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Back My Bird Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. My Bird
  4. Chapter 2
  5. Chapter 3
  6. Chapter 4
  7. Chapter 5
  8. Chapter 6
  9. Chapter 7
  10. Chapter 8
  11. Chapter 9
  12. Chapter 10
  13. Chapter 11
  14. Chapter 12
  15. Chapter 13
  16. Chapter 14
  17. Chapter 15
  18. Chapter 16
  19. Chapter 17
  20. Chapter 18
  21. Chapter 19
  22. Chapter 20
  23. Chapter 21
  24. Chapter 22
  25. Chapter 23
  26. Chapter 24
  27. Chapter 25
  28. Chapter 26
  29. Chapter 27
  30. Chapter 28
  31. Chapter 29
  32. Chapter 30
  33. Chapter 31
  34. Chapter 32
  35. Chapter 33
  36. Chapter 34
  37. Chapter 35
  38. Chapter 36
  39. Chapter 37
  40. Chapter 38
  41. Chapter 39
  42. Chapter 40
  43. Chapter 41
  44. Chapter 42
  45. Chapter 43
  46. Chapter 44
  47. Chapter 45
  48. Chapter 46
  49. Chapter 47
  50. Chapter 48
  51. Chapter 49
  52. Chapter 50
  53. Chapter 51
  54. Chapter 52
  55. Chapter 53
  56. Afterword
  57. About the Authors

I leave the market. It’s late. It’s still snowing lightly. A man is selling cooked beets. The steam is rising. There are many trucks around the market. Trucks full of oranges, tangerines, and sweet lemons. I turn into the alley. The noises are distant now, and it’s dark and quiet in the alley. There is only the whiteness of the snow and the light from a few streetlamps. I am walking carefully, but I slip and fall. Nobody is in the alley. I have to get up. My back hurts. I clench the snow and tears fill my eyes. Even all that glow and color couldn’t relieve the pain that I am now throwing up like undigested food. Now I understand why I have left the house at this time of the night. I have left the house to be alone and hear myself make a promise, a promise never ever to cling again, never again be dependent. I get up and start walking toward the house.

Chapter 33

33

image It’s two days since Amir’s bag is empty. He has no stories or news. He eats his dinner and stares at the television screen. When I talk, he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even answer when I ask him a question. The third day, he hits Shadi for a petty excuse and yells at me for spending money when everything is so expensive. It’s my turn to get up and say, “Which money? What expense?” I say that for months I’ve had to make do with these old clothes and haven’t said a word.

“Tell me what makeup I have bought? What purse or shoes have I purchased? What have I bought for the children?”

It’s my turn to say something, but I let Amir talk, complain, and yell. Maybe I can find out what’s wrong by reading between the lines. But he doesn’t talk. How can I peek into his world?

I point to the kids to be quiet. I must calm everything down. I must do something so that Amir will talk. I make up the beds and tell the kids to go to bed quietly. I turn down the TV and sit by Amir. He is laying on his stomach. I rub his shoulders. Often in the evenings, Amir promises money, fun, and a visit to the park to get the kids to massage him. His eyes are closed. It’s no use. He’s asleep.

I think how stupid of me to think that I know everything about Amir, that I know him like the palm of my hand, that there is nothing in his life that I don’t know about. The face of this tired and sullen man becomes even more unfamiliar.