The Promised Land
by Rebecca Hannigan
Mom gets religious and Lina gets dizzy these days. She’s taken to lying on her back when the dizzy gets bad. It’s happened twice. I call them spells, but not out loud.
The first one came in Publix, in the 5 PM crowd, when checkout lines snaked through aisles like ribbons. Lina pushed the buggy as I filled. I went to get noodles, and when I turned back, the cart was alone, drifting toward a wall of cornstarch. I turned my nose down to follow Lina’s scent, weaving between ankles and hips. I found her by the meat case. She was lying flat, tucked under the display, that glass that curves like a belly. Her eyes were clenched. She pressed two fingers to her neck, searching for the pulse she was afraid might speed itself to death. It’s not going to, I said, touching her forehead. Your heart is okay. It’s doing well, I said, and she exhaled. I went to get milk, and when I came back, she was peeling herself like tape from the ground. I grabbed her elbow, and we plunged forward, passing men with steaks and women toting babies. We leaned into the swale like a single ship with tall masts. I paid with Mom’s cash, then stepped out to the parking lot where Mom was waiting in the Suburban. Lina and I walked side by side, our arms nearly riven by the plastic bags.
The day before, Dad packed the car and left. He called me and Lina as he drove North, to the Promised Land, he said, and Lina’s face covered over like clouds. He wants the woods instead of us, Mom said and frowned, and later I found a pamphlet for a state park. This made Lina sad. More than anyone, she’s close to Dad, looking like she might have sprung from his hip or his head, though she and I are the real twins. Mom doesn’t say twins because she wants us to know we are our own persons. Made in the image of the most glorious gods, she tells us now. Allah, Jesus. Shiva and El Shaddai. Instead of picking one faith, she says yes to all, blending them like a milkshake. She puts her soul before her heart, and her heart before her body. She doesn’t seem to think about bodies at all. When I went to her with a cut that seeped blood, she hovered her hand and mumbled, We turn to you, healers above. I clambered onto a chair to reach the medicine cabinet, grasping for a band-aid.
The second spell came at Mi Casa. We sat in the far booth, our booth, the one with stuffing we’d picked from the slit in the red cushion. We were dipping our pinkies in salsa while Mom stuck her nose in the menu as if she wasn’t going to get chicken enchiladas to share. Extra verde, she requested, sitting too long on the r, and our server pushed his tongue against his cheek and nodded. Lina’s eyes settled on the table of eight next to us. I broke chips with my fingers. When the food came, Lina leaned forward as Mom prayed. Thank you, Mother Mary, for this day. Nourish us with your goodness, she said, and continued praying, but I felt a deep twinge in my ribs and opened my eyes. Lina was lying straight-backed on the carpet, with open eyes and hair spread like tentacles. I froze as Mom droned, and then a server nearly tripped over Lina’s neck, stopping his foot before making contact, but losing the stacked plates to his momentum. They were hot and heavy with chimichurri and bean lakes, which slid together and bunched like a long sleeve, crashing to the ground. Lina didn’t blink. I dropped to my knees and scooted close. We stared up at the popcorn ceiling with mystery streaks of dirty grey. What do you see? I whispered. A slew of servers rushed and knelt, using broken plate pieces to scoop the goop into bussing bins. I wedged my arm between hers and her body, then wrapped my first finger and thumb around her wrist like a bracelet. I felt it in her temples: a pressure. Shifting, and tilting. Drifting, as if among stars. When I unclasped my fingers, Lina looked calm. I pushed myself up to my knees and stroked her cheek and hair, then returned to the table. After a moment, she came back to me, to Mom, who was still praying. In all your glorious ways, Shiva, in Heaven’s name, have mercy, she said. Mom touched her forehead’s Third Eye with pressed thumbs. Then she opened her first and second eyes to us.
Since then, we’ve been fasting. The days go slow. In the first weeks, Lina and I snuck snack crackers when Mom was in the bathroom, but we ran out a few days ago. Out there, it’s spiritual warfare, Mom says, which is why we stay at home. She keeps us from temptation. She leads us in Psalms. Five times each day, we perform salah, bowing on bath towels in the kitchen, which has the most room. Instead of dinner we put poems on our tongues and let them melt like mints. Koshish Karne Walo – Mom says, and we repeat – Ki Kabhi Haar Nahi Hoti. The words make me heavy. As much as I don’t eat, I gain weight. Or maybe gravity. Her words and prayers drip in my ears like rain, flooding the empty in my stomach. No coat can keep me dry. Mom, however, is light. She lifts a few inches above the carpet when she sings and moans. Her cries rise and toes float, leaving me and Lina on the ground. Lina doesn’t feel heavy or light. She feels thrown, like a frisbee, which I know when her body bumps against mine under the blanket at night. She needs mooring. She needs Dad, who’s still on the road, but has stopped calling.
This morning, our stomachs don’t growl, but roar. Lina lies like a lump. We have to go, I say. We need to find food. Before Mom wakes, we slip through the sliding door. Even though it’s summer, it’s so early and dark that the cold scratches our throats like claws. You’re better off hot or cold, I remember Mom saying, rather than lukewarm. God spits the lukewarm like bugs from her mouth. She said this as the kettle screamed, as she cut lemons for tea, the only thing she lets us drink. Now, we walk past houses, out the neighborhood gates to the parkway, where early-work traffic is so quick it whisks its own wind. We push forward on legs as thin as toothpicks. Lit every now and then by headlights, Lina’s cheeks turn darker than licorice. Her fingers feel frozen like fish sticks when I grab them. There, I say, pointing at the gas station up ahead, We’ll go in. It’s a little one, with three pumps. Exhaust mixes with boiled peanuts and our open mouths drip drool. We step into the store, which is headache-bright, but warm. I reach for bags of chips and long sleeves of cookies, ripping open a pack of Oreos and moving toward Lina. She’s by the hot chocolate, holding a full cup. She blows over it, then again, and takes a slow sip. I pass her a cookie, which she dips, brings to her lips, and closes her eyes. She passes the cup to me, and I gulp greedily, scalding my the back of my mouth and tongue. That’s when I hear him. The man, the store clerk. He breathes in, with anger, then makes a huff like a horse. You, girls, he says, coming from behind the counter, you must pay first, he says. Where are your parents?
The cup falls from my hand, soaking hot liquid into my socks that squish when I go, reaching for Lina and missing her hand, but looking back to see that she follows. Toward the door I slam forward with so much force that it bounces hard against the garbage can outside. I push and run and run and stop when I land on green, on the grass, one step above the asphalt. I’m on the other side of the parking lot, I see, because now it’s a little less dark. I look for Lina, who’s by the store, next to the trash. The clerk yells from the door, but steps toward her, looming like a giant and raising his voice as if she weren’t bowing, accepting his curses like blessings. I walk fast toward Lina, not liking the shakes I see in her hands, one strong wave like a tremor. Still facing the man, she backs away from him, nearly stumbling, but catching herself. There’s a truck coming up, with its headlights low. It occurs to me then, that we might get in and make our way to Dad, to the woods, to the Promised Land. I wave my arms to get the driver’s attention. But the truck doesn’t stop. Lina retreats, to ground herself on her back, the way she’s taught herself to lower instead of falling flat. The man yells but with different intent, calling her to come back, and my voice is with him, crying Lina! with my whole self. I plunge forward as she leans back and angles herself toward the sun, and maybe it’s this that she and Mom want, that light coming now, toward which she tilts, no longer dizzy. She’s basking, bathing, breaking the fast we held for so long. As if answering Mom’s prayers, she lies down to rest, heaven-bound.
The first one came in Publix, in the 5 PM crowd, when checkout lines snaked through aisles like ribbons. Lina pushed the buggy as I filled. I went to get noodles, and when I turned back, the cart was alone, drifting toward a wall of cornstarch. I turned my nose down to follow Lina’s scent, weaving between ankles and hips. I found her by the meat case. She was lying flat, tucked under the display, that glass that curves like a belly. Her eyes were clenched. She pressed two fingers to her neck, searching for the pulse she was afraid might speed itself to death. It’s not going to, I said, touching her forehead. Your heart is okay. It’s doing well, I said, and she exhaled. I went to get milk, and when I came back, she was peeling herself like tape from the ground. I grabbed her elbow, and we plunged forward, passing men with steaks and women toting babies. We leaned into the swale like a single ship with tall masts. I paid with Mom’s cash, then stepped out to the parking lot where Mom was waiting in the Suburban. Lina and I walked side by side, our arms nearly riven by the plastic bags.
The day before, Dad packed the car and left. He called me and Lina as he drove North, to the Promised Land, he said, and Lina’s face covered over like clouds. He wants the woods instead of us, Mom said and frowned, and later I found a pamphlet for a state park. This made Lina sad. More than anyone, she’s close to Dad, looking like she might have sprung from his hip or his head, though she and I are the real twins. Mom doesn’t say twins because she wants us to know we are our own persons. Made in the image of the most glorious gods, she tells us now. Allah, Jesus. Shiva and El Shaddai. Instead of picking one faith, she says yes to all, blending them like a milkshake. She puts her soul before her heart, and her heart before her body. She doesn’t seem to think about bodies at all. When I went to her with a cut that seeped blood, she hovered her hand and mumbled, We turn to you, healers above. I clambered onto a chair to reach the medicine cabinet, grasping for a band-aid.
The second spell came at Mi Casa. We sat in the far booth, our booth, the one with stuffing we’d picked from the slit in the red cushion. We were dipping our pinkies in salsa while Mom stuck her nose in the menu as if she wasn’t going to get chicken enchiladas to share. Extra verde, she requested, sitting too long on the r, and our server pushed his tongue against his cheek and nodded. Lina’s eyes settled on the table of eight next to us. I broke chips with my fingers. When the food came, Lina leaned forward as Mom prayed. Thank you, Mother Mary, for this day. Nourish us with your goodness, she said, and continued praying, but I felt a deep twinge in my ribs and opened my eyes. Lina was lying straight-backed on the carpet, with open eyes and hair spread like tentacles. I froze as Mom droned, and then a server nearly tripped over Lina’s neck, stopping his foot before making contact, but losing the stacked plates to his momentum. They were hot and heavy with chimichurri and bean lakes, which slid together and bunched like a long sleeve, crashing to the ground. Lina didn’t blink. I dropped to my knees and scooted close. We stared up at the popcorn ceiling with mystery streaks of dirty grey. What do you see? I whispered. A slew of servers rushed and knelt, using broken plate pieces to scoop the goop into bussing bins. I wedged my arm between hers and her body, then wrapped my first finger and thumb around her wrist like a bracelet. I felt it in her temples: a pressure. Shifting, and tilting. Drifting, as if among stars. When I unclasped my fingers, Lina looked calm. I pushed myself up to my knees and stroked her cheek and hair, then returned to the table. After a moment, she came back to me, to Mom, who was still praying. In all your glorious ways, Shiva, in Heaven’s name, have mercy, she said. Mom touched her forehead’s Third Eye with pressed thumbs. Then she opened her first and second eyes to us.
Since then, we’ve been fasting. The days go slow. In the first weeks, Lina and I snuck snack crackers when Mom was in the bathroom, but we ran out a few days ago. Out there, it’s spiritual warfare, Mom says, which is why we stay at home. She keeps us from temptation. She leads us in Psalms. Five times each day, we perform salah, bowing on bath towels in the kitchen, which has the most room. Instead of dinner we put poems on our tongues and let them melt like mints. Koshish Karne Walo – Mom says, and we repeat – Ki Kabhi Haar Nahi Hoti. The words make me heavy. As much as I don’t eat, I gain weight. Or maybe gravity. Her words and prayers drip in my ears like rain, flooding the empty in my stomach. No coat can keep me dry. Mom, however, is light. She lifts a few inches above the carpet when she sings and moans. Her cries rise and toes float, leaving me and Lina on the ground. Lina doesn’t feel heavy or light. She feels thrown, like a frisbee, which I know when her body bumps against mine under the blanket at night. She needs mooring. She needs Dad, who’s still on the road, but has stopped calling.
This morning, our stomachs don’t growl, but roar. Lina lies like a lump. We have to go, I say. We need to find food. Before Mom wakes, we slip through the sliding door. Even though it’s summer, it’s so early and dark that the cold scratches our throats like claws. You’re better off hot or cold, I remember Mom saying, rather than lukewarm. God spits the lukewarm like bugs from her mouth. She said this as the kettle screamed, as she cut lemons for tea, the only thing she lets us drink. Now, we walk past houses, out the neighborhood gates to the parkway, where early-work traffic is so quick it whisks its own wind. We push forward on legs as thin as toothpicks. Lit every now and then by headlights, Lina’s cheeks turn darker than licorice. Her fingers feel frozen like fish sticks when I grab them. There, I say, pointing at the gas station up ahead, We’ll go in. It’s a little one, with three pumps. Exhaust mixes with boiled peanuts and our open mouths drip drool. We step into the store, which is headache-bright, but warm. I reach for bags of chips and long sleeves of cookies, ripping open a pack of Oreos and moving toward Lina. She’s by the hot chocolate, holding a full cup. She blows over it, then again, and takes a slow sip. I pass her a cookie, which she dips, brings to her lips, and closes her eyes. She passes the cup to me, and I gulp greedily, scalding my the back of my mouth and tongue. That’s when I hear him. The man, the store clerk. He breathes in, with anger, then makes a huff like a horse. You, girls, he says, coming from behind the counter, you must pay first, he says. Where are your parents?
The cup falls from my hand, soaking hot liquid into my socks that squish when I go, reaching for Lina and missing her hand, but looking back to see that she follows. Toward the door I slam forward with so much force that it bounces hard against the garbage can outside. I push and run and run and stop when I land on green, on the grass, one step above the asphalt. I’m on the other side of the parking lot, I see, because now it’s a little less dark. I look for Lina, who’s by the store, next to the trash. The clerk yells from the door, but steps toward her, looming like a giant and raising his voice as if she weren’t bowing, accepting his curses like blessings. I walk fast toward Lina, not liking the shakes I see in her hands, one strong wave like a tremor. Still facing the man, she backs away from him, nearly stumbling, but catching herself. There’s a truck coming up, with its headlights low. It occurs to me then, that we might get in and make our way to Dad, to the woods, to the Promised Land. I wave my arms to get the driver’s attention. But the truck doesn’t stop. Lina retreats, to ground herself on her back, the way she’s taught herself to lower instead of falling flat. The man yells but with different intent, calling her to come back, and my voice is with him, crying Lina! with my whole self. I plunge forward as she leans back and angles herself toward the sun, and maybe it’s this that she and Mom want, that light coming now, toward which she tilts, no longer dizzy. She’s basking, bathing, breaking the fast we held for so long. As if answering Mom’s prayers, she lies down to rest, heaven-bound.