by Bobbie Smith

Created on: July 05, 2009

Ch.4 - Fatima (From Sing, Girls, Sing...other chapters posted on Helium: Ch.1 - Emily, Ch.2 - Christy, Ch.3 - Anna)

Fatima put the milk back in the fridge. She grabbed her bowl of cereal and a comic book and headed to the table. She was alone.
Her mother had been at the office since six that morning. She was twelve years old, did her own laundry, meals and homework.

It was a good thing she wasn't a bad kid, she thought. She was sure if she told her girlfriends the truth - that her mother was never home - they'd say she was lucky. But they had no idea. She looked around the quiet condo at the emptiness. Cream-coloured curtains hung beautifully in the brightly-lit living room. Marking the center of the room, an olive green leather couch sat firmly in place skirted by a bamboo and glass coffee table in front and two end tables around each side. Only a couple of magazines lay on the glass, fanned out like in a dentist's waiting room - welcoming but official.
Fatima stood and looked out the full-length windows at the brick buildings lined up in rows towards the sunrise. She wondered which ones had complete families in them with brothers and sisters teasing each other or sharing stories. Her father died before she could have a sibling. It was only her, and that meant a lonely her. The only thing that kept her loneliness at bay was physical activity. At least she was active: biking, swimming, hiking, running, and whatever other sport she could squeeze into her day.
She had promised him and nothing would steer her from her word. She promised him she would stay healthy and strong and that meant running, playing and breathing outdoors. It meant finding a life rhythm. But somehow this new rhythm of playing and breathing song was generating even sweeter memories of her dad.
When he was still healthy and breathing normally, they would sit together in his study, each of them with a book, with his hand laid on top of her head. His whole hand gave her a hot hat to wear. Under her warm hat, every now and then a single giggle would escape. He would pretend he didn't notice her giggles or her funny hat, immersed in his novels. She loved her hat. It warmed her heart, protected her, spent time with her and made her sweet with glee...until he started getting sick. As he got weaker, she lost her hat for longer and longer until he could no longer raise his arms.
When he had less and less energy, she would read for him from his novels, even if she couldn't understand half of what was

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