Words Rain Chudori Illustrations Budhi Button

Love is a repertoire of our childhood. I was born in a white house with a roof that touched the sky, to a father who built and a mother who slept. Our bedrooms were quiet and endless but that was how we established intimacy. The living room was rarely occupied but there was always the hum of the radio and the sound of footsteps, it was always as if you arrived just after everyone had left. Though we never left the house, we bathed often and there was always warm, soapy water puddles on the tiled floor. We placed windows in every room, and though there were curtains, we never closed them. Speaking was not an ability we needed, loving even more so. We had found the ability to be safe and sound. We lived in a dollhouse, strong and rooted into our own wounds.

Mother wanders from room to room in a nightdress. The dress is made of sheer muslin with a satin bow on the waist. She owns many shades of sleep and each with a made-up name: Vanishing Violet, Bruised Peach, Blue Fate. When she moves in the sunlight, I can see which parts of her have experienced disappointment.

My mother fills the days in sleep, waking up only to bathe, eat and read the newspaper. Most of the time, she would be standing by the door with her palms clasped together. Whenever I opened the door, I could see the look of sorrow that shadowed her face, like the wind that had snuck in and fluttered her nightdress timidly. We talked about house chores, gardening, school lessons, but it never crossed the periphery of our lives.

Occasionally, when father doesn’t come home, mother becomes upset and would tear at the hems of her nightdress. Usually, I would calm her down and, when she had fallen asleep, would drive to the store to buy her a replacement. By the time my father comes home, she will already have forgotten. The store is small, with a bell on the handle so the girls always knew when a customer entered and exited. The girls, who were my age and mostly worked part-time after school, treated me kindly and always kept mother’s size. Walking home, I walked slower and wondered if the wind finally realized that all this time we were living under its care.

The last time my mother left the house was many years ago. The first thing I saw was her calm face bathed in locks of hair. We were in her car, and I realized that while I was asleep, she must have carried me in. I pretended I was still asleep and as she struggled to light her black clove cigarette while driving the car, I realized she was still wearing a nightdress: Heroin White. The morning has just begun, and mistaking us for trees, the wind brushed our face as we drove down a suburban road.

We stopped gently in front of a two-story house with circle windows and limonium flowers in front of their gateless garden. In the driveway, a car was parked. The houses in this neighborhood were identical and I wondered how my mother knew which one she was looking for. My mother had given up on her cigarette and it laid crumpled on the dashboard in front of me. She clutched at the hems of her nightdress and quickly walked toward the house. She knocked on the door and, perhaps because of the time of day and the silence of the neighborhood, had to knock a few more times. The whole time she waited she kept her gaze fixed at the door. My father opened the door. Even though I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I could tell that something in my mother had fallen asleep. Since then, my mother has lived in the nightdress.

Last night, my father went missing. My mother paced in the living room until all the radio stations finished their broadcast and all we heard was static. She was waiting for news of an accident, and a part of me wished that my father really had died so she would finally be able to sleep. It is always more painful to live in uncertainty. When she grew tired of pacing, and started clutching the hems of her nightdress, I sat next to her.

“He will come back,” I told her, “Tomorrow morning the door will open and he will walk in and he will see you more beautiful than ever.”

“Where is he?”

“Maybe a man was injured and he had to go to the hospital and the man has a family and he had to explain to the man’s family what happened.” My father worked in a construction company that built homes.

“Or maybe, he is looking over blueprints and he finds that there isn’t enough space for windows and he has to revise it with the architects.”

“Do you think so?”

“A lot of things can go wrong when building a house.”

The sound of ripped fabric filled the room and I saw that my mother had torn her nightdress.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she started saying.

“No, it’s fine, why don’t you go to bed now?” I said, holding her arms.

“But the dress.”

“I know, lets change upstairs, and I’ll buy a new one later on,” I told her. “It’s only eight, they close late on Friday nights.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You want to leave the house?”

“It’s dark and I’ll miss you.”

Even though I have used my mother’s car for years, I never disposed of her belongings. Inside the dashboard, there was an old city map with red marks on several points, a daily newspaper from 1997, a silver lighter, and a packet of her black clove cigarettes. Curling up in the faded leather seat next to me, my mother pulled the windows down and watched me drive. Her entire body was covered under her nightdress, including her knees that she was hugging with her arms. We drove out from our neighborhood that consisted of rows of old colonial Dutch houses, and into the night.

The store was closing when we arrived, but one of the girls, who was just about to lock the door, saw my car from a distance and waved. When the girl saw my mother, she stayed quiet.

“Stay here,” I told my mother.

I talked briefly to the girl, who said that we were lucky to have caught her. Hurriedly, she went back into the store, turned on the lights and went into the stockroom to find the nightdress. In the window display, where nightdresses, of newer models and colors, hung limply on women-shaped mannequins. Seeing this, my mother came out of the car. The wind fluttered her dress and from the torn hem, her knees peeked out timidly.

“I told you to stay inside. Your clothes are torn,” I said, taking her arms, and leading her into the car.

“Sorry for waiting,” the girl said. She came out of the shop holding a nightdress, the same shade we were looking for. “Oh, is your mother okay?”

“Can I try that one?” my mother said.

The girl and I looked at the nightdress she was pointing to. Like the one she was wearing, it was sheer and had a satin bow on the waist, but hers palled compared to the translucence of the nightdress before us.

My mother drifted in the nightdress. She paced around the store, sometimes touching the other nightdresses that hung around her, but always returning to her reflection in the mirror.

“It’s made of gossamer, a very light and sheer fabric. It’s a dream to sleep in,” the girl said. “Did you know that gossamer is also the name of spider silk, which they use to lift themselves from one place to another?”

“Really?” my mother asked the girl. I appreciated the girl, for treating my mother kindly and not questioning the hour or the reasons for our arrival.

“Should I wrap it for you?” the girl asked.

“No, I’ll wear it out,” my mother said.

In the car, my mother sat quietly and watched the rustling trees caress our windows. A few times, I caught her touching her dress, and hoped that it would really bring her sleep. Entering the road to our neighborhood, she turned to me and asked,

“Can we go to one more stop?”

“It’s late and we’re tired. Maybe father’s already waiting at home. He’ll be worried,” I said.

“No, please.” I stopped the car.

“Where would you want to go?”

“It’s not that far,” she said. She opened the dashboard and with familiarity, took out her belongings. She opened the pack of black clove cigarettes and took one out. With a lighter, she lit it, and offered one to me. I shook my head. Then, she opened the map and pointed to a circled area. I took the map from her, and tried to figure out the routes.

“Everything has changed,” she said.

“I know. Everything should change,” I replied.

“This hasn’t,” she said, still pointing to the map.

We stopped gently in front of a two-story house with circle windows and limonium flowers in front of their gateless garden. In the driveway, a car was parked. The houses in this neighborhood were identical though now I understood how my mother knew which one she was looking for. My mother was now smoking calmly, her face bathed in an incredible moonlight, and her spider silk dress fluttering silently.

“Our house is perfect.” My mother turned to me, and I could faintly see that something in her was waking up.

“It is,” I told her.

She opened the car door and walked toward the house. She knocked on the door and, perhaps because of the time of night and the silence of the neighborhood, had to knock a few more times. The whole time she waited she kept her gaze fixed at the door. My father opened the door.

Years later, after I married and had two daughters, I realized that my mother was a person of her own and she held things inside of her that were unrelated to my own being. You rarely think of this with your own mother, I know. You expect her to be immaculate, and in that motion, endlessly caring and dutiful. At the very least, you wanted her to be present. When I watch my daughters reading, playing or sleeping at night, I wonder what they wish to see in me and whether I have fulfilled them. I hope that I have. I could not wish these things for my mother. I only wished that the sunlight that she moved under, could instill in her, some kind of warmth.

Love is a repertoire of our childhood. I was born in a white house with a roof that touched the sky, to a father who destroyed and a mother who slept. Our bedrooms were quiet and endless but that was how we established intimacy. The living room was rarely occupied but there was always the hum of the radio and the sound of footsteps; it was always as if you arrived just after everyone has left. Though we never left the house, we bathed often and there was always warm, soapy water puddles on the tiled floor. We placed windows in every room, and though there were curtains, we never closed them. Speaking was not an ability we needed, loving even more so. We had found the ability to be safe and sound. We lived in a dollhouse, strong and rooted into our own wounds.

_______________

Rain Chudori is a writer and translator whose works have been published in a wide range of publications. Her first book, Monsoon Tiger and Other Stories, was published by KPG and exhibited at Frankfurt Book Fair and London Book Fair.

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