Gingerbread by Helen Oyeyemi

Author:Helen Oyeyemi
Format: epub
Published: 2019-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

10

Harriet heard someone saying SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH so loudly and for so long that she felt she should check on the situation. Being unable to, she listened for a few more days and realized it was water falling down rocks. That was outside, beyond several walls. The nearest wall held a door or window that twisted around on itself like an hourglass—this acted as a light delivery service. The sun’s rays came and tickled her under the chin, but the waterfall never stopped saying, SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, this is no laughing matter, young lady, so she stayed straight-faced and giggle-free.

Once she’d ceased being overwhelmed by the sound and feel of still being alive, Harriet was able to understand that there were people around her, talking. Not to her, but about her. The people were speaking in English. They sounded like doctors, and they were talking about her hair. They were saying it had gone gray all at once, as if all the pigment had spontaneously dimmed. They’d thought it was all over when this had happened, but in fact the graying had accompanied the restoration of vital functions and the return, the doctoral voices said, of the patient’s ability to lie there pretending not to be listening to them talking about her hair. Since the jig was up, Harriet opened her eyes, looked around at the people clustered around her bed, and dry-heaved on and off for the rest of the day. An old woman wearing what looked like a gray fright wig on the other side of the room did the same, but for longer. Upon closer inspection the old woman turned out to be Margot Lee.

I told you, Harriet . . . I told you everything would be all right . . .

This is your idea of all right, is it, Mum?

Well, have you got a better one?

Harriet couldn’t help mourning the loss of her hair color; she hadn’t known how much she’d enjoyed having black hair until it was gray. But whenever she felt the hair-color mourning become excessive, she emulated Gretel’s calm surprise (if there could be such a thing) upon realizing that she had four pupils instead of two. Huh, well, it’s a change. And slowly, names were put to the bedside visitors. Both of the doctoral voices belonged to Kerchevals. One voice was Tamar’s, and one was Kenzilea’s. Tamar Kercheval, MD, was round and soft and had a polished look to her. You could picture Tamar putting in stints as a cover model for medical journals. Her hands were cold, but her gaze was warm. Kenzilea Kercheval, MD, had a Romany’s working knowledge of many places in the world that are said not to exist. She was frizzy-haired and deeply agnostic in manner; her silences were an alternative to the skeptical repetition of other people’s statements.

Aristide, Harriet’s benefactor, was married to Tamar. At rest he might have been a classic silver fox. The wise-looking kind—King Balthazar graying at the temples after all those years of studying the stars. But Ari was never at rest.

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