Excerpts

I've always carried my death with me. perhaps saying so is trite, an observation the dying always make. But I'm not like other people, in this as in everything else, or so I like to believe. And I do believe it, truly. I said as much when Masood died. Our time was always borrowed. We weren't supposed to be alive. We should have died in the revolution. In its aftermath. In the war. But I was given thirty more years. More than half my life. It's a considerable length of time, something to be grateful for. The same length as my daughter's life. Yes, that's one way to see it. I was allowed to create her. But she didn't need me this long. No one did. You think because you're a parent, you're needed. It's not true. People find a way to get by. Who says I was worth more than the trouble I caused? I don't believe it. I'm not the type who gives more than I take. I should be. I'm a mother after all. It's my job to bear the weight, bear it for others. But I never have, not for anyone. "You have at most six months left to live," the fucking witch says to me. She says it like she's delivering some trivial, but unfortunate news. In the same tone of voice the daycare teacher used to tell me that someone hit Aram. A little bit sad. A little bit guilty. And the witch doesn't even look at me while she says it, just stares into her computer screen. As if that contains the truth. As if the screen were the one being harmed. Then the tears start running down her cheeks, and she stares down at her lap. Now she's the victim. She needs comfort. Shut up! I want to scream. Who are you to tell me I'm going to die. Who are you to weep, as if my life has anything to do with you. But I don't scream. Not this time. I surprise myself. "I want to speak to your supervisor," I say instead. She seems taken aback. Probably thinks that was the wrong reaction. Thinks I should be weeping, too. "I know this is hard . . . hard to hear. But it doesn't matter who you talk to," she says. "The CT scan, the test results. They're indisputable. You have cancer. And it's . . . it's quite advanced." She falls silent and looks at me. Waiting for my face to confirm that I understand. But it doesn't, so she continues. "It's stage four. Cancer. That means you don't have much time." "Shut up!" Now I do say it. "I'm a nurse. I've worked in health care for twenty-five years. I know you're not allowed to say that to me. You have no idea how long I have left. You're not God!" She backs up in her chair, upset. She must be in her thirties, with her hair held high in two childish pigtails. A photo of a baby stands on her desktop. I shake my head. She has no clue what she knows or doesn't know. We sit in silence, until she wipes her tears onto her sleeve and leaves. I sit frozen for a moment then reach for my purse and take out my phone. I should call someone. I should call my daughter. Say: Hello, my cursed little crow. Now your mother is going to die, too. Damn. I try to write a text message to Zahra instead. But I erase it. What do you say? Hello friend, so much struggle, and now it's over. I can't. I hear two voices approaching, the doctor and her supervisor. They stop outside the door. Whispering. It's obvious they don't face death often here at this GP clinic. They're discussing who should go inside and talk to me. I understand. They want to get on with their day. Move on to the next patient. Not fall behind. The last thing they want to do is take shit from some dying woman. I consider my options. Should I just pack up and go? Spare them. Spare myself. I grab my coat. It's red. I reach for my purse. Also red. I look down at my boots. Red. All the banalities I care about. Cared. My hands start to shake, then my shoulders. I drop my purse onto the floor. Trying to hold back the sob rising in my body. At that very moment, they open the door. Step inside. Look at me. I see how they'd like to turn and go. I don't want to scare them. I try to smile. But it washes over me. Excerpted from What We Owe by Golnaz Hashemzadeh Bonde All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.