Convenient Lies

Mara

The Premier’s eyes gazed at her with profound sincerity. His voice dripped with trust. Just keep a lid on it, he said. That’s the main thing I need you to do. You’ve seen the polls – we need quiet, steady competence to get our numbers back up. If you have a chance to do some cost cutting without raising a fuss, by all means. But first and foremost, keep a lid on it.

Mara forced herself to look into his eyes, to ignore the anger that flashed through her. This was not the place for anger. Right now she knew what he expected to hear and she knew how she had to say it. She sat up a little straighter. Of course, Premier. Her voice sounded warm and confident, the way she had practiced in front of the mirror this morning. She considered saying more, but decided it was too dangerous – there was no upside, since he wasn’t actually listening to her, and there was a decided risk that if she said more her voice would betray her anger.

She was, after all, his new Minister of Community and Social Services, and he expected her to be grateful for her elevation to Cabinet. Not that she had expected to get Finance, but she couldn’t help wondering who the new Minister of Economic Development was. Or Culture. To think that just this morning those were the only alternatives she could imagine. Certainly not ComSoc – that had never crossed her mind. It shouldn’t have crossed the Premier’s either. But she was finally in Cabinet – that was something, after all. She would think about the rest later.

She looked back at him with a expression as bland as his. She would not point out that his personal approval numbers were far lower than the party’s. Or that the media were accusing him of massive incompetence. The next step, she knew, was to thank him. She would not mention that he was sending her into the political wilderness.

It was only later, as she was driving home through the chilly November drizzle and the mess of traffic heading west on the 401, that she allowed herself to say it out loud. She was the new Minister of Losers. Minister of Useless Losers. Minister of Hopeless Useless Losers. How could he do that to her? She had earned a proper portfolio, everybody knew that. She’d paid her dues. Over and over again. Far more than some of her so-called colleagues who had gotten the best jobs in the Cabinet shuffle. Hadn’t she been the best Parliamentary Assistant in the whole caucus? Hadn’t she brought in new money for the party? What more did she need to do to get a decent portfolio? Ever since the Finance Minister’s fatal heart attack, she had had such hopes for the Cabinet shuffle.

Instead, here she was – the Minister of Losers. Community and Social Services, of all things. Some colossal joke that the Premier was playing on her. She was a Conservative, for heaven’s sake, not some bleeding heart liberal social worker. She didn’t know – and she certainly didn’t want to know – anything about welfare bums or snotty-nosed kids or immigrants or whoever else her ministry was supposed to do something for.

On top of everything else, the traffic was worse than usual. Given the way the world was conspiring against her right now, there was probably some accident up ahead. How she wished she could just lean on the horn and get everyone out of her way. She’d be lucky to get home by eight, and it would probably be even later.

But it was useless to think about the traffic. What she should be doing was to use the delay to get herself into a better frame of mind, or she would end up in another big fight. She was definitely not in the mood for a fight with Charles. Maybe a couple of martinis would be enough to avoid a fight – make them both feel mellow. Things would look better when she and Charles both had some food and a drink in front of them. Or maybe she should call him and ask him to meet her at a restaurant – yes, that would be better, better than dinner at home, he was always more pleasant in public – tell him this was to celebrate her promotion to Cabinet – put it in the best possible light. She picked up her cellphone and pressed the speed dial.

As Charles answered, she saw she was right – there was an accident up ahead. No wonder the traffic was crawling. It was a bad one, spread across two of the four lanes, with emergency vehicles blocking a third lane, their lights strobing through the darkness, reflections glittering off the wet pavement. You’d think they could park on the shoulder so the other cars could get by. And why oh why did every driver have to slow down to gawk before finally speeding up beyond the bottleneck? But it was pointless even to think about it. When she finally managed to follow the van in front of her into the single open lane, she didn’t bother to look at the wreckage – she could do without gore. She just wanted to get beyond the mess, get off the highway and get this day over with.

Meanwhile, fixing a smile on her face, she explained to Charles that, although the traffic was a mess, she had good news to share. He sounded intrigued and agreed to meet her at the restaurant. As she drove, she practiced smiling in time to the swipes of the windshield wipers. By the time she pulled into the restaurant parking lot, she found that she had in fact improved her mood. And the rain had stopped.

Charles, still in his dark blue Bay Street suit, his balding head gleaming in the dim light of the restaurant, was already waiting for her. He toasted her with his martini as she sat down. I understand congratulations are in order – so what did he give you?

She sipped the martini that he had ordered for her. Thanks. This tastes great – I’ve been looking forward to it ever since the traffic ground to a halt. And with a smile that was almost genuine, she added the line she had been practicing in the car. You are about to have dinner with the new Minister of Community and Social Services.

Well, that’s a surprise, Charles said in a startled tone, apparently before he could stop himself. She forced herself to keep smiling as she watched him put his glass down very carefully. She recognized his focus on the glass as an excuse to avoid looking at her, since his glass wasn’t particularly full anymore. Finally he looked back at her with a phony smile of his own, and in a hearty voice he managed to congratulate her again. ComSoc – that’s really something.

Thank you, Charles. Yes, I was surprised too. She used her brisk, strictly business voice – it was always useful for signaling a boundary, and for redirecting a conversation. But the Premier was very complimentary about my ability to do a good job, and I have to say, I’m looking forward to it. I imagine you know that ComSoc has a budget right up there with Health. She gave him another big smile. But let’s talk about it later. Right now I’m really looking forward to dinner. Have you decided what you’re going to have?

Charles shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that if it was okay with her then it was okay with him. They both picked up their menus with relief, glad to leave the issue alone.

It was only later that night, as Charles punctuated his sleep with irritating little snores from his side of their big bed, that Mara allowed herself to think again about the Ministry of Losers. She wondered how often she was going to have to deal with reactions like Charles’. What did any of them know about politics anyhow? Charles knew, of course – Bay Street lawyers always knew where the real power lay, and he knew that she had been sidelined. She suspected from his behavior at dinner that he was assuming that she didn’t know – and that he definitely wasn’t going to tell her.

But he had kept after her to find out who had gotten the plum jobs – who was the new Finance Minister, who was getting Economic Development, how well did she know them. It had been humiliating, how quickly and how thoroughly Charles had changed the subject to something that mattered to him. And she had let him get away with it because she didn’t know how else to handle it. After all, the whole point of having dinner in public was to avoid a fight, to stick to small talk, to deflect any possible discussion of anything real.

It had been far easier to pretend that they were just engaged in juicy insider gossip, because the alternative would have been to be honest with him – to admit how furious she was that the Premier had rewarded all her hard work with a promotion that was nothing more than a one way ticket to political obscurity. But that wasn’t something to talk about with Charles – or with anyone. Years ago she had learned the hard way to keep her own counsel – it wasn’t a lesson she was likely to forget.

Nada

Nada leaned against the locked bathroom door, still shaking. Tears continued to leak down her face as she rocked the baby to stop him from screaming and tried to comfort her darling Yasmeen at the same time. None of it was working. Yousuf continued to brace his little body against hers, rigid as a board, and he kept screaming. His face was red and sweaty. She had no idea how to stop him. She would have liked to scream with him, but that would have frightened Yasmeen even more. Little Yasmeen, who was quietly whimpering and clinging to Nada’s leg. It had never been as bad as this.

Nada had finally managed to get the three of them into the tiny bathroom and lock the door. But not before her husband had hurt her worse than he ever had. She could feel the blood beginning to clot under her nose and between her legs. One of her eyes was quickly swelling shut. And it hurt so much to breathe – and to hold the baby – that she suspected he had broken one of her ribs. Mahmoud was still beating on the door, but she sensed that he was losing his rage now that he could no longer see her and kick her. If only he would leave. Please, please leave, she thought but did not say.

She maneuvered the toilet seat lid shut with a bang and sat down so that she could hold the baby and hug Yasmeen at the same time. At last Yousuf snuffled a few times and abruptly fell asleep on her shoulder. And Yasmeen, now clinging fiercely to her, was quieter as well, although she twitched each time Mahmoud kicked the bathroom door. She seemed to understand that being quiet was important right now.

You whore, Mahmoud shouted with one last kick to the door, causing Nada to flinch painfully. And then she heard him leave the apartment, slamming the outer door behind him. Nada continued to sit holding the children. Her body hurt more and more as she realized she was not going to die today. She nearly moaned, but managed to turn it into a quavering sigh.

Mama? Are you all right? Yasmeen’s tiny voice brought yet more tears to Nada’s eyes.

I will be fine, my darling. Everything will be better soon. Can you help me and get the telephone? Nada forced herself to speak gently to Yasmeen, but as she leaned forward to unlock the bathroom door, she gasped with pain as the broken ends of her rib crunched inside her. Quickly now.

It was hours later – nearly morning – when the police car took Nada and the children from the hospital to a shelter for abused women. She felt drained and exhausted as she slumped into the back seat with her children. At least she still had her children with her, she thought as she looked at the baby in her lap. She had nothing else. They had tried to take them away, but she hadn’t let them. The children needed her, even if she hurt so much that she could hardly bear to have them touch her. And she needed them. But she needed sleep even more. They all needed to sleep. She hoped the pain pills they gave her at the hospital would start to help soon. When she had the children in bed, she could take two more to help her sleep. Right now every part of her body ached terribly and every breath sent a shock of pain through her. But her exhaustion was overwhelming even the pain – it took all her strength just to keep her eyes open. She clutched the container of pills in her pocket and willed the car to get to the shelter quickly.

After what seemed like a long time, the police car pulled up beside a looming grey building that was intimidating in its ugliness. Earlier, when they had told her they were taking her to a shelter it had sounded so comforting. The sound of the word had reminded her of her mother – the only person who had ever created a safe place for her. If her mother were here, everything would be different. But her mother had died. As she gazed at this building with bars on the windows – it looked like a prison, not the protective shelter she had imagined – she could not bear to think about her mother. It did not matter what the building looked like. She needed to sleep, and she had nowhere else to go. She groaned as she lifted Yousuf into the policewoman’s arms, and groaned again as she shifted her bruised body out of the car. Climbing the stairs to the doorstep was a small torture.

Yasmeen clutched her hand as they entered the dilapidated building. It smells funny in here, Mama. I want to go home.

Not now, darling. You are tired and I am tired, and we need to sleep. She tried not to snap at her daughter, but she was nearly staggering she was so tired, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything except the prospect of deep, forgetful sleep.

But I don’t like it here. It smells bad. I want to go home. Yasmeen whined and stamped her little legs, but there was no real conviction in any of it. She was far too tired to sustain her protest. She only managed to earn a dirty look from the woman who had opened the inner door for them.

The worker was wearing pajamas and looked like she had just woken up. Nada had never seen such a thing before – the woman didn’t even seem to be pretending that she had been working. She ushered Nada with the baby and Yasmeen into a small, cluttered office and closed the door. Sit down. I need to get some information from you.

She tried to object. I cannot do this now. We have been up all night and we need to sleep. Please just give us a place to sleep. Why could this woman not see that she was on the verge of collapse? Could the paperwork not wait until morning?

The woman yawned and shuffled through some papers on the desk, refusing to make eye contact. My shift ends soon and I need to get you processed before the day shift arrives. Do you have any identification with you?

She no longer had the strength to sustain her protest either. She moved the baby to her shoulder and shuffled through her purse, finally managing to find her passport. The woman grabbed it from her hand with a sigh of impatience. Yasmeen tried to climb into her mother’s lap. I can’t hold you both, Yasmeen. We will be in bed soon, she said with a small groan. Her daughter leaned against her and wailed. Be quiet. You are waking the baby. This time her voice came out in a low hiss. Yousuf shifted on her shoulder and shuddered, but when Yasmeen’s wailing stopped he found his fist and began to suck on it in his sleep. She bit her lip to avoid crying out from the new hurts that all the movements were causing her. She closed her eyes and prayed that this would soon be over.

The worker shook her shoulder to wake her, causing still more pain. What are your children’s names? How old are they?

She was trembling from pain and fatigue, but a surge of hatred gave her enough strength to scold the worker. When you touch me you are hurting me. Then she said very slowly and clearly, using the tone her mother would have used with a servant who had misbehaved, Yasmeen is four. Yousuf is five months. Now I cannot answer any more questions. Please show us to our beds.

The worker looked up from her paperwork and seemed to see her for the first time. It was clear that she didn’t much like what she saw. Well, excuse me, she said with exaggerated sarcasm. I’m just doing my job, which is to try to help you.

She refused to acknowledge the sarcasm. The help we need right now is a bed. And with that, the woman finally moved out of her chair, led them upstairs to a small bedroom furnished with two single beds and a crib, and left them alone. She put Yousuf into the crib, grateful that she no longer had to support his weight, even though the reaching involved in putting him down caused a stabbing pain in her side. Yasmeen asked to sleep with her mother, but when Nada said she was still too sore, the child climbed onto one of the beds and fell asleep almost immediately. She sat on the edge of the other bed and shook two of the pain pills into her hand. She swallowed them dry rather than have to ask that dreadful woman for a glass of water. With a mostly suppressed moan, she lay down gingerly and closed her eyes.

She was still exhausted when the baby woke her with his crying. Maybe he will go back to sleep – please go back to sleep, she thought drowsily and drifted off again. Then Yasmeen was standing beside her, poking her arm to wake her up. I’m hungry, Mama. Mama, I’m hungry. Yousuf is crying. Yousuf is hungry. I’m really hungry, Mama. Please, Mama. Yasmeen continued her pleas until she could no longer ignore the fact that she needed to wake up.

She forced her eyes open and tried to smile at her daughter who looked so very frightened. Yes, Yasmeen, I will get up and get us all some food.

She spent the remainder of the day at the mercy of the shelter staff. They called it orientation, but it seemed that it was mostly about what she could and could not do. Yasmeen would not leave her side, the baby cried every time she tried to put him down, and her body was a mass of different kinds of pain – a sharp pain from her broken rib, a deep throbbing ache in her belly, a headache that radiated up from the base of her skull and squeezed her eyes into intense pinpoints of pain, and exquisitely sore bruises in all the places where Yasmeen insisted on clinging to her. At least the women working during the day were nicer to her than the horrid person from the night shift, but they too did not seem to realize how she was feeling. They insisted that she listen to them and fill in forms when all she really wanted to do was to lie down in a dark room. She just kept nodding and saying yes, even when she had no idea what they were talking about.

Late in the afternoon, when she thought that they were finished bothering her, that she could rest for a few minutes, one of the staff, a black woman whose hair was all beaded braids, saw her taking another pain pill. You can’t keep those pills with you. We need to lock them up in the office.

I do not understand – they gave them to me at the hospital – I need to have them for the pain. She tried to tuck the small container back into the pocket of the bathrobe she was wearing, but the woman grabbed it from her.

All prescription medicines have to be locked up. You can come and ask for one if you need it. The woman marched down the hall to the office with her pills, the beads in her hair clacking. It might as well have been a jailor’s set of keys. All day, she had been trying to avoid thinking of this shelter as a prison, but as her only comfort disappeared into the office she realized how completely she had given up all control of her life. What is to become of us, she thought in despair. Oh Mahmoud, what have you done?

At last dinner was finished and the children were asleep in their beds. In the darkened room she cautiously propped herself up with pillows She wished she had another pill to help her sleep, but she did not have the energy to go downstairs again. And her whole being revolted against the notion that she should have to beg or explain her need for the pills. She would bear the pain. She had done it before. Resting motionless against the pillows, not moving, she pictured her body healing.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that she was a little girl again in the big home in Tehran – and that she and her mother were sharing a cup of tea. An afternoon when her mother somehow managed to spirit their house away to ancient Persia. Persia was their special code for a wonderful, magical time when women as well as men could be heroes and artists and scientists and astronomers. She heard her mother’s voice. We are Persians, she said. Being Persian means that you are descended from one of the world’s finest cultures. You speak the language of emperors. And princesses. Her smile made Nada feel like the most special girl ever born. Afternoon tea with her mother was the best part of her day – she loved the way the sunlight filtered