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Can you hear that?
It was like hearing a noise when your head is underwater, this distant muffled sound that, honestly, you try your best not to listen to.
“Mom!”
She pulled my sleeve, and I could see the green hills blur back and disappear. Her little face stared at me eagerly. She was small for a seven-year-old and always petite, but her huge Persian eyes glittered with excitement and annoyance at my disappearance.
“And then what happened?!”
“Huh?”
“To the old lady at the bazaar? What WAS her story?”
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what was to come. Coming back from Greenhills into the noise and chaos was always painful, and I braced myself as the noise ruthlessly assaulted my ears:
“Moooooooooooooom!”
Carlee was the closest, but Duncan was crying in the bassinet; by the fullness of my breast, I felt the disgust and inner rebellion — she needed a feed. Ford was staring at his phone, Kendra wiggling and trying to break free from his hold and uninterested face. The one-year-old was whining and wailing, another layer of noise to the symphony of chaos. The TV was on, and Alan was running around, imitating the screeching characters while dancing. He was singing out loud, and even the cuteness of his five-year-old voice was abrasive.
“Mom!”
I rose up quickly. My chest was tight with the chaos and noise, and with all their silently loud demands, I just wanted to go back. But the damn pain in my chest made it clear I had no choice, and I could not run.
I held my tongue back, looking at Ford. I swear God is a man, and he hates women. Why else would he make men able to detach and run away when our bodies were still linked to all this chaos? Not our own.
I took another breath and wore a frozen smile.
“I don’t know, baby, you know how mommy’s stories go — I make them on the go. Tomorrow I will tell you more. Duncan is hungry right now. Why don’t you go and dance with your brother.”
She looked at me with those smart, big, brown eyes, and I knew she felt my tension, but she was 7 after all, and big emotions were beyond her. She gave me a quick hug and ran to join her brother. I walked to Duncan and picked her up. I sat on the couch next to him and opened my shirt. God, how I hated breastfeeding. The engorged hot breast was quickly engulfed, and the physical torture of feeding the newborn began. My stomach, my C-section incision, all pulsating and reacting. And the damn noise.
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It is okay; no beginnings are easy. A fourth baby and a new country, of course, you‘d feel the baby blues, I said to myself.
It did nothing to relieve the helplessness, the feeling of entrapment. The resentment I felt towards this idiotic man sitting next to me. The overpowering wave of wishing I would not be. I wanted to be happy so badly. What the hell was wrong with me? This is everything I ever wanted. I fought to get those 4 babies. Almost died for each one of them in the process. I felt the tears creeping in as Duncan pulled painfully on my nipple, and I felt the hot liquid as she reaped me again and drew blood. But I couldn’t cry next to him. He would not let it go.
Instead, I felt my mind drifting again as I detached from the pain and softly unfocused my eyes. The green hills came into focus in no time, so familiar was the road. And there I was, again: Greenhills.
I was free, young, and fit. I didn’t feel all those broken muscles and after-surgery complications. I was wearing a beautiful, earthy brown dress with long sleeves and a long, heavy skirt. It enveloped my figure comfortably and moved fluently with each graceful pace I took. I looked so different from the obese, broken, short, and weak version of myself I left behind in THAT world.
I was standing at the bottom of the valley, surrounded by green hills, the bluest skies you’ve ever seen, and the occasional white cloud. The sheep on the steep hills looked as soft as those clouds, and the only sounds around were caressing my ears with gentle softness: the sheep’s bleat, the winds travelling music, and the small woosh sound the grass made, dancing to that wind’s song. I started climbing a familiar path uphill in contented silence. This was the way home.
She was right where she always had been, ever since I showed up here for the first time when I was 6. Graceful, long limbs wrapped in a thick dress that withstands the windy weather, her long curls sway in the wind, the handmade lace shawl covering her delicate-looking yet powerful shoulders. I could hear her before I even saw her. The Irish flute softly kissed her lips, manufacturing a cheerful tune with a kind and melodic tempo.
Her eyes closed, and her fingers rapidly danced on the keys to produce the sweet sounds. She stopped playing as I reached the first steps of the long porch, her foot dropping with a single discreet motion, stopping the swing seat she was sitting in from swaying further, but she did not open her eyes. I knew she couldn’t have heard me approaching, but she could always tell.
“It’s been a while.”
Her smile was indulgent as she slowly opened her eyes and looked right at me.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too, Indy”
She tapped on the seat next to hers on the swing.
“Come, Join me. Tell me everything”
