Prodigal by Kristine Ong Muslim

Back when I was still a child, brooding and defeated inside one of the crumbling tenements located south of Brooklyn, I had grown to be suspicious of the lingering aroma of stale sweat and liquor in my father’s breath. It reminded me of how much death there was to endure while life went on.

Two years of marriage to John Haldane prompted me to have the same feeling of distrust. On the second year of our marriage, he became indifferent and cold. He rarely talked to me. He spent his weekends watching TV shows and catching the phone on its first ring. The closest we could get to intimacy was when I gently turned him sideways whenever his snoring became too unbearable. Still mumbling in his sleep, he would unconsciously take my hand so that I was facing his back and embracing him.

John told me it was not because of another woman. He said that he had always loved me, that he simply felt left out like there was something missing.

Sometimes, I believed him.

Then I forgot all about John when I gave birth to Josie. Josie came to this world looking like a female replica of her father down to the eyes and chin. The only thing she took after me was her red hair.

* * *

Josie was now four years old. She had a teddy bear she had named Pete and would not stop raving about Sponge Bob.

One night, she whispered to me: Put my plastic doll on top of the stairs and turn off the lamp over the balustrade.

I called the ambulance an hour later.

We buried John Haldane a week after that. The police asked a lot of questions. Sometimes, they had to ask the same questions twice just to check if my answers were consistent. Turned out, they were consistent enough.

I never told them about Josie. My daughter was blameless. Eventually, they left us alone to grieve and to forget.

* * *

I snuggled beside her.

The green glow of the nightlight created a shadow play of a dragon across the wall. It was the same dragon, the very same shape that snarled fire, which had scared me as a child.

Josie told me: Don’t be afraid, Mama. You have been afraid all your life. I am everything you have. I am yours, and you are mine.

I believed her.

My parents said that I should get some help. They tried to talk me out of getting rid of my “obsession” with a child named Josie. No one would have understood about my daughter.

The next day I gave my left pinkie to Josie so she could munch it with her breakfast cereal. I tried to take it cleanly off the bone so I had to use the meat cleaver.

It hurt a lot. But then, I wanted to be a good mother.

I watched the milk on her cereal bowl dilute the blood as she swirled it with the spoon.