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Mara, by Lois Metzger (1981)
This is a short story for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pluralstories that I found in the sci-fi library, in an apparently impossible-to-find anthology called WomanSpace: Future and Fatnasy: Stories and Art by Women. It came from New Victoria Publishers, a long-shuttered feminist press. While digging around in the library archives, I stumbled upon it, and it's short enough that I decided to type it up here for plural posterity.
Mara
by Lois Metzger
I don't wear glasses, but I put them on. My mother's face was a blurry haze; her clothes were without detail, only color.
"Please give them back," she said. I took off the glasses and saw clear gray eyes and white hair. My mother was sixty-two.
"You won't cause any trouble?" sh said.
I listened and heard nothing. "No trouble," I said.
My mother cried. Mara told me a story: On my world people don't cry: their skin changes color. When they're happy they look yellow or red; when they're sad they turn dark blues and greens.
pluralstories that I found in the sci-fi library, in an apparently impossible-to-find anthology called WomanSpace: Future and Fatnasy: Stories and Art by Women. It came from New Victoria Publishers, a long-shuttered feminist press. While digging around in the library archives, I stumbled upon it, and it's short enough that I decided to type it up here for plural posterity.Mara
by Lois Metzger
I don't wear glasses, but I put them on. My mother's face was a blurry haze; her clothes were without detail, only color.
"Please give them back," she said. I took off the glasses and saw clear gray eyes and white hair. My mother was sixty-two.
"You won't cause any trouble?" sh said.
I listened and heard nothing. "No trouble," I said.
My mother cried. Mara told me a story: On my world people don't cry: their skin changes color. When they're happy they look yellow or red; when they're sad they turn dark blues and greens.
"So green," I said. My mother smudged the tears onto her cheeks and pushed some hair out of my eyes. She held onto me and we got into the car, heading toward the hospital. Mara said, There are no hospitals here. We've eliminated disease.
"I hate doing this to you," my mother said. "Do you understand that?"
I nodded, listening to Mara. She'll miss you at first but don't worry, she's got your two brothers.
We took the elevator to the tenth floor where a doctor stood to great us: a man, tall, with blond and gray hair. He introduced himself as Doctor DeKauver--his name was printed behind a plastic badge--and we shook hands.
"Helese, be well," my mother said. She smiled and her eyes were wet. I watched her walk away.
"Do you mind answering some questions?" Doctor DeKauver asked.
"No," I said, and we walked down the hall to a small room. He sat at a desk and I sat in a wooden chair opposite him. He had a thin layer of dark brown around his black eyes.
"What is your name?" he asked.
Mara laughed, and so I did. I answered, "Helese."
Doctor DeKauver looked at me. "Where are you?"
Mara said, Describe my world to him. Tell him you're near the star Sirius, on the northern part of a planet where the waves are gently rocking, where snow falls when it's warm, and Earth looks like a pinpoint of light.
The doctor wrote as I answered. "How old are you?"
Mara said, Tell him on this world time passes slowly; it takes longer to age. By his terms you'd be a little over four years old.
He continued to write. "Who is the president of the United States?"
Mara spoke enthusiastically. There are no presidents. We govern ourselves, ruled by nobody.
"Nobody."
The doctor tilted his head back and peered at me through slits of eyes. "All right," he said. "I'm going to read you a word and I'd like you to give me the first word that comes into your head. Don't think about it; say whatever comes to mind. Are you ready?"
I nodded.
"Table."
Mara spoke quickly. There are no tables here. We eat food that floats in the air. You could say we eat off the sky.
"Sky."
Doctor DeKauver straightened himself in his chair; he looked larger. "Money."
Mara said, We used to have a monetary system similar to your system. We traded layers of rare plants, resembling your Earth leaves.
"Leaves," I said.
Doctor DeKauver put his notebook into a desk drawer, and handed me a piece of paper and a pen. "Draw yourself," he said.
I didn't want to: I'm plain, with thin brown hair and vague gray eyes. I asked Mara to carefully describe herself and I would draw her. She spoke slowly so that I wouldn't make a mistake.
I look very much like you, only taller. My hair is long, dark; my skin in its natural color is black. My hands, feet, and neck are thicker and larger than yours. My eyes are smaller.
He took my portrait and studied it carefully. Mara told me it was close to perfection, and that when I see her I'd be surprised at how good an artist I am.
"I was never good at art," I said.
That's nonsense, she said. You listen to your brothers too much.
Doctor DeKauver said, "Now I'll ask you to explain two proverbs to me. What does this mean: 'Every cloud has a silver lining'?"
Mara said, Clouds don't have silver linings. They have thick, black lines around them that break and form patterns with the wind.
I relayed that information.
He continued, "How about this: 'Two heads are better than one'?"
Two heads are not better than one. Those of us who are born with two heads are mutants and live short, painful lives.
"Two heads are worse than one," I said.
Doctor DeKauver then asked me to accompany him into the room next door. He strapped me into a chair, gluing a round piece of rubber to the palm of my right hand. He said, "This is not the electric shock therapy you may have heard of. What I'm going to do is give you a mild electric shock. Please answer this question carefully: would you like it now or in thirty seconds?"
Mara said, Take it later. During the thirty seconds I'll talk to you so you won't notice the pain.
"Thirty seconds," I said.
Do you remember, Mara said, when your brothers played that trick on you and locked you in that room? And when your mother found you she told you to stop crying because she had enough trouble being mother and father and who knows what else, and besides, her brothers were good boys, not a couple hoodlums, wasn't that right? Well, I agree with you; I think they did a terrible thing. Soon you won't have to put up with that.
When the shock came it was not bad.
We went back to his office. "Hele4se," he said, "on the basis of your responses I'm afraid we'll have to keep you here."
I laughed when he said "we". Perhaps Doctor DeKauver has his own version of Mara, although I doubted it.
"Among other things," he continued, "you seem to think money grows on trees, hm? Your mother gave us permission to admit you if we think it's necessary, and we do. Please wait here for a few minutes."
As he walked away I realized how wrong I had been with one of my answers. Two heads are better than one: Mara's and mine. She was silent then. I knew I wouldn't mind being in the hospital. But I couldn't bear it if I were by myself. I remembered Mara's first words, coming into my thoughts as gently as a kiss on the forehead: You don't have to go through this life alone.
"I hate doing this to you," my mother said. "Do you understand that?"
I nodded, listening to Mara. She'll miss you at first but don't worry, she's got your two brothers.
We took the elevator to the tenth floor where a doctor stood to great us: a man, tall, with blond and gray hair. He introduced himself as Doctor DeKauver--his name was printed behind a plastic badge--and we shook hands.
"Helese, be well," my mother said. She smiled and her eyes were wet. I watched her walk away.
"Do you mind answering some questions?" Doctor DeKauver asked.
"No," I said, and we walked down the hall to a small room. He sat at a desk and I sat in a wooden chair opposite him. He had a thin layer of dark brown around his black eyes.
"What is your name?" he asked.
Mara laughed, and so I did. I answered, "Helese."
Doctor DeKauver looked at me. "Where are you?"
Mara said, Describe my world to him. Tell him you're near the star Sirius, on the northern part of a planet where the waves are gently rocking, where snow falls when it's warm, and Earth looks like a pinpoint of light.
The doctor wrote as I answered. "How old are you?"
Mara said, Tell him on this world time passes slowly; it takes longer to age. By his terms you'd be a little over four years old.
He continued to write. "Who is the president of the United States?"
Mara spoke enthusiastically. There are no presidents. We govern ourselves, ruled by nobody.
"Nobody."
The doctor tilted his head back and peered at me through slits of eyes. "All right," he said. "I'm going to read you a word and I'd like you to give me the first word that comes into your head. Don't think about it; say whatever comes to mind. Are you ready?"
I nodded.
"Table."
Mara spoke quickly. There are no tables here. We eat food that floats in the air. You could say we eat off the sky.
"Sky."
Doctor DeKauver straightened himself in his chair; he looked larger. "Money."
Mara said, We used to have a monetary system similar to your system. We traded layers of rare plants, resembling your Earth leaves.
"Leaves," I said.
Doctor DeKauver put his notebook into a desk drawer, and handed me a piece of paper and a pen. "Draw yourself," he said.
I didn't want to: I'm plain, with thin brown hair and vague gray eyes. I asked Mara to carefully describe herself and I would draw her. She spoke slowly so that I wouldn't make a mistake.
I look very much like you, only taller. My hair is long, dark; my skin in its natural color is black. My hands, feet, and neck are thicker and larger than yours. My eyes are smaller.
He took my portrait and studied it carefully. Mara told me it was close to perfection, and that when I see her I'd be surprised at how good an artist I am.
"I was never good at art," I said.
That's nonsense, she said. You listen to your brothers too much.
Doctor DeKauver said, "Now I'll ask you to explain two proverbs to me. What does this mean: 'Every cloud has a silver lining'?"
Mara said, Clouds don't have silver linings. They have thick, black lines around them that break and form patterns with the wind.
I relayed that information.
He continued, "How about this: 'Two heads are better than one'?"
Two heads are not better than one. Those of us who are born with two heads are mutants and live short, painful lives.
"Two heads are worse than one," I said.
Doctor DeKauver then asked me to accompany him into the room next door. He strapped me into a chair, gluing a round piece of rubber to the palm of my right hand. He said, "This is not the electric shock therapy you may have heard of. What I'm going to do is give you a mild electric shock. Please answer this question carefully: would you like it now or in thirty seconds?"
Mara said, Take it later. During the thirty seconds I'll talk to you so you won't notice the pain.
"Thirty seconds," I said.
Do you remember, Mara said, when your brothers played that trick on you and locked you in that room? And when your mother found you she told you to stop crying because she had enough trouble being mother and father and who knows what else, and besides, her brothers were good boys, not a couple hoodlums, wasn't that right? Well, I agree with you; I think they did a terrible thing. Soon you won't have to put up with that.
When the shock came it was not bad.
We went back to his office. "Hele4se," he said, "on the basis of your responses I'm afraid we'll have to keep you here."
I laughed when he said "we". Perhaps Doctor DeKauver has his own version of Mara, although I doubted it.
"Among other things," he continued, "you seem to think money grows on trees, hm? Your mother gave us permission to admit you if we think it's necessary, and we do. Please wait here for a few minutes."
As he walked away I realized how wrong I had been with one of my answers. Two heads are better than one: Mara's and mine. She was silent then. I knew I wouldn't mind being in the hospital. But I couldn't bear it if I were by myself. I remembered Mara's first words, coming into my thoughts as gently as a kiss on the forehead: You don't have to go through this life alone.