It surprised Salma that, out of all the women in the group, Moni was the one who ended up coming. They were not particularly close. As for Iman, she went everywhere with Salma, sitting next to her in the front seat. If you wanted to be mean, you would say that Iman was Salma’s sidekick. If you wanted to be nice, you would say she was like a devoted, much younger sister.
Iman was beautiful. Old-fashioned eyes and sulky lips, the dip of her head and husky voice. Even with her hijab, men smelt her from afar, looked longer at her, exerted themselves to make her smile. She was in her twenties but on her third marriage. Once widowed, and once divorced. When Moni had first met Iman at Salma’s house, she was kept amused listening to Iman’s tales of prospective suitors. She seemed to have an unlimited supply – of both tales and suitors. Yet she narrated her stories in a flat voice, as if it was boring, after all, to be stunning. Moni would never know. She had, at certain times of her life, with the help of expensive attention and good taste, pulled off looking attractive. Her wedding photos, professional and stylish, were widely admired. These days she looked nothing like she had done at her wedding.
Salma, Moni and Iman – travelling companions. Escaping the stuck-together buildings of the city, the regenerated Waterfront, the Jute Museum, the busy Tay Road Bridge and the pretty park overlooking the estuary; distancing themselves from the coffee-scented malls, the kebab restaurants and the trapezoid mosque; getting away from the scheduled rubbish collections and the weekly meeting of the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group. The three of them moving together and alone.
On the morning of their departure, Moni needed to settle her son first at the nursing home. Salma and Iman waited for her in the car. Moni had never been separated from Adam. She sat on the bed that had been assigned to him, holding him up on her lap, manoeuvring him out of his jacket. She was used to doing this, his head lolling if she didn’t support it, his arms flopping wide. Five-year-olds his age would be tying up their own shoelaces, but Adam had severe cerebral palsy. Looking around her, Moni approved of the small ward, it’s cleanliness and order, and she had been given a tour of the dining room, the recreation room full of toys and a television, the garden for regular fresh air. ‘It’s Adam’s first time with us, right?’ the nurse had asked her. Moni liked the direct use of his name, the dignity of it. Moni had often been encouraged to take a respite, and Adam’s health visitor outlined the length of time and kind of relief that the services offered for carers of profoundly disabled children. But it had taken Salma’s insistence to get Moni to take up the opportunity.
Moni felt soothed by the soft colours of the walls, the cartoon decorations, the tunes of a childish song coming from the next room. Once his jacket was removed, Moni placed Adam on the bed, folded his wheelchair and started putting his things away in the bedside chest of drawers. Another nurse came to talk to her, though when she introduced herself, she said she was a student volunteer. The girl, with angelic eyes and braces, smiled and chatted to Adam as if he could understand all that she was saying. It made Moni smile and pitch in for him, venturing answers as if speaking on his behalf. She glanced at the other children, some in wheelchairs and some in bed. A few were even more disabled than Adam and that made her feel better.
The real nurse came back and explained how Moni in the next few days could phone in to check up on Adam. ‘Anytime is fine, but please avoid calling during mealtimes when the staff are busy with the children.’ The sentence startled Moni. She wasn’t really going to leave him to be fed by strangers, was she? Strangers who might need to answer the phone calls of inconsiderate parents. Adam started to cry and fidget, his right leg jerked. She sat down on the bed and pulled him onto her lap. She gathered the expanse of his limbs, the awkward angles of his body, his spread-out weight and smoothed him to a centre. He fretted while she rocked and soothed him, her chin on his curls, his saliva dripping on her wrist. When contentment settled on him, he became less stiff and she felt settled too. With him was total belonging and peace. She didn’t want to leave, neither to take him back home nor to travel with Salma and Moni. She was happy like this, her lap full of his closeness, his smell, his sounds. She had given him a bath this morning, dressed him in his best clothes so that he would make a good impression. This was a special outing for him. The nursing home was a nice place and the nurses were kind. She would stay with him, why not? Yes, that was the best idea, she would help the nurses by looking after Adam while they concentrated on the other children. It would be a change for her, all the change she needed. Never mind about the trip to the Highlands.
From outside, the nursing home looked like any ordinary bungalow in a residential area, perhaps a little bigger, but it blended with its surroundings. Iman opened her door and undid her seat belt. The weather was pleasant, a late summer that was hitting its stride rather than giving in to the cold winds of autumn. ‘Moni will take for ever. The meat will thaw,’ she said. They were carrying frozen halal chicken and minced beef in the boot, knowing they would not find any in the shops near the loch.
‘No, it won’t,’ said Salma.
