Hot Milk

The Dome

At night the marble dome of the Gómez Clinic resembled a spectral, solitary breast illuminated by the lights hidden in the surrounding succulents. A maternal lighthouse perched on the mountain, its veined, milky marble thrusting out of the purple sea lavender. A nocturnal breast, serene but sinister under the bright night stars. If it was a lighthouse, what did it signal to me, panicking in the desert, all my body shaking? A lighthouse is supposed to help us navigate away from hazards, to steer us into safe harbours. And yet it had seemed to me that for much of my life it had been my mother who was the hazard.

The glass doors of the dome opened soundlessly as I stepped into this marble tomb, not understanding why I was here or what I hoped to find. A young male doctor leaned against a pillar with his back to me while he prodded his phone. The lighting was dim like twilight. I made my way to Gómez’s consulting room with no idea if he would be there or what to do if he was, but there was no other place for me to go. I knocked on the oak-panelled door. The noise of my knuckles on the wood made a deep, resonant sound, in contrast to the marble, on which anything that was dropped would shatter. There was no answer so I pushed the heavy door with my shoulder and it opened. It was dark in the room. The computer was switched off, the blinds were down and Gómez’s chair was empty. Yet I could sense someone was there. The room smelt odd, like liver or blood, a dark, visceral smell. I looked down at the floor. Gómez was lying on his stomach in the far corner of the room, peering into a cardboard box. I could see the soles of his shoes and his spectacles, which were perched on top of his silver hair. He turned his head to see who was there and looked startled to see it was me. He put his finger to his lips and beckoned me to walk further into the room. I tiptoed towards the box and knelt down next to him. Jodo had birthed her kittens. Three tiny, wet, wrinkled creatures were suckling their mother. She lay outstretched on her side, now and again licking dried blood off their fur.

Gómez moved closer to my ear. ‘You see how their eyes are closed? They can smell her, though they cannot yet see her. Each has his favorite teat. The strongest, this white one here, is kneading his paws against his mama to stimulate the flow of her milk.’

Jodo looked anxiously at Gómez as he lightly stroked the fur between her ears with his finger.

‘She’s licking this one here to keep him warm. See how he is the weakest of the litter? When she licks the weakling she puts her scent on him.’

I told him I had to speak to him urgently. Right now.

He shook his head. ‘This is not the right time. You have to have an appointment, Sofia. And you are talking too loudly and scaring my animals.’

I started to sob. ‘I think I have killed my mother.’

He had been stroking Jodo. Now, his finger paused. ‘And how have you done that?’

‘I left her in the road. She can’t walk.’

His finger resumed stroking the white fur.

‘How do you know she can’t walk?’

‘She can. But she can’t.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She can’t walk fast.’

‘How do you know she can’t walk fast? She is not old.’

‘Not fast enough.’

‘But she can walk?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘If you left her in the road, then you know she can walk.’

We were whispering over the kittens, which were suckling and pummelling, licking and pushing.

‘Your mother will stand up and walk to the side of the road.’

‘What if the lorry doesn’t stop?’

‘What lorry?’

‘There was a lorry in the distance.’

‘In the distance?’

‘Yes. It was getting closer.’

‘But it was in the distance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then she will walk away from the lorry.’

My tears dripped over the kittens.

Gómez moved me away from the box.

I sat on the floor with my arms around my knees. ‘What is wrong with my mother?’

‘You are disturbing Jodo.’

He helped me to my feet and walked me briskly out of his consulting room. ‘I have refunded your fee. Now I must get on with watering my garden and attending to my animals.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But my question is this. What is wrong with you?’

‘I don’t know if my mother is dead or alive.’

‘Yes. That is what all the children of mournful mothers fear. They ask themselves this question every day. Why is she dead when she is alive? You have left your mother in the middle of the road. Perhaps she will accept your challenge to save her own life. It is her life. They are her legs. If she wants to live, she will walk out of danger. But you will have to accept her decision.’

It had never occurred to me that she might not want to live.

‘Your confusion is wilful,’ he said. ‘You are finding a home in ignorance. I told you I was no longer interested in the walking problem. Pay attention, please.’

He was the shaman of the village. He would show me the way. ‘Run up six flights of stairs before you return home,’ he said.

Gómez is useless. He doesn’t know anything. Run up six flights of stairs. It’s the sort of thing my grandmother used to say when she wanted to get rid of me.

‘We have to mourn our dead, but we cannot let them take over our life.’

Those were his last words. He walked back into the consulting room and closed the door. It seemed like a final goodbye. As if he were saying, Job done. Gómez had trance-danced into the mind of the afflicted and with his daughter’s help put some sort of cure in motion, yet I was not sure if it was my mother’s mind or my own that was afflicted.