At first I didn't understand why I felt uneasy
around this lady. She was articulate, accomplished and reflected the image of a
confident woman. I spent a couple of afternoons in her company on one of my
trips out of town. We talked about world politics, books we've recently read
and loved, family matters, different diets, dreams to be chased and hopefully
realized. Through it all, a thread dangled in front of me, beckoning me to tug
at it and see what secret weave it might unravel. A look in her eyes when she
talked about her teenage son confused me. Not the twinkle of pride and love
that I see in every woman's eyes I knew. But a sudden dimming of
the soul, as if a switch turned off the lights inside her when she mentioned
her son's name. A shadow passed quickly over her gaze, and then disappeared
again.
I've met
women who lost sons in wars, illnesses or car accidents. Some lost their sons
to mean wives that kept them away for years. No matter what the reasons were,
none of them had that strange hiccup of a look, an oddity so unique, I can't
find the right word to describe it.
From then
on, I paid more attention to the words she used, her body language, the nervous
laugh she uttered when I asked specific questions. I repeatedly reached out to
pull the end of that dangling thread, but held back. Every family has secrets.
There was no need to chase hers, I convinced myself. The nagging feeling to
find out why I felt uncomfortable with my new friend when she mentioned her son
mushroomed inside me. I kept it in
check, hoping it was caused by my over active imagination.
On my
last afternoon visit with her, she invited me over for coffee at her house.
Though cautious, my curiosity triumphed and I eagerly obliged. With the aroma
of rich coffee, and a wonderful slice of apple pie, I lounged lazily in her
living room, chastising myself for my suspicions. This was a cozy house, a
family home. Her other children roamed around with innocent vitality. Nothing
seemed out of place. My friend joined me on the couch, relaxed and joyful.
I heard a
rough voice behind me, a man clearing his throat.
My
friend's face froze, that weird look returned to her eyes. The coffee cup in her
hand shook.
Must be
her husband, I reasoned, making an unexpected stop at the house in the middle
of the day.
She
jumped to her feet, coffee spilled on the cushions.
I turned
my head and saw a young man towering over me behind the couch. His eyes fixed
on his mother, ignoring me. She launched into a series of apologies. I couldn't
understand why she was so flustered. My friend rushed to the kitchen, pulled
out a plate from the fridge and put it in the microwave. So she apologized
because she was late preparing his meal?
He didn't
utter a word.
I rose to
my feet to face him. And there it was, slapping me hard, gluing me to the
floor. A look in this young man's eyes so severe, so strange. The only way I
could describe it is to say his eyes were empty. As if looking into a doll's
glass beady eyes. Lifeless. No emotion, threatening or otherwise.
I
introduced myself, explained that I was the reason for his mother's tardiness,
feeling silly for playing into this abnormal charade. I wanted to get out of
there as soon as I could. No, I needed to get out there before I witnessed
something more awful. I saw it coming when he went to his mother's side, moving
like a lion stalking his pray. He shoved her aside with his fist, took his
plate and left. She kept her back to me, head bowed, hands rubbing her upper arm.
This
woman was afraid of her own child. What a twisted world she lived in. I spent
the remainder of my visit discussing ways to help her. She listened, nodded her
head and then offered to drive me to my hotel. Helpless, I left, knowing she
would not follow any of the suggestions I presented. Not until something
tragic happened, to her or to someone else. Too late. Way too late.
Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.
Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.