the insistent crying, the smells, the toys that made him trip, the way the baby had hijacked Laila's attentions from him
with constant demands to be fed, burped, changed, walked, held.
The girl, in turn, scolded him for smoking in the room, for not letting the baby sleep with them.
There were other arguments waged in voices pitched low. “The doctor said six weeks.” “Not yet, Rasheed. No. Let go. Come on. Don't do that.”
“It's been two months.” “Ssht. There. You woke up the baby.” Then more sharply, “Khosh shodi? Happy now?”
Mariam would sneak back to her room. “Can't you help?” Rasheed said now. “There must be something you can do.”
“What do I know about babies?” Mariam said. “Rasheed! Can you bring the bottle? It's sitting on the almari.”
“She won't feed. I want to try the bottle again.” The baby's screeching rose and fell like a cleaver on meat.
Rasheed closed his eyes. “That thing is a warlord. Hekmatyar. I'm telling you, Laila's given birth to Gulbuddin Hekmatyar.”
Mariam watched as the girl's days became consumed with cycles of feeding, rocking, bouncing, walking.
Even when the baby napped, there were soiled diapers to scrub and leave to soak in a pail of the disinfectant that the girl had insisted Rasheed buy for her.
There were fingernails to trim with sandpaper, coveralls and pajamas to wash and hang to dry.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색