It takes me hours to clean the room when the strange lady finally leaves. I don't stop cleaning until I find every little black stone and red cloth she left. I don't stop until I cannot smell the putrid stench of filth that always seems to follow her. I wash everything I saw her touch.
My husband wants to take me to dinner. Tonight. We cannot mourn forever. That is what he said this morning, smiling at me as I cleared the table after is breakfast. I bit my tongue and nodded. I did not speak. I did not tell him that he has not mourned. I did not tell him that I have not mourned. He would not like that. How can I tell my husband that his child has not left this house?
The gentle rivulets falling from the shower are warm and they caress my skin gently. I cannot feel them on my skin. Jets of water land on the tiled surface with loud patters, begging for a sliver of my attention. I cannot hear them. I can hear her today, the coos and gurgles of excitement she produces when lying on her back, a small foot in her mouth. I can hear her so close to me, close enough that if I close my eyes, it is almost as though she is lying in her bed, smiling at what only she can see. The water gets harsher, each pelt harder than the last, and each touch colder than the last. I move away from the cold hard shower. I stare at my naked form in the mirror and track the tracks formed from stretch marks running over my two drooping breasts, down my slightly round stomach and settling to form rivulets of cellulite on my thighs. I stare at my body, at my tired breasts that sustained a life for twenty-three weeks, my rolled stomach that housed a life for thirty-six weeks. I stare at this body, the body of one Amai Chenge who ceased to exist.
I put on my dress. I can see her smile dim. I brush my hair. I can hear the sniffles; and feel a stir in the air. I fasten my hair into a knot with a clip. I can see her tiny mouth open. I spray my hair, she screams. I can hear her howling. I wear my pearls. She screams louder. I slip on my shoes. She chokes on air. She coughs. I grab my purse and run. She howls louder. She wants me to hold her. I cannot hold her. I run faster, down this corridor, through that door, past this room, through that door. I run until I am at the gate, until I cannot hear her screams, hear her anguish. When my husband finally arrives, I am sitting at the drain bridge, smiling at him.