"A lot."
"That's not an answer."
"That's all I can say for now. But I need to know if when that door opens you would walk through it by my side."
Her mother was quiet for a long time.
She drank the rest of her lemonade in one slow swallow and set the empty glass on the bench between them, and then she looked at her callused, reddened hands as if they might provide the answer she was struggling with.
"Yes," she said finally. "I would walk through this imaginary door by your side. I don't believe any are going to open, but you asked, and my answer is yes."
Sullha let out a breath. "That's good. I'm glad."
Her mother shook her head. "It's foolish talk, and I fell for it, letting myself feel hope for the first time in years. Now I am going to have to put it back where it belongs, which is in the toilet, so I can finish my shift."
Sullha set her own empty glass on the bench. She didn't know how to end the conversation. She didn't know whether to tell her mother more, whether to promise something, or whether to leave things as they were. She'd stirred the fire in her mother's heart, and she'd stirred something in her own, and the prudent thing was to leave the fire to burn quietly until she had more kindling for it.
"I have to go." She stood. "I have things I need to do before Tomek's class ends and I need to collect him."
"What things?"
"I'm going to see Rohilah."
"Rohilah." Her mother frowned. "Why?"
"I am asking around for women who can read. I want to see about getting more teachers for the children. We don't have enough, and those we have are exhausted."
Her mother studied her face for a long moment, and Sullha could see her piecing together the visit and the talk about doors that might open, and she knew that the fire was going to keep burning in her mother's gut.
"Is any of this for real?" her mother asked quietly.
Sullha looked around. The courtyard was empty, but the laundry door was open.
"Maybe," she said.
Her mother's eyes closed briefly, and she let out a breath. "I need to get back to work."
Sullha followed her mother back into the laundry to retrieve the pitcher and the other two glasses. Miral looked up when they came in.
"She does not visit you much," Miral said after Leehy returned to her press.
Sullha was not sure whether the comment was meant kindly or as a small rebuke, and she decided that she didn't care which one it was.
"She could have visited me whenever she wanted," Sullha said. "She knows where to find me."
Sullha did not regret saying it. She regretted that it was true.
She picked up the pitcher and the other two glasses, nodded once to Miral, and walked out of the laundry.
Sullha let her feet carry her without paying too much attention to where they were going. Her chest was tight, and her hands were cold on the pitcher, and the small fire she had stirred in her mother felt like a monumental achievement.
She could be saved, and that changed the count.
Sullha had been telling herself that she should prioritize the ones who were still young enough to start over, the ones who had the resilience to survive in the outside world. But she was about to vet the mothers of Yaaf's friends, and if they were good to go, so was her mother. Leehy was forty-two, and she hadn't loved her well, but she'd passed the test.
She was good to go, and the accounting had just changed.
10
