Mady's mad world

“Get me out of the house fast!” she’s stomping her feet as she struggles to take her breath. I hear a weezing I’m assuming is coming from the fact that she’s over exerting her self. Her hands are flailing in the air and she’s repeating her self over and over again. She’s lost it. The idea of a grip escapes her. I stumble for my keys and rush out the door. I’m in the car faster than my feet can take me and my mother chases us. “What’s wrong! Why are you doing this to yourself!?! Just breathe Mady! just breathe!”
She’s huffing and puffing and the weezing increases…
“just leave it mum… We’ll be back in a bit. I’ll take her for a walk by the lake and it should be fine”
We drive off and I’m a little scared to speak. The awkwardness fills the air and silence sets in. Mady isn’t my friend… she’s my mum’s. I’ve never really known her as an adult most of our interaction was way back when I couldn’t be at the pool without adult supervision. Way back when he alcoholic husband convinced her to conceive another child almost to spite the on lookers who said having another child would be a grave mistake.
She breaks down. Her sobbing is reserved at first and eventually replaces the awkward nothingness.
She gains her composure but only after she’s managed to wipe away all but 3 tears. She out the window.
“Look out jail cell here I come.”
I’m dumb founded... I was born and raised for the earlier portion of my childhood in that “prison”. But to me, it was an abundance of sunny pool sides and the perfect popsicle flavors. How could a Saudi woman with so much strength charisma and laughter be saying this to me?
I stop and think about what’s brought her here.
How broken she is.
How she won’t let herself fall apart. How I’ve seen her go through worse… a million times worse. she’s stronger than all this… Invincible almost. The hardships of having to raise a child with cerebral palsy in the Arab world. Consistently and continually being accused of being at fault for delivering a child with a disability. She did after all accept to marry her cousin in exchange for an education.

How is it possible that a woman with her own psychology practice who teaches women about emancipating themselves from the chains of antifeminism be this negative about her home, the place she lives and the people she was raised among?

She after all the one with an abundance of energy. The one people leach onto for that emotional boost that guidance and self understanding. She is her job.

I put my hand on her leg and say “ohh come on auntie madie lighten up… it is what give u your kick!”
“Heck I drive every day and no one kicks up a fuss! You get into beamer one morning after convincing a bunch of girlfriends to do the same and all of a sudden you’re a revolutionary”

She looks at me… her spirits lifted for a mili second only to follow with “yes but they arrested my husband for that… I am so “subhuman” I didn’t even manage to proper jail time!”

“Ahh so you want to have your cake and eat it too? That to me was sweet justice! Its about time you had the water bed all to your self.”

She smirks a little.

“Right then! seee! Saudi is what gives you your edge”
“its’s a lot worse this time sand-e… so much worse.. the disease is beyond the cancer my sister died from. Beyond her husband leaving her because she no longer hand breasts. Beyond having to study when everyone was asleep during the night because the house work was more important than my studying…Beyond having to carry all the responsibility an alcoholic husband couldn’t carry and still appear submissive. THIS is beyond all of that!”

I have nothing to say, I’m curious as to what it is that’s happened but frightened to have it fill the air that surrounds me.
I rub her leg and do the best I can to produce a smile that says I’m listening.
She takes a deep breath and looks out the window again. She speaks into the window and the glass gets foggy.
“He’s raping the children.”
My heart stops beating and I can’t hear her breath anymore. She hangs her head and covers her face.
And then…
Like the rolling thunder approaching with the storm… her breath gets faster and louder… faster and louder…she’s sobbing… and….
She explodes!

Stomping her feet and shaking her head convulsively, slapping the side of her head she screams “MY OWN FATHER! MY FATHER! HE’S FUCKING RAPING MY DEAD SISTER’S CHILDREN, MY DISABILED DAUGHTER!”

She pauses…
Sits still for a moment gaining composure.
She looks out the window again.
She raises her arms with what’s left in her.
She wipes the tears and exhales “my dead sisters children and my disabled daughter”

The silence is defining.
The seconds like hours.
The surroundings in slow motion.

What could I possibly do to make this better?
What could a naïve silly girl like me.. have to offer this unsung hero short of having a statue erected in her honor for all she’s had to endure?
Absolutely nothing. I, like her, have no power to turn back time.

I lean over, wrap my arms around her and hug her with all my might.