Ekaterina Sedia - The House of Discarded Dreams

THE HOUSE OF DISCARDED DREAMS

Ekaterina Sedia

To Bill and Tait, who made this book possible

Copyright 2010 by Ekaterina Sedia.

Cover art by Audrejs Pidjaas / Fotolia.

Cover design by Stephen H. Segal.

Ebook design by Neil Clarke

ISBN: 978-1-60701-269-6 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-60701-228-3 (trade paperback)

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Vimbai knew that it was going to be one of those days the moment she shuffled downstairs, her socking feet blindly finding their way on the carpeted steps. Her eyes still half-shut from sleep but her nose already picking up the oily smell of freshly roasted coffee beans, she smiled just as the raised voice of her mother cut into her mind. Vimbai stopped smiling.

Ever since she was a child, she had not liked these days, when her parents fought first thing in the morning and the rest of the day came out all narrow-eyed and lopsided, devoid of the usual sense of balance and rightness in the world. Not that those were ever serious fightsthe normal spousal squabbling, Vimbai supposed; nothing bad, and most families had it far worse. And yet these fights made her feel exposed and vulnerable, betrayed in her sanctuary and given to the mercy of strange hostile elements.

She slipped into the kitchen, her eyes wary now, looking from under the lowered eyelids.

Dont squint, her mother said. Do you want any breakfast?

Just coffee, Vimbai answered, and momentarily envied her mothers accent. The words, the familiar English words that melted and mushed in Vimbais mouth, came out with startling sparkling edges, as if they were just born, unpolished by the world, rough and fresh and solid.

She sidled up to the tablethey always ate their meals at the table, and even breakfast was a family occasion, an extra opportunity to either bond or hurt each others feelings.

Her mother shook her head but poured Vimbai a large steaming cup. You have to eat breakfast.

Vimbais father made a sound in the back of his throat, a mild sound that seemed to serve only to remind them that he was also present and perhaps could offer opinions on breakfasts and other matters but was too absorbed in his thoughts to vocalize them.

Vimbai looked out of the window, at the familiar suburban street and the red leaves of maples that grew in this sandy soil through some miracle of gardening and landscaping. How are you doing, dad? Vimbai said. Long day today?

He nodded. Double shift, he said. You?

Vimbai pursed her lips and blew on the surface of her coffee, wrinkling it like smooth brown silk. Three classes today.

Youre coming to school with me? her mother asked.

Maybe, Vimbai answered. If youre not working late again.

You can go to the library, her mother suggested.

Or I can take my car and drive home. Vimbai tried to keep her voice neutralwhen her parents fought first thing in the morning, it was not wise to annoy her mother. If Vimbai was not careful, shit would go down and both her and her father would get itnot that they didnt deserve it, Vimbai admitted to herself. After all, why shouldnt she get in trouble every now and again?

Mother rose, pushing her chair away with a hair-raising squeak. Fine. Suit yourself. Carpooling is of course too much trouble and inconvenience. Who cares about global warming anyway?

Mom. Vimbai cringed. Dont be like this.

As Vimbai had grown older, she had realized that the arguments and the problems she had with her mother were not unusualin fact, she suspected that teenage girls who did not get along with their mothers outnumbered those who did at least three to one. It did not make her feel any better, and she still wishedselfishly, she would be the first to admitthat her mother paid more attention to Vimbai than the news from abroad, or to the Africana studies and who set the agenda there. She wished that she would pay as half as much mind to Vimbais problems and worries as she did to the white men trying to hijack her department.

Mother shrugged and left, and Vimbai and her father traded looks.

What brought that on? Vimbai said.

Her father shook his head. Everything, darling. Be nice to hershes having a rough time. Her department and all that. Stress.

You have stress too. Vimbai drank her coffee, sizing up her father from the corner of her eye. He was always so much more subdued, so willing to make excuses and make peace and sacrifice, always minimizing his own fatigue and heartbreak. Its not important, darling. Such a slight man, his eyes so sad and kind. She did not know how to tell him.

Its all right, he answered. You get used to it; you get used to everything.

Vimbai shrugged and drank her coffee, considering all the things she never wanted to get used to; at the same time, the habitual guilt stirredher parents had been through so much, it felt downright selfish for her to complain about anything at all. And yet, if the experience was all that mattered, wasnt hers just as valuable? All she knew was that she had to get out of here, before she became the same as her mother.

Her father was a nurse down at one of the Camden hospitals, and whenever she visited him or picked him up after work, she felt shamed for her sheltered life, reasonably devoid of suffering. This one wasnt a university hospital, and the emergency room always overflowed with gunshot wounds and overdoses, with beatings and burnings and other godawful things. Vimbai did not know how he could stand it, how it was possible to get used to things like that.

You seem pensive today, her father said. Hope we didnt upset you.

Of course not, she said. I was just thinking... am I getting too old to live at home?

The words just poured out, mushed by habituality. Her parents never spoke like that, all their words considered, even in the heat of an argument. Even when they fought in Shona, even though she understood little of what they said then.

He put down his newspaper with the picture of Barack Obama on the page folded over. Why would you say that? You know we dont want you living on your own.

Just thinking. Vimbai finished her coffee in a few quick gulps. No reason. Do you think Obama could really win?

Her father shook his head. None of them thought that he couldthe country is not ready, her mother said. He is black and not really American. He was like them, the unsaid words crowded. They would never accept people like us. We are to remain on the cultural margins of multiple worlds, abandoning one and never entering the other. Even Vimbai felt that though she had lived in New Jersey most of her lifeshe too was on the margins. What hope was there for her parents then, and how would they cope if she was really to move out? And yet, how could she not?

Vimbai decided to skip class. It was that sort of a day, and missing a lecture on invertebrate zoology seemed only fitting. What was there to learn that she couldnt find out by walking along the shore, the dirty hem of foam curling around her bare ankles? She stopped to crouch over a dead horseshoe crab and to stare at it for a while, then to flip it over and count its limp little legs, jointed and pale and slightly obscene. She flipped it back on its belly, as if the dead crabs dignity needed preserving.