The Lesson

Here's an excerpt from In Flight that shows the relationship between Marta and her mother.
Marta’s mother had lined them up every morning for the daily inspection, checking for clean hands, freshly tied headscarves, and minty breath. Sometimes one had a crumb or a dollop of toothpaste briskly removed with the corner of her apron, dabbed in spit. A lock of hair would be tucked in, a scarf retied with head-squeezing precision while a stream of praise and admonitions came from Mother’s nervous lips. Marta had no idea if they were still alive, her parents, and what had happened to the sisters who once followed her like matryoshka dolls, each garbed in a similar colorful combination of skirts and scarves and scrubbed faces. They grew up together, her mother like an older sister at times, and remembering this, Marta felt bereft for the first time in years.
She closed her eyes, and a scene played out like a movie behind them, as vivid as yesterday, the smells and tastes causing her mouth to water a bit.
Day after day, they had followed the same routine. It was a hard life, and they kept inside a very small circle, with no television or radio to bring outside influences into their quiet home. As Marta got older, she started to fight it, to fight her parents and the oppression of their narrow lives. Sitting in the park now, in the twenty-first century, the afternoon sun warming her face, Marta shivered as she recalled the first time she challenged her mother.
Every afternoon, they returned home from school to Mother’s eager greeting. She would greedily empty Marta’s books onto the table. By the time Marta had shrugged off her coat and poured a warming cup of tea, Mother would be examining the papers dumped from the book bag. She was short and thin with angular bones in her face and dark chestnut hair covered by a flowered scarf tucked behind the ears and knotted loosely under her chin. Mother always wore a floral-print housedress that clashed badly with the scarf, but she rarely noticed her appearance. Marta often shuddered at the thought that she would grow up to look the same way, and it bothered her, not because her mother was unattractive, but because Marta was fearful of living the same life. All the girls were smothered in some way by the force of their mother’s personality, her neediness. She yearned for education and had taught herself along with her eldest child to read, write, and perform mathematics, all of it without the knowledge of her husband, and all the time pushing Marta to excel.
Watching her mother that night, Marta had reached up and pulled off the bland paisley scarf that covered her own hair and for good measure loosened the braid twisted at the back of her head.
As expected, the reaction was shock and disapproval.
“Why did you do that?” Mother demanded. “We’re going to have to fix it before your father gets home, you know.”
She snapped her finger at Marta’s hairline in a stinging rebuke. Shaking her head, she pushed the math book toward Marta and opened her notebook. Marta hitched her feet in the rungs of the chair and took a long sip of tea.
“I don’t have any math homework today. We had a test,” Marta announced.
“Well, let’s review the test and go over the material for tomorrow,” Mother pushed.
Marta thrust her lower lip out stubbornly. “I don’t need to review. I got a one hundred.”
The four sisters looked up from their books at the change they heard in Marta’s voice. Mother started fussing about ungrateful children and back talk, and Marta held the glass of tea and fixed a stare at her through the steam. As usual, Mother’s speech ended up with the importance of education and the sacrifices she made for her girls.
“Why is it so important that I go to school?” Marta asked, for probably the hundredth time. “Father thinks that it is a waste of time.” Red-faced, her mother ignored the question and started turning the pages in the math book.
“Let’s go to work,” she said. Marta sighed. It must have been the thousandth time she’d heard that announcement sitting at this table, and she rose to refill her cup of tea. Turning back to the table, Marta picked up a history book and sat down.
“You go ahead and study the math,” she said. “If you have any questions, you can ask me. I need to memorize this history chapter.” Marta avoided her mother’s face but felt her sister’s sharp kick under the table. Mother sat quietly looking at the math book for a long time, and the girls read in silence until little Nilgun—always curled in the window keeping watch on the street—yelled that their father was coming.
The books were swept aside as Marta hurriedly tied her hair back and pulled on the headscarf. She was laying out the silverware when Sevgi poked her hard in the ribs. Marta grabbed her arm, and Sevgi hissed, “Why are you being so nasty to Mother? Would it kill you to teach her that math?”
“You teach it to her,” Marta said as she released her arm.
“She doesn’t want to study with me, stupid, just you. She’s not interested in learning the same stuff over again. She only wants to study with you.” Sevgi turned back to the table as Father opened the door and greeted the family with a grunt. He went to the sink to wash up, and the evening ritual began. Marta sat quietly during dinner, absorbed and confused by the sudden surge of power that she felt over her mother.
Father rose from the table and left for his evening of bridge at the café down the street. The table was cleared and the dishes washed as usual. Mother pulled the history book from the pantry and sat down to quiz Marta on the dates. Her eyes sparkled each time Marta missed an answer, and Marta in turn challenged her mother to answer them without the book. Sevgi took the text, and the two began to match wits against each other.
The teapot hissed and jiggled in the background. Faces flushed from the competition, mother and daughter drank from the hot glasses until the little girls fell asleep and were carried to bed. Marta returned to the kitchen and, without speaking, opened the math book and began to work the problems with her mother.
Their relationship changed that day, Marta knew. Someday, Marta could leave and have her own life. While she still lived at home, she vowed to do what she could to help her mother improve herself. Maybe she, too, could find a way to have a better life. Education was the key for both of them, and Marta never again asked why she needed it, never again gave her father the power to veto her options.