Zara Hossain Is Here

by Sabina Khan

Chloe’s face falls. It’s been three days, and a lot of phone calls between her mom and mine, since Chloe came over to stay with us.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been here for too long,” Chloe starts, but Ammi interrupts her.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant at all, Chloe. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. But I do think you should talk to your mom because she’s really upset.”

  “I guess I should call her back, then,” Chloe says hesitantly, pulling out her cell phone. Ammi and I go to the kitchen to give her some privacy.

  “Do you think her parents will ever understand?” I ask Ammi.

  She puts the kettle on for tea and pulls out a dish of kheer from the fridge.

  “I’m not sure, beta. But I do know they have to sort it out.”

  “What did she say to you about all this? I don’t think Chloe should have to go back home just because her mom’s upset.”

  “No, of course not,” Ammi says. She spoons some kheer into a glass bowl for me and slides it over. “But this is not a permanent solution either.”

  I push away the bowl of kheer. I have no appetite for dessert while my girlfriend is struggling with her family.

  “They need to open their minds. Why should she have to feel bad about herself just because they’re blind to the real world?”

  “Zara, believe me when I tell you that Chloe’s parents are not the most narrow-minded people you’ll come across.”

  “I know, Ammi. I’m not stupid. But still, in this day and age it’s just ridiculous.”

  “Yes, it is. But, Zara, for many people this is still something that goes against their core beliefs,” Ammi says. “And I’m not saying it’s justified in any way. But it’s still real and Chloe will have to face it if she wants to have a relationship with her parents.”

  Abbu walks in just then. “Everything all right? What are we talking about?”

  My parents are so attuned to each other’s moods it’s uncanny, but #relationshipgoals.

  “Chloe’s talking to her mom,” Ammi says.

  Abbu frowns. “I hope they work it out,” he says.

  “Her mom says she’s been talking to their priest,” Ammi says.

  I roll my eyes. I really don’t think talking to their priest will help. Or I don’t know, maybe he’s super progressive.

  “That’s like us going and talking to the imam about Zara,” Abbu says with a hollow laugh.

  Our family doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the Muslim community in South Texas. Shireen Khala knows about me because she and Ammi are close. But it’s not as if my parents run around town shouting about my bisexuality. Not that they’re ashamed of me or anything, but no one in the Muslim community here sits around talking about their kids’ sex lives.

  Chloe walks into the kitchen just then. Her tearstained face is enough to tell me that the conversation with her mom wasn’t easy. We all wait for her to speak.

  “Okay, so my mom says she’s ready for us to go to family counseling to get through this.”

  I release a big breath. “That’s awesome, Chloe.”

  Ammi nods too. “This is good news, right?”

  “I guess so,” Chloe says, smiling for the first time in a long while. “I mean, it’s a start at least.”

  “Good. I really hope things work out,” Abbu says. “But remember, you are always welcome in our home.”

  Chloe’s eyes fill with tears, and she hugs both my parents. Then we go upstairs to pack up her things.

  “Will you be okay?” I ask, reaching for her hand.

  “I think so.” Chloe dabs her eyes with a tissue. “Mom sounded pretty upset when I talked to her.”

  “Maybe she realizes that she could lose you.”

  She shrugs. “All I can do is try to get through to them. I’m not going to let them make me feel awful about myself again.”

  I squeeze her shoulders. “If you do, promise me you’ll come straight here.”

  She takes my face in her hands and kisses me gently.

  “Thanks for everything, Zara.”

  I’m sad that she won’t be staying with us anymore but also happy that her family would try to work things out.

  * * *

  The next day at school, I’m walking past the library to find a quiet spot for lunch. I haven’t really been hanging out with Priya and Nick a lot since the day we went to Victoria. Part of me is still pissed at them for not understanding that I needed to hold on to my anger. But another part of me really misses my best friends. I turn the corner and see Nick and Priya sitting at our usual lunch spot. They’re talking, heads bent close together, and Nick must have said something funny because Priya throws back her head and laughs. That’s when she sees me, and a look flashes across her face. It’s just for a second and then it’s gone, but I swear it looked like guilt. Nick follows her gaze, and when he sees me, he hesitates for a millisecond and then waves me over. I walk over to them, but I can’t help feeling like I’m crashing a private party.

  “Hey,” I say, standing awkwardly in front of them.

  “Hey,” Nick says.

  “Where’ve you been?” Priya says. “You always disappear right after class.”

  “Yeah, sorry, I’ve just been dealing with some stuff.” As soon as I say it, I feel ridiculous. This is not how I talk to Nick and Priya.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Nick says. “Or are you still mad at us?”

  Trust him to get straight to the point.

  “No.” I sigh and sink down beside him. “Everything just sucks.”

  “Uncle’s okay, right?” he says. “Dad went to see him yesterday. He said he’s doing much better.”

  “Did he tell him that we might be moving back?”

  “Back where?” Priya says.

  “To Pakistan.”

  “What? Why?” Nick sits up straight. “What’re you talking about?”

  I tell them all about the problem with our green card application and Abbu’s trespassing plea.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nick says. He’s fuming. “I mean, y’all have been waiting for eight years.”

  “There has to be some other way,” Priya says.

  I shake my head. “Nothing’s for sure yet,” I say. “But I can tell that my parents are done with this place. They just don’t feel safe here anymore.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Priya says. “But you’re planning to go away to college anyway, right?”

  “Can’t they stay until you leave?” Nick asks.

  “Abbu’s work visa expires in a couple of months,” I say. “If he doesn’t get it renewed, my dependent status becomes invalid. So I’ll have to leave the country before then.”

  “This is really bad,” Priya says. “You’ve only been there once or twice since you moved here, right?”

  I nod. “Twice. It’s been a few years, and I loved it. But I don’t know if I want to live there permanently.”

  “What does Chloe say?” Nick asks.

  “I haven’t told her,” I say quietly.

  The bell rings for next period, and we all rush off to our respective classes. But I can’t focus on English because my mind is on the difficult conversation I need to have with Chloe.

  I meet Chloe at Scoopz. We haven’t come here for some time, and I feel that sugar is always great when delivering bad news. We get our usual, mango with sour gummies.

  As we’re waiting to be rung up, I ask her how things are going with her parents. We’ve texted, but it’s important to get a face-to-face answer.

  “I guess I made my point,” she says, picking a gummy worm from our bowl and popping it into her mouth. “But they keep making theirs too, mostly through silence.”

  “Are you all still going to see a counselor?” I ask.

  She nods. “Next week—that’s the first appointment she had. So I think we’ll be walking on eggshells until then.”

  “Well, you said you felt like you were doing that anyway, right?” I say. “At least you’re all t
here now.”

  “How’re your parents holding up?” she asks as soon as we’re sitting. “I know it’s only been a day, but I miss them.”

  “They’re okay. As best as they can be, under the circumstances, I guess.”

  “Did something else happen?”

  I tell her what my parents said about moving back, without really giving the timeline of when they said it. Chloe gets quiet, and I reach over to take her hand.

  “Do you have to go too?” she asks.

  “I can’t stay in the country without them.”

  Like Nick and Priya, she asks about college, and I explain that my status is dependent on my dad’s work visa for now.

  “Wow, I had no idea,” she says. “I guess I just assumed you were born here.”

  “No, I came here with my parents when I was three. I wish I could just wait until after we graduate,” I say. “But I’m not sure my dad’s work permit will get renewed if he’s unable to practice and if he has a conviction on his record, even if it’s a misdemeanor.”

  “I can’t believe it. It’s so unfair.” Her eyes are shining, and she tightens her grip on my hand.

  “Look, nothing’s for sure yet, but I just wanted to tell you where things stand right now.”

  “I’m so glad you did,” she says. “You shouldn’t have to deal with all this on your own.”

  She pulls me close and holds me tight. I don’t want to dwell on the fact that I have precious few moments like these left with her, but it’s hard not to.

  We sit like this for a while, and then the shop is closing and we have to leave. There’s a heaviness in our steps as we walk out to my car and I drive her home. We both know that things are changing, and it’s beyond our control to do anything about it.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, things at home are weird. Ammi and Abbu are constantly having these whispered conversations that stop as soon as I enter the room.

  I finally confront them about it.

  “Have you two made up your minds about going back to Pakistan?” I ask. “Or is it still up for discussion?”

  “Zara, beta, why would we make such an important decision without talking to you first?” Abbu says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I always see you talking about something, and it feels like you’re trying to keep it from me.”

  “We’re just weighing our options and don’t want to stress you out,” Ammi says.

  “Anyway, we’ve decided to hold off on anything until we find out what is happening with the green card,” Abbu says.

  “Did Shireen Khala say how long that might take?”

  Ammi shakes her head. “All we know is that these things move very slowly.”

  “We still have four months before my H-1B expires,” Abbu says. “By then, I’m sure we’ll have something.”

  * * *

  The next day at school, Nick catches up with me in the hallway.

  “You’re not really going to let this happen, are you?” he says.

  “Do you have a better idea? Because if you do, I’d love to hear it.”

  “Zara, when have you ever just accepted something like this?”

  I stop in my tracks and turn to face him, my hands balled into fists by my sides.

  “What do you want from me, Nick?”

  “I want you to fight. You can’t just leave.”

  “Do you think I want to leave? But I don’t know what to do!”

  “We’ll figure it out together,” he says. “But please don’t give up.”

  “Who said anything about giving up?” I say. “I’m going to figure something out.”

  Priya’s suggested that I talk to Ms. Talbot, since she’s been involved with immigrant activism before and might know people who can help. I find her in her office and knock on the door.

  “Hey, Ms. Talbot, do you have a minute?”

  She looks up and smiles when she sees me. “Sure, come on in, Zara. What can I do for you?”

  I catch her up on my current situation.

  “My goodness, Zara, I had no idea,” she says. “I’m so sorry. Your family has had to deal with so much already. Now you might not even get your green cards after all these years? Unbelievable.”

  “Honestly, I don’t even know what to feel.” I let out a big sigh. “I can’t believe I’ve worked so hard for nothing.”

  “What do you mean? You can still get into college, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “But what about a student visa?” Ms. Talbot says. “Can’t you just apply for that?”

  “I can. But it’s complicated. I’d have to apply from my home country, so I’d have to wait until I’m back in Pakistan, and even if I do that, there are limited seats available for international students. Plus, the tuition is so much higher. I could never afford it.”

  Ms. Talbot puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  “Look, Zara, I know everything seems really bleak now, but you can’t give up hope. There’s always a way.”

  “I really hope so,” I say.

  “Actually, I have an idea,” Ms. Talbot says as I turn to walk away. “My wife works with Senator Delgado.”

  “Susan Delgado? Isn’t she the one who formed the subcommittee on immigration and citizenship after all the detentions at the border recently?”

  Ms. Talbot smiles. “I didn’t realize you knew about that.”

  “Well, I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately after … you know. So I’ve had a lot of time to do my own research.”

  “Anyway, let me talk to her and see if we can figure something out.”

  The next afternoon, the doorbell rings just as I’m coming down the stairs. I run to open the door and find two people from Abbu’s hospital standing outside. It’s Dr. Alter, the head of Abbu’s hospital, holding a bouquet of flowers alongside Mrs. Christiansen, the hospital’s chief of staff, holding a box from S & J Bakery. I invite them in before running up to get Abbu. By the time we come down, Ammi has already brought them glasses of ice-cold lemonade and is chatting with them.

  “I’m very happy to see that you’re doing so much better,” Dr. Alter says to Abbu, taking a bite of the coffee cake that Ammi has put out alongside the kolaches.

  “Yes, I’m feeling better every day,” Abbu says. “My doctor says I should be ready to come back to work soon.”

  Mrs. Christiansen and Dr. Alter exchange a look.

  “Actually, that’s what we’re here to talk about today,” Mrs. Christiansen says.

  “Yes, of course,” Abbu says with a nod.

  Dr. Alter hesitates. “I’m afraid there’s a bit of an issue.”

  The knot in my stomach is back.

  “What kind of an issue?” Abbu says.

  “Well, as you know, your H-1B visa is coming up for renewal in four months.”

  “Yes, and the legal department has informed me that our green card application is in its last stages and about to be approved.” Abbu leans forward in his chair. “This will be the last time my H-1B visa will need to be renewed.”

  “Yes, but there’s a problem with that,” Mrs. Christiansen says. “Our board has expressed that they are no longer willing to sponsor your work visa, in light of the recent incident.”

  Abbu’s face darkens, and Ammi tenses in her seat.

  “You mean when I was shot?” Abbu says, his tone quiet.

  “Not exactly,” Dr. Alter says. “Iqbal, look, you know I would do anything to have you back at work where you belong.”

  “But?” Abbu says.

  “Benson has connections,” Mrs. Christiansen says. “And unfortunately, some of those happen to be on our board. Benson has made this a my-side/your-side thing. And they’re on his side.”

  And there it is. The other shoe has dropped.

  “What do you mean exactly?” Ammi finally speaks up, and I hear the tremor in her voice.

  “Nilufer, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Christiansen says. They’ve been on a first-name basis for years.
We’ve been to her kids’ baptisms. “I tried, but they’re not willing to budge. Our hands are tied. The fact that Iqbal pled guilty made it worse.”

  “To a Class B misdemeanor!” Ammi says. “That’s the same as possession of an ounce of marijuana. Or a first drunk-driving offense. Or failure to pay child support. Are you saying that if we looked at your staff, we wouldn’t find people who have Class B misdemeanor convictions?”

  “Our green card application will not go through,” Abbu says, almost to himself. “After all these years. And we were so close.”

  “How can they do this?” Ammi says. Abbu puts his hand on her forearm and squeezes gently.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Christiansen says. “But it’s a really bad situation. Things are so delicate these days, you know. If we lose the financial support of our board, there will be no hospital. It’s unfortunately as simple as that.”

  “So, what happens now?” I’ve found my voice again.

  “I will personally write you the best possible recommendation,” Dr. Alter says to Abbu.

  But we’re not fooled. We know that won’t be enough.

  The two of them leave after apologizing a few more times. Although I don’t doubt the sincerity of their words, I’m not sure that they fully comprehend the chaos they have thrown us into.

  We sit in silence after they leave, each of us lost in our own troubled thoughts. I’m not sure the whole impact of what they said has sunk in yet.

  “Iqbal, what’s going to happen now?” Ammi says. “If they don’t renew your visa …” Her voice trails off.

  “Can’t Abbu get a different job?” I ask.

  “No, beta, the hospital sponsored my green card application, so even if I get another job, that employer will have to be willing to sponsor me and then we’ll have to start the whole process all over again.”

  “But how is this fair?” I say. “You’re the victim here. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know, Zara,” Abbu says patiently. “As Dr. Alter said, it’s a matter of sides. And in this case, we’re on the wrong side.”

  “What are we supposed to do now?” I ask.

  “First let’s call Shireen and see what she thinks,” Abbu says.