Free Moving Forward Sideways Like a Crab by Shani Mootoo Page A

perhaps, but as best as she could—about this aspect of my life. But I dared not answer.
    “Look, Siddhani, I am not asking to get annoyed,” she reiterated. “I’m just worried about you.”
    Like the air released from a full, taut balloon, fear rushed out of me, and I was left oddly appreciative of this new interest and concern. I stumbled over my words, telling her that Zain “knew” about me. I trembled as I admitted that I’d always had strong feelings for Zain, but that she and I were never anything more than friends. And I hastened to add that, in any case, Zain hadn’t been “that way” herself. I told my mother that Angus “knew” about me too, but even so he hadn’t in the least minded Zain and me being friends. Even if Zain hadn’t been married, I said, she wouldn’t have been interested in me in that way.
    Normally, I would not have liked to admit any of this; I would have preferred that anyone who wondered would never know the truth for sure. But on this occasion, still unable to fully process the fact of Zain’s death, I felt an overwhelming relief at being able to voice all this to my mother.
    I went on to explain that it was because of my intense friendship with Zain that I had come to realize I wanted asmy partner in life someone who didn’t need an interpretation of my home-ways, my home-vocabulary, who would know what I meant if I said, “I feel like a good lime tonight,” or who understood without explanation what made a comforting homemade meal for a Saturday night, what food and rituals were fine for a Sunday lunch, for a picnic, for Christmas lunch. My mother remained silent throughout this rush of words, and I was emboldened to say that I wanted to be with someone who, no matter how this body of mine aged, would love me and continue to want to take care of me; I wanted to be with someone who would notice that the hem of my pants had come undone and, without asking or telling me, would have it mended; someone who would see that I had run out of toothpaste and would, without asking or making a fuss about it, pick some up on her way home. I told my mother that it was Zain, the woman, the Trinidadian, the wife, the mother, the friend, who had made me see the incongruity between what I was and what I wanted. And it was Zain who had made me realize that I would probably be alone for the rest of my life.
    I stopped then, unable to go on, openly weeping. After a long silence, my mother replied simply that she would book the ticket for me to return for Zain’s funeral.
    ———
    The flight back to Trinidad to attend Zain’s funeral seemed interminable, and yet it wasn’t nearly long enough. I wouldarrive in a Trinidad where Zain no longer existed. We would not get in her car and drive off on adventures. I would never enter her guest room again. My face would not be touched by her long thin fingers. I remember thinking that it was useless to chastise myself and say,
If only I could have known the last time I was with you that I would never see you again
, because I couldn’t imagine how such a sentence might be finished.
    Throughout the flight I repeated, under my breath: “I am going to your funeral; I am going to Trinidad to attend your funeral.” I recalled the dream I’d had during the previous night’s terrible sleep. It was one I had dreamed a thousand times before: Zain and I stand in a room full of people, quite far from each other. Yet I can feel her skin against mine. Then we’re in a bed. I know she’s my friend, but she’s lying in my arms. We’re in a constant state of moving towards each other, and we look at each other’s lips, but our lips never touch. A hollow plastic pipe, the kind used in plumbing, has replaced my backbone. It runs from my vagina to my chest. Its large hole makes a whooshing sound as air rushes through it unimpeded. I keep reaching behind my back to try to touch the hollow space, but it is as if I am backless. I want Zain to enter the pipe and