Read Online The Year My Mother Came Back by Alice Eve Cohen - Free Book Online

dustpan on the floor, a collective thought bubble of slow recognition forming over our four heads.

    My fever is down. The infection is finally over.
    Michael and I make love that night. I ask him to try not to touch my left breast, which is still sore. He lavishes attention on my right breast, to compensate. I love that.
    â€œDo you mind the scar, Michael?”
    â€œI don’t notice it.”
    I love that, too.
    I start radiation next week. I won’t need chemo, and that’s a huge relief.
    After Michael falls asleep, I stand naked in front of the bedroom mirror. My left breast, deflated by surgery, then inflated by infection, is back to its original size. The scar is healed, barely visible. I feel good. I’m grateful my body wasn’t scarred by cancer, the way my mother’s was. I wonder if my daughters worried about that. Did they have a vision of me disfigured by surgery? I shudder, suddenly asking myself, What if my daughters’ beautiful bodies were some day ravaged by disease? What if Eliana’s leg-lengthening surgery injures rather than heals her?
    I’ve never told my girls what my mother went through.
    I picture my mother, naked. Her breasts are gone. Her bony chest is crisscrossed with long, red scars, like uneven train tracks. Her armpits are carved out, where the lymph nodes were removed. Her face is etched with sadness, anger, resentment, and envy. That’s how she looked at me—after her surgery, after my loving and exuberant mother was replaced by a gloomy, gray ghost of herself. These are the parts that frightened me when I was a teenager and made me hate her, the parts I’ve always tried to forget. When I was twelve and just starting to develop, Mom’s damaged body terrified me. When I picture her today, her scarred body looks heroic, sad but strangely beautiful. Now, I wish I could make amends for shutting her out.
    THE MUSICIANS SIT on the Persian rug covering the wide window seat. The long-necked, turbaned sitar player improvises a mind-bogglingly complex raga on his long-necked instrument, which he balances between his left foot and right knee; while the compact, black-haired tabla player extracts intricate rhythms from his two drums, varying the pitch with the heel of his hand.
    My mother and I sit at a table near the duo, enthralled by the music and by the plates of food passing by. Mom is ancient, white-haired, wrinkled and bony, but surprisingly animated. She’s wearing a white nightgown and she’s barefoot, which seems to fit in at this restaurant—maybe because the musicians are also barefoot and dressed in white. The slim young waiter glides as if on wheels, delivering aromatic dishes to other customers—steamy curries, sizzling tandoori platters, deep-fried pakoras, and puffy golden poori bread. Invisible tendrils of coriander, cumin, cloves, and cinnamon waft by our table. Each intoxicating spice has a particular sound and a color — a note that harmonizes with the music and a hue that blends with the red and marigold walls, the purple upholstery, the copper statues of Hindu gods.
    â€œThe music is so glorious, I feel guilty talking,” my mother whispers, leaning across the table. “Mmmm, everything looks and smells so delicious. I love this restaurant.”
    â€œWe came here once, a long time ago.”
    â€œDid we? I don’t remember. It’s all a blur.”
    â€œYeah . . . Mom, there’s so much I want to tell you.”
    â€œWell, here I am,” she says, and in slow motion she stands up and extends her arms, like an eagle spreading her wings—or maybe a scrawny angel. The musicians match her tempo and slow down the music as she opens herself up, as if this is meant to be a dance accompanied by tabla and sitar. The gown’s flimsy fabric reveals the angular contours of her rib cage and the loose skin drooping from her bony arms. “Here I am, Honeylamb. This is your chance to tell me