There was a place beneath our table where the floor had worn smooth.
My daughter used to sit there when she was little. She would take her bread down with her and feed a brown dog that belonged to nobody.
I complained about the crumbs.
Then she became ill, and I would have given everything in the house to hear myself complaining about them again.
Some mornings she knew me. She would take my hand and hold it against her cheek. I would begin to hope, and then her face would change. She would pull away and cry out as though I had hurt her.
The neighbours stopped asking whether she was better.
They began asking whether I had tried everything possible to heal her.
I had.
I had prayed at the places where my mother had prayed. I had brought offerings I could scarcely afford. I had followed instructions, repeated words, waited through nights that seemed longer than the days.
I had believed those prayers. When I knelt, I meant to kneel.
But my daughter was still suffering.
When I heard about the Jewish healer, I asked where he was.
A woman told me what people called him.
“Son of David. Say that.”
I made her repeat it.
On the way, I said it to myself until I could speak it without stumbling.
David had never been a name spoken with affection in my house. We had our own stories, our own gods. My mother had laughed at people who thought the Jews knew everything about heaven.
“They come to our gods readily enough when they need something,” she used to say.
I had repeated that myself.
Now I was going to one of their holy men.
I told myself that a mother did what was necessary.
I would say his title. I would kneel if kneeling was required. Whatever words opened the door, I would use them.
Then I would have my daughter back.
I found him with several men near the edge of the village.
He looked tired. One of the men was speaking close to his ear, and he had turned his head to listen.
I called before I reached them.
“Have mercy on me, Lord, you son of David! My daughter is severely possessed by a demon!”
He did not answer.
I followed.
I had described her suffering so often that the words came out in the same order each time. How long it had been. What she did. What happened when she tried to sleep.
I raised my voice when he gave no sign of hearing.
One of the men looked back. Then another.
“Send her away,” someone said. “She cries after us.”
My face grew hot.
I knew what they saw: a woman making a disturbance, a woman who would not understand when she was unwanted.
I began to speak again.
Jesus said, “I wasn’t sent to anyone but the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”
Israel.
There it was, the thing I had intended to step around with the proper words.
I had called him David’s son as though the name meant something between us. Yet I had come prepared to endure his people until I had obtained what I wanted from him.
I remembered the woman telling me what to say.
I could have been taught any title. If she had told me that another name might save my child, I would have shouted that one instead.
He had stopped. I went before him and knelt.
“Lord, help me.”
The stones pressed through my clothing. I could hear the men moving nearby.
I wanted to tell him how far I had come. I wanted him to understand that I had already done enough kneeling, enough waiting, enough being sent from one person to another.
But I had no more account of her illness to give him. I had told it all.
“It is not appropriate,” he said, “to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”
For a moment I could hear only the last word.
I lifted my head.
There were answers I knew how to give. I could have spoken about my people and his. I could have told him that my child was worth as much as any child in Israel.
I could already feel those words gathering.
Then I thought of her at home.
Perhaps she was calling for me. Perhaps she had tried to get up and been held down again.
And here I was, ready to defend my place in a comparison.
The children’s bread.
I saw our table.
My daughter would talk while she ate. She would tear a piece too quickly, turn toward the doorway, brush her hand against the edge.
Bread fell.
The dog knew where to wait.
My daughter never had to stop eating for the dog to find something. I had swept the floor after good meals, after meals at which everyone had been satisfied.
The words before me became simple.
The children could have their meal.
There could still be something for us.
I did not need to prove that I belonged at the table. I did not need him to turn anyone away.
“Yes, Lord,” I said. “But even the dogs eat the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.”
For once I was not trying to find a title that would work, or something large enough to offer in exchange. I had no promise ready. I was not saving an angry answer in case he refused me. An honest humility took over me.
A crumb would be enough.
I could receive it from him.
“Woman,” he said, “great is your faith! Be it done to you even as you desire.”
I rose and started home.
By the time I reached our door, my feet hurt badly. I had walked too fast and scarcely noticed.
The woman inside stood when she saw me.
I looked past her.
My daughter was sitting on the bed.
A cup rested between her hands.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
I went to her and touched her face.
She waited while I did it. Her eyes followed mine. When I moved my hand to the back of her head, she leaned against me with the ordinary impatience of a child who has been examined too long.
“I’m hungry.”
I held her a little longer.
Then I found the bread.
We sat at the table. She ate the first piece quickly and asked for another. Halfway through it, she began telling me something the neighbour had said.
Her hand moved as she spoke.
A piece fell to the floor.
The brown dog came out from beneath the bench and took it.
My daughter watched him chew. Then she turned back to the bread in her hand.
I broke her another piece.