Chapter 4

The five minutes it took to run to my home on the other side of the field felt like a lifetime. We zigzagged through the sugarcane, taking shortcuts through the maze we knew so well. Our feet crunched over twigs and fallen leaves until we tumbled into the clearing that led to my house.

Flinging open the front door, I raced through our living room and straight into my parents’ bedroom. My mother lay in bed. A thin sheet was draped over her. Raheela Bibi, the midwife, pressed a damp towel to her forehead. My mother’s eyes were shut. Her jaw clenched.

“But this wasn’t supposed to happen for another few weeks!” I said.

“Well, it’s happening now!” Raheela Bibi rummaged through her bag.

My mother exhaled and opened her eyes. She looked at me. Her cheeks were flushed and her forehead was pale.

“Amal,” she said. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

It was true; unmarried girls, especially my age, weren’t allowed in the birthing area. But how could I stay outside when something was obviously wrong?

“I’m worried,” I told her.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Babies come early all the time.” She smiled at me, but her eyes didn’t crinkle with the upturn of her lips. She patted my arm and moved to say more, but suddenly she gasped and clenched her jaw again.

“I’m here.” I squeezed her hand.

A hand touched my elbow. Omar’s mother, Parvin, had arrived. Wisps of black hair framed her face from beneath her chador.

“Amal, I can stay with her now,” Parvin told me. “Will you go take care of Safa and Rabia?”

“But I want to help.”

“Taking care of your little sisters is helping. It gives your mother one less thing to worry about.”

I wanted to stay, but she was right. And it was too hard seeing my mother like this.

I stepped into our living room. Rabia and Safa stood stock-still in their cotton frocks next to the faded sofa.

“Is Amma okay?” Rabia asked. Her lower lip quivered. Safa bit her nails and said nothing. Rabia was four years old and Safa was three, but with their matching black curls and dimples, people often mistook them for twins.

“Of course she’s fine.” I pushed down my own fear and ran a hand through Rabia’s springy hair. “The baby is coming. Aren’t you excited to meet your new brother or sister?”

They glanced at each other and then nodded at me.

“Let’s go in your bedroom and dress up your dolls while we wait. We can show them to the baby soon.”

Both girls followed me into their bedroom next to the kitchen. Their window overlooked our courtyard, the concrete floor painted peach, where our mother cooked meals when the weather allowed. Safa and Rabia pulled out their dolls and the collection of clothes my mother sewed for them. Soon they were chatting and giggling and getting their dolls ready for a tea party.

I tried to focus on their play and push out the image of my mother’s closed eyes and pained face. I knew people kept saying they hoped the baby was a boy, but right now I didn’t care. I only wanted my mother to be okay.

The door creaked. Omar stood by the edge of the bedroom, his hand resting on the knob.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I was only in there with her for a few minutes. But it was scary—she looked so weak.”

“Raheela Bibi and my mother know what they’re doing,” Omar tried to reassure me. “And you are right here if they need you.”

“The book!” I turned to him. “I left it by the stream. We ran so fast, I forgot all about it.”

“Don’t worry about the book.”

“It looked expensive.”

“I’ll get it. It’s not going anywhere.”

“What if something happens to her?” My voice cracked.

“We don’t know anything yet,” he said. “But don’t worry; I’ll be here if you need me.”

I appreciated his words because he did not promise me all would be well. He did not know.

Neither did I.