Read Online Mouthing the Words by Camilla Gibb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Camilla Gibb
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to transform into dreams of themselves: white knights and emperors and beautiful queens and friendly dragons and happy children, and mothers with babies, and lovers in each other’s arms.”
The air rang with the words of Suresh’s story.
“The end?” I asked, uncertain.
“The end,” Suresh nodded.
“But aren’t you going to tell me, And the moral is …?”’
“But you know the moral,” Suresh said plainly.
“OK, then. But aren’t you going to tell me something like , ‘And to this day, the people of Sri Lanka have never eaten mushrooms again.’”
“No, because they do. And they certainly know how to tell which ones are poisonous.”
“Maybe you’ll be a princess one day,” said my mother, stroking my hair. “Of course you’d have to marry a prince, because you’ve missed your chance at being born into royalty,” she laughed.
“But what if I want to be a lesbian when I grow up?” I said, breaking the reverie that had captivated us.
“Thelma!” my mother reacted, apparently shocked and embarrassed. She pushed me from her slightly in order to get a look at my face. “Where on earth do you get ideas like that?” she demanded.
“Imagination, Ma,” I said. “The power of the mind.”
—
Actually, Binbi, Vellaine and I had been hanging out at the top of the stairs one night when I heard Anika tell Claudio that she thought Pam was a lesbian. The next day when Binbecka asked, “Mom? What’s a lesbian?” Anika said:
“A woman who loves another woman.”
“Can I be a lesbian when I grow up?” asked Binbecka.
“Of course you can, sweetheart.”
“Loves another woman like you love Aunt Irena?” asked a confused Vellaine.
“Well, no, not really. Not the same kind of love that you have for a sister or a friend. More like the love you have for someone you are married to.”
“Can I be married to you when I grow up?” asked Binbecka.
“Of course not, Binbi,” mocked Vellaine. “Geez.”
“Well, why not? I want to marry Mommy.”
“That’s sweet of you, honey. But I’m married to Claudio. And I’m your mother. And I’m sure you’ll want to marry someone else when you grow up. And … (she was losing track of things now) I’m not a lesbian.”
“I don’t get it,” said an exasperated Binbecka.
“Then what are you?” asked Vellaine.
“Well. That’s a good question. I’m not sure how to answer that,” she paused.
“Well, now I’m really confused,” said Vellaine.
“That’s OK, sweetheart,” said Anika reassuringly. “Most of us really are.”
—
So that was how Suresh came to live with us. Through a story, through imagination, through my mother’s warm armpit. It still wasn’t clear to me how Daddy was going to cope with this new arrangement. Suresh had gone so far as to throw out Mum’s single bed and build them a new pine bed in the basement. A big double bed, in which there was room for all of us on Saturday mornings.
We would sit there, all reading different parts of the newspaper, and Suresh would explain things to me like the conflict in the Middle East and tubal ligation. He was studying to be a doctor and he seemed to me to know everything. He explained to me words like “carnage” and “genocide” and I told him that the rest of the world sounded like a horrible, horrible place and he told me that sometimes home could be the most horrible place of all and I knew that he was right. I knew that diseases started and spread outwards from home and that wars sounded like doors slamming and that the nightmares you could have in your very own bed were the worst places you could ever travel.
But we seemed to be happy now—Willy and me reading the comics and Mum and Suresh doing the cryptic crossword, all of us twisting around in the white sheets that smelled like bleach and bananas, for hours. And Suresh cooking in the kitchen in his white mandarin shirt and turban and sandals. Me rolling out the dough for chapattis, and the wonderful
The air rang with the words of Suresh’s story.
“The end?” I asked, uncertain.
“The end,” Suresh nodded.
“But aren’t you going to tell me, And the moral is …?”’
“But you know the moral,” Suresh said plainly.
“OK, then. But aren’t you going to tell me something like , ‘And to this day, the people of Sri Lanka have never eaten mushrooms again.’”
“No, because they do. And they certainly know how to tell which ones are poisonous.”
“Maybe you’ll be a princess one day,” said my mother, stroking my hair. “Of course you’d have to marry a prince, because you’ve missed your chance at being born into royalty,” she laughed.
“But what if I want to be a lesbian when I grow up?” I said, breaking the reverie that had captivated us.
“Thelma!” my mother reacted, apparently shocked and embarrassed. She pushed me from her slightly in order to get a look at my face. “Where on earth do you get ideas like that?” she demanded.
“Imagination, Ma,” I said. “The power of the mind.”
—
Actually, Binbi, Vellaine and I had been hanging out at the top of the stairs one night when I heard Anika tell Claudio that she thought Pam was a lesbian. The next day when Binbecka asked, “Mom? What’s a lesbian?” Anika said:
“A woman who loves another woman.”
“Can I be a lesbian when I grow up?” asked Binbecka.
“Of course you can, sweetheart.”
“Loves another woman like you love Aunt Irena?” asked a confused Vellaine.
“Well, no, not really. Not the same kind of love that you have for a sister or a friend. More like the love you have for someone you are married to.”
“Can I be married to you when I grow up?” asked Binbecka.
“Of course not, Binbi,” mocked Vellaine. “Geez.”
“Well, why not? I want to marry Mommy.”
“That’s sweet of you, honey. But I’m married to Claudio. And I’m your mother. And I’m sure you’ll want to marry someone else when you grow up. And … (she was losing track of things now) I’m not a lesbian.”
“I don’t get it,” said an exasperated Binbecka.
“Then what are you?” asked Vellaine.
“Well. That’s a good question. I’m not sure how to answer that,” she paused.
“Well, now I’m really confused,” said Vellaine.
“That’s OK, sweetheart,” said Anika reassuringly. “Most of us really are.”
—
So that was how Suresh came to live with us. Through a story, through imagination, through my mother’s warm armpit. It still wasn’t clear to me how Daddy was going to cope with this new arrangement. Suresh had gone so far as to throw out Mum’s single bed and build them a new pine bed in the basement. A big double bed, in which there was room for all of us on Saturday mornings.
We would sit there, all reading different parts of the newspaper, and Suresh would explain things to me like the conflict in the Middle East and tubal ligation. He was studying to be a doctor and he seemed to me to know everything. He explained to me words like “carnage” and “genocide” and I told him that the rest of the world sounded like a horrible, horrible place and he told me that sometimes home could be the most horrible place of all and I knew that he was right. I knew that diseases started and spread outwards from home and that wars sounded like doors slamming and that the nightmares you could have in your very own bed were the worst places you could ever travel.
But we seemed to be happy now—Willy and me reading the comics and Mum and Suresh doing the cryptic crossword, all of us twisting around in the white sheets that smelled like bleach and bananas, for hours. And Suresh cooking in the kitchen in his white mandarin shirt and turban and sandals. Me rolling out the dough for chapattis, and the wonderful
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