Her Mother's Hands · Second Shift · Pulse Beat
In the fourth year, her mother's hands began to fail. It was arthritis, the doctors said, the seamstress's curse. Zainab, who had sewn for forty years, found that she could no longer thread a needle…
In the fourth year, her mother's hands began to fail.
It was arthritis, the doctors said, the seamstress's curse. Zainab, who had sewn for forty years, found that she could no longer thread a needle. She sat at the machine in the afternoons with her hands in her lap, looking at them as at two traitors. She did not complain.
Fatima came home from the hospital one evening to find her at the window, staring at the street. "I can't do the buttons," her mother said, flatly. "For a blouse for Mrs Kapoor. I tried all afternoon."
She knelt beside her chair and took the hands in hers. They were small, rough, swollen at the knuckles. "Amma," she said. "I'm going to examine you. As a student. Is that all right?"
Her mother, after a pause, laughed. "My daughter wants to examine me."
"I'll be very gentle." She pressed each joint, checked the grip, the range, the warmth. When she had finished, she said, "It's rheumatoid, I think. We'll get you to a proper rheumatologist. There are medicines now."
"Medicines. For me." Her mother's eyes were bright. "And who'll pay?"
"I'm going to be a doctor," said Fatima. "I'll find a way."