father of her sisters—hadn’t fought or passed down to her any physiological ways of responding, defending herself, or protecting others if the war broke out again. She was more defenseless than the rest, because she hadn’t lived in a camp, or been conceived during the disarmament. She hadn’t grown up in the community when its residents still trained regularly and formed circles to discuss their actions as a group or receive instructions about the future. The poor girl hadn’t once heard the sound of gunfire. She wouldn’t know what to do if, one day, the place they lived in was attacked and her mother wasn’t around to lift her up in her arms: her feet turned inwards and were no good for running, she wasn’t old enough to be learning to fire a gun.
Her grandmother said she wouldn’t manage it even if she were: her eyes couldn’t see very far. It saddened her to see the girl banging into things all the time without ever once complaining, as if she no longer noticed her injuries or had simply learned to accept them.
In that way, she was a bit like them.
Would she mind if she got her a gift? She had some savings and could use them to buy her the glasses she’d been needing for so long.
It seemed silly: she was at death’s door and no amount of money could change that. But she could buy her granddaughter happier days. The girl’s mother wouldn’t have to wait for her name to come up on the charity list she’d signed her up to so that her girl could get around better and do better at school. Also, it’d make her happy to do something for them. Her daughter doesn’t want her to feel guilty.
She says she doesn’t. How could she? She’s done everything within her power. Which is why she’d feel bad if she did nothing for the girl’s eyes, now that she can.
She swears the money wasn’t sent by her sons and that she isn’t withholding anything from her other daughters. Nobody will come complaining or reproach her for it later.
She’d rather they saved it for her burial: they’ll need every cent then.
Her mother laughs. Burials don’t cost a thing, she says: all you have to do is dig a ditch in the backyard.
Opening a ditch in the backyard is the thing she most fears. She doesn’t smile when her mother points out where she might fit—in the fetal position, like people thereabouts, not lying straight like Christians—and offers to dig it little by little so that, when the day comes, no one else has to do the work.
She asks her what’s wrong. Doesn’t she have a sense of humor? She needn’t worry: she’s already picked out a spot in the graveyard of the farm named after a horse. That was why she’d wanted to stay there.
The community also has a cemetery. They could bury her there, if she liked. She has the right, as her mother and as her father’s wife.
She says she’d also have the right if she weren’t her mother or hadn’t been his wife. But she doesn’t want to. She’d rather be somewhere her other daughters can visit whenever and for however long they like.
Her other daughters had never set foot in the community. They’d never wanted to. They feared it in the same way civilians and villagers and even evangelical missionaries did. They’re only there now because of their mother, but they won’t stay long. Even though she tells them it’s safe and nothing will happen to them, they look over their shoulders constantly. They arrive without their husbands. Without their children. They leave before dark.
What would they have done if their dad were still alive? He’d have been given a house there. Their mother would’ve moved, too. Some of them would’ve had to come with them.
They’re not sure. Does it even matter? It never happened.
She just doesn’t want them feeling scared while they visit their mom. In that case, her sisters say, she should’ve agreed to stay at their mother’s instead. They don’t understand why she couldn’t concede something so small.
She can’t explain. If she did, they’d become frightened again, just like the day they saw her arrive at the house her mother had built out of cardboard and corrugated iron on the city’s outskirts. Instead, she apologizes for making things difficult for them: it can’t be easy seeing their mother in that state. She promises she’ll do all she can for her.
Does that include moving? If she won’t go back to the farm named after a horse, she could go to one of theirs.
Their mother asks them to stop badgering her about it. If it frightened them so much to come see her, they could call instead, send word or a letter. As far as she was concerned, they owed her nothing. They’d been good daughters. She harbored no resentment toward them, even though none of them had wanted to join the struggle their dad and brothers had fought in once they’d grown up and once their bodies were able to carry weapons. It wasn’t their fault they’d been born at a time when fear cast a shadow over everything, but she wouldn’t forgive them for haranguing her sister when they should have been thanking her for protecting them when they were little. She hadn’t raised them to be ungrateful or disloyal. If they weren’t planning to help, they ought to just leave. She had things to discuss with her daughter. Which was how she filled her nights once her littlest grandkid had gone to sleep.
She’d tell her what her and her other daughters’ lives had been like after she left to follow in her dad’s footsteps, and asked about her and her father’s lives in the mountains, if that was something she could share. She didn’t want to pressure her into talking about topics that were still off limits. They also discussed the future of the girls who left for the city and the one who still lived at home.
When was she going to ask about the one who’d stayed behind with her when she was called back to rejoin the fight?
She didn’t want to.
She’d hurt a great deal when she’d gotten her call, the day she was given permission to receive her daughter at the camp. She’d rather never have had to part with her granddaughter, never have had to give her back. She was glad the war was over and that her daughter was alive and able to look after the little girl, but she also hurt because her granddaughter was like her daughter and granddaughter at the same time, and also like her husband and all her living sons and dead daughters in one little body. She didn’t want to give her back, but she had to because the mother was claiming her, and the mother who was claiming her was none other than her daughter.
If the girl had been anyone else’s child she would’ve fought for her, just like the adoptive mother of her daughter’s daughter who’d grown up in another country. She would’ve claimed her and done everything the other woman had. Of course, she never told her daughter any of this, so she wouldn’t feel bad or think she was making excuses for the woman who stood between her and her other daughter. But she felt as if she understood her. She preferred not to see or ask after the girl she’d taken care of, so as not to make a fool of herself. She made do with bits of information that came up in casual conversation, and the handful of photos she was given during the years they’d been apart.
She knew the girl was already a mother and had given her name to her daughter, but she hadn’t wanted to visit her so as not to burst into tears in front of everyone, like the day she had to hand her over at the camp or the day she attended the girl’s wedding. She thought she wouldn’t be able to contain herself, so she said she couldn’t make it.
The mother asked her daughter not to object: her grandma had been very poorly for a long time. If there was one thing she could do for her, it was to take her baby to meet her. Could she?
Yes. She’d come by with the girl. They’d like to stay for a while, if it wasn’t a bother.
Wouldn’t it bother her husband?
She doesn’t care if it does.
The mother doesn’t press her.
The grandmother is nervous. She doesn’t know how to address her. She doesn’t know how to pretend.
Her daughter asks her not to, please: the girl needs to know she’s loved. The woman bursts into tears just like on the day she returned her. She apologizes for having wanted what wasn’t hers. Her daughter thanks her for looking after her daughter. She’d said this the day she left the girl with her, the day she asked for her back and the day she collected her, but she needed to say it one more time. She asks her to understand that she couldn’t have left the girl with her. She couldn’t have stood losing a second child. She hadn’t even learned how to lose the first one yet.
She’s sorry she hadn’t taken her to visit more often, but she couldn’t stand seeing her gravitate toward her grandmother as she would’ve liked her to gravitate toward her. She promises she won’t intrude when the girl arrives. She won’t ask her to think of her husband and keep her visit short. She won’t even interrupt while they’re discussing the past or spending time together. Nor will she inconvenience them with her presence. She can look after the baby while they enjoy themselves. She likes the child. She likes to think of her as both her granddaughter and the daughter of the girl she didn’t raise. She likes to tell her things she might also have told her other granddaughter. She speaks to this girl about the other one so that, if they meet someday, she can greet her as the family they are, and feel fond of her even though she doesn’t know where she comes from.
The grandmother tells her to sit with them whenever she likes and leave whenever she needs to. She’ll do the same.
The littlest granddaughter is delighted by the prospect of having her niece at home. She starts to make the bed she’ll sleep in. She bumps herself a couple more times.
Her grandmother says she’ll buy her a pair of glasses. As soon as her sister arrives, her mom will take her to get them. Is that all right?
No. She doesn’t want glasses. She wants to be like her sisters, who don’t need them.
Her mother says they all need them. And that it’s just a matter of time.
The girl stands her ground.
Her grandmother says the glasses will be very pretty.
How pretty?
The prettiest.
The girl excitedly tells her niece, who doesn’t understand what she’s saying but looks up at her and smiles as if she’s glad about the news. She takes her to where her bed and cuddly toys are. The mother takes her recently arrived daughter to her grandma. She hugs them both. The three of them burst into tears.
After a while, the mother leaves the two of them to talk on their own. She goes to collect her daughter and granddaughter’s bags, which have been left in the hall. They’re heavier than she’d imagined. This is when she realizes that her daughter hasn’t just come to spend some time with her grandma, or to be there as long as she’s needed. She’s come to stay.
Did something happen?
No.
Did he hit you?
Never.
So?
She isn’t happy. She’ll never be, not with him.
How can she know?
She’ll explain later. For now, she wants to focus on her grandma. Is it a problem if she stays?
Not at all. She’s happy she’s home.