Three Daughters: A Novel Read Online Free

others home.
    “Keep your neck long and your ribs high. You must speak from here.” Miss Clay touched her abdomen. “Stand straight.” Miriam straightened by example, because she missed almost everything said in such oddly accented Arabic. As they worked, the sun came through the high arched windows in waves that made the air quiver. She looked longingly outside at barefoot Maha, beating carpets in the yard. Maha was the closest link to her old life. She didn’t want to keep her neck long. She wanted to lie down on the floor and go to sleep.
    When the weather cooled and the routine was familiar, Miriam began to follow the words in the primer read by the girls in the morning classes. The book related the life of an English family named Highwood who lived in a white house in Surrey. And, she thought with triumph, proving that she understood, Jamilla and Mustafa Tawal lived in a white stone house in Tamleh. “I understand,” she cried out with pleasure, but Miss Clay put a finger to her lips.
    The ability to read about the insipid life of Hugh and Sybil Highwood and their three daughters made her feel powerful. She tolerated the speech sessions but was devoted to the reading. She read along with every girl’s halting effort. She was so engrossed in the story she had to be nudged out of her seat when class was over.
    At noon she ate lunch with Maha but had tea with Miss Clay after the therapy. She envied Miss Clay’s (and the girls’) adeptness with a knife and fork. “Why don’t you teach me, too,” she wanted to ask.
    “Do you wonder why I don’t urge you to eat with a knife and fork?” Miss Clay asked one day.
    “No.”
    “Tell me,” she said softly, “does your mother eat with a knife and fork?”
    This was the last thing Miriam expected to hear. Her mother’s face appeared with such clarity it brought a pang of sadness. Her mother rolled the food into balls and put them in her mouth with her fingers. She kept bread on her knee and tore off bits to dip into oil. Miriam looked down at her feet, dizzy with shame. Mercifully, the subject was dropped.
    She tried to convince herself that her mother was infinitely better off than Miss Clay. Her hands were ever in motion, gathering, cooking, watering, washing. What’s more, Miss Clay was just Miss Clay! She had no clan to protect her. To whom could she appeal if someone cheated her or killed a loved one?
    There were only a few weeks left to the term and Miriam attacked her voice sessions with new determination. She held her head erect, her throat arched, her rib cage high, her blue eyes focused directly ahead. “Father . . . bazaar . . . calm. Heifer . . . leopard . . . friend. Toe . . . flow . . . note . . . road. Key . . . field . . . pee-pel . . . pee-pel . . . people!”
    She was anxious to leave Sarona. “Why is it important for me to speak well?” she asked.
    “A beautiful voice delights people of all stations,” said Miss Clay, “but being the odd person in the family is a burden.”
    Three weeks before the school term ended, the teacher said something that made Miriam believe Miss Clay wasn’t so bad after all. “Would you like to learn to sign? To use hand language so you can talk with your father?”
    All she could imagine were the taunts from Daud if he saw her doing any such thing. “Look.” Miss Clay was holding her hand with the thumb up. “What do you suppose that means?”
    “I don’t know.” She looked away.
    “It means hello.” She put her hand up and did it again. “Hello.”
    Miriam went to stare out the window at the trees and bushes that still looked so alien. She tried to imagine what her father would do if she came home and waved her hand at him like that. “Hello, Baba.” She knew what he would do. He would cry with joy. She turned around. “Show me again, please.”
    When Miriam returned home, Nabiha looked much older. Daud looked smaller. The house looked very small and crowded. Uncle Nabile