by S. K. Ali
Exhibit A: Cold spaces.
Her place is hard and crystal clear and unforgiving. Each room has windows from the ceiling to the marble-tiled floor, with glass tabletops and steely reflective surfaces everywhere to further emphasize the clean, cold clarity of the space.
It’s like a crisp-suit-and-cufflinks-wearing stern man lives here instead of a smiley, talkative aunt who calls me Zoodles.
Last night I’d rolled my luggage into the minimalist guest bedroom—white-duvet-covered bed framed by a huge, mirrored wardrobe, sleek with no knobs or handles—and promptly unzipped my carry-on suitcase to pull out some essentials.
I knew it had been a good idea to pack Binky and Squish.
The cuddly factor was a must in this place. Especially after my soul had been drained over the past few days.
As I set Squish on the night table, I realized on first sight of it, someone might gag and pick it up with two fingers to hurl it into the nearest garbage can. But if they looked carefully, past the matted brownish-gray fur and squished ears (hence the name), five letters would come together to form in their heads: L-O-V-E-D.
Squish is not a stuffed animal per se but some sort of cross between a puffer fish (round and spotty with bulging eyes and knowing lips), an elephant (longish snout), and a cat (perky ears—well, previously perky, now loved to nubbins).
Squish was my first stuffed being.
I have no idea whether someone weird gave it to me as a baby or whether Mom and Dad found Squish at some stuffed animals–factory mishaps sale (they don’t remember its origins either), but the most important thing about Squish is it’s the first thing I learned to love—after Mom and Dad, I mean.
Before my sister, Sadia, or my brother, Mansoor, took shape in my eyes as beings, Squish was there, squat and dependable for tears-and-fears duty, for soaking up rages and confusions.
• • •
I lay in bed now, not ready to completely wake up to a new day just yet, and saluted Squish on the night table, and pulled up Binky the blanket, my second cozy must, to my chin.
Sigh. Old, soft, and comfortable. Like Daadi, my grandmother, Dad’s mom, who’d knit it for me when I was five.
Who passed away in October in Pakistan.
My whole life, she’d lived six months of the year with us in Springdale and six months in Pakistan. Every year she’d leave us in November to spend the winter months there, but last year she’d wanted to go earlier in order to attend a grandniece’s wedding. Even though Dad had not wanted her to.
He always worried whenever Daadi did something different. Like leaving the city of Islamabad, where she lived in Pakistan, for any reason—out-of-town wedding or not.
I don’t know the exact details of how she passed, but I know it had something to do with a car accident. Dad and Mom claim they don’t know everything.
I wonder if they’re just protecting us kids.
Our entire family was wrecked for months.
I closed my eyes and brought the bunny-white, bunny-soft blanket up over my nose, even over my eyes, trying to hold Daadi’s face still in my head. Graying black hair loosely parted and spun daily into a slack knot at the back; quiet, studying eyes; and a small, ever-present smile—these features wove in and out of my mind’s canvas.
But the image of her hands stayed static and accessible. Because those hands were always moving. Toward my face to cradle it in gentle greeting when I came home from school. Holding out food for me to try. Knitting me winter things in a mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin colors, like I’d request whenever she asked me what I wanted.
And, before that, knitting me Binky.
I wondered, if I’d seen her before I left home—if I’d felt her arms around me—would I have cried so easily on the plane here? Would her hug have transferred some of her calm—because she was the essence of peace itself, being the purest, softest, gentlest soul?
I miss her so much.
• • •
Exhibit B: Cold food.
Just as I was getting ready to fall back to sleep, Auntie Nandy, not only taller than Mom but louder, too, startled me by singing something about someone who left her, who hurt her, who was now back, but She Will Survive!
I got out of bed, grabbed my glasses—it being crazy early for my contact lenses—and opened the guest room door.
“ ‘Oh no, not I! I will survive!’ ” she sang, advancing from the kitchen with a plate of scrambled eggs. She spotted disheveled, just-woke me. “Hi, Zoodles! You still love eggs, right? Because I made them three ways.”
I nodded and emerged into the combination living-dining room. The center of the dining table was covered with small plates of food. “Thanks. Do you always sing in the morning, Auntie Nandy?”
“Only after nine a.m. on weekends. And only the best seventies hits. Grandpa’s fault, sorry.” She pulled a chair out for me and patted it. “Eggs: French toasted, scrambled, or omeleted? Also, mall or souk?”
“I haven’t gotten up yet. I’m jet-lagged.” I sat in front of the French toast, which promptly called on me to take a bite. It was strangely cold. “I thought you didn’t cook. Mom even warned me not to ask you for anything. She told me to just fix my own stuff. What happened?”
“I’m glad you’re bringing this topic up early on. Okay, time for operational details of your stay in Doha. I only cook breakfast, and it’s usually a lot of choices, like so,” she said, indicating the plates of charred tomatoes; boiled potatoes; yogurt with muesli flecks on top; cheese cubes and slices; several types of shelled nuts; chopped cucumber, celery, and green peppers; oranges, figs, and grapes; and the aforementioned eggs. “And then it’s nothing until I order dinner in or we go out. This is like a nibble-whenever-you’re-hungry table, like a buffet.”
“So no lunch?” My stomach rumbled in anticipatory upset. “I’m into lunch.”
“Worry not! I stuck a sheet on the fridge with the names of local restaurants that deliver here, plus my ordering info. Just go online and choose your lunch when I’m at work.” She punched my arm. “I am not going to starve you. I’ve heard teens are ravenous creatures.”
“Good, because I like to sleep in, eat a lot, and go out at night during vacations.” I ripped French toast with my teeth to emphasize my wild nature.
“Then you’ll love Doha. It comes alive at night, especially the souk.”
“I remember from last time. Remember I shopped so much, Mom had to buy more luggage?” Last time I visited was when I was ten, but it was one of my favorite trips, so I’ve held on to the memories. Auntie Nandy had worked in Dubai and other places in the Arabian Gulf, but she’d stayed in Doha the longest. She said she found it a “less hectic but happening” city.
“Which brings me to operational details, part two. When I’m at work, you can move around on your own using my Uber account.”
“What about the bus?”
“The bus system here is not the best, kiddo, but, woo-hoo, a subway is on its way!” Auntie Nandy grinned wide suddenly, and now she looked more like Mom—their lips thin out the same way, almost turning inward, so you see two rows of neat teeth. “I’m so happy you’re here, Zoodles! Earlier than your mom, I mean! We can LIVE IT UP, GIRL.”
She leaned over, punched my arm again, and then drew her hand away for a high five.
I paused nibbling the corner of a cheese cube and fived her. “Can we go out tonight? To the souk? Shopping?”
“Ah, no. Sorry darling. Tonight is a no. We’re going to a party.” She fixed herself a plate with a bit of everything, but she did it in a circular way, so that in the end it looked like a strange flower with part of an omelet as the center. “I’m on a clean-eating regime. I want to be toxin free by the end of summer.”
I reached for the serving plate and tore a piece off the omelet to try. Also cold.
Auntie Nandy took her plate to the black leather sofa in the living room adjacent to the dining area. Tucking her legs under her on the couch, she picked up a remote and looked at
me while turning on the TV. “If you want, we can go to the souk now and then come home in time to get ready for the party?”
“That’s okay—I’m going back to bed. It’s the middle of the night back home. Thanks for the breakfast. I’ll heat it up and eat some more when I’m really awake.” I stood up. “About the party . . . do I have to go? Isn’t the party invite just for you?”
“I thought you said you like to go out at night? It’s absolutely not just for me. The other teachers are bringing their families,” Auntie Nandy said.
“Oh, it’s a school thing?” I frowned. Now I really didn’t want to go. I was done with school.
But I guess that’s what I got for spending my suspension week with an international schoolteacher. And Auntie Nandy had taken me in, instead of letting me stew at home, which meant I had to act grateful to her. She was watching car racing and hadn’t seen my frown, so I undid it quickly.
“Don’t worry; it’ll be a nice party.” She turned to me. “Lots of kids your age.”
• • •
This Is What You Missed, Bulletin I by Kavi Srinivasan, filed as FYI for Zayneb Malik:
Fencer talked to the class about rage and how much of a destructive emotion it is.
And how rage is the root of a lot of world problems, namely terrorism and genocide, and how he wanted to apologize to everyone for how rage had disrupted the class yesterday.
I tapped my laptop keyboard furiously: So I’m terrorism and genocide?
I’m not done.
Noemi, blond-bangs girl on the lacrosse team, put her hand up and asked if, in Fencer’s estimation, rage is ever justified.
He said in an ideal world no, but he recognizes we are not ideal, and so we get enraged over so many things.
What about rage at being victimized? Noemi asked.
He said sometimes victimization is in our heads, a perception problem.
(I’m pretty sure I heard a small group of people gasp at this.)
Noemi then said that she’s studying sexual assault for her art project and how that’s NOT a perception problem.
He said OF COURSE NOT. I’M TALKING ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED IN CLASS YESTERDAY WITH A STUDENT WHO FELT IT WAS WITHIN HER RIGHT TO THREATEN A TEACHER BECAUSE SHE WAS ENRAGED AT HEARING FACTS.
He actually raised his voice to say that. Then the bell rang, and Noemi said “asshole” under her breath as she was leaving.
So, again, I’m terrorism and genocide?
And also enraged at facts. Don’t forget that part.
You know what? I’m going to a party tonight. It’s a boring party, but it’s a party nonetheless. I’m going to forget demon Fencer.
And, in a nod to my previous botched cutlery-drawing attempt, I added a long train of knife and fork emojis to finish off our communication.
• • •
For the boring party, I wore one of the nicer things I’d brought: a beige shirt with flared sleeves. I wore it with jeans and a dark blue chiffon hijab, and Auntie Nandy, in jeans herself and a tunic top, said I looked great.
She slipped a shawl around her shoulders before we left the apartment. She wasn’t Muslim, but maybe having lived in Arabian Gulf countries for so long, she was used to scarves.
“Each year, the week before spring break starts, the head of the school, David, hosts a get-together at his house. It’s like a thank you, you’ve made it this far party.” As Auntie Nandy drove, she went on describing the people who’d be there and how much she liked this school compared to the other international schools she’d taught at, but I was drifting in and out of her words.
I was looking at Doha at night.
It was a strange mix of unbelievably glamorous, futuristic architecture and industrial concrete boxes, aka apartments. And, being a city in a predominantly Muslim country, the whole landscape was also dotted with the spires and domes of traditional-looking mosques.
It was like the old and the new and the future joined together in a small explosion, because there was also construction debris here and there that contrasted with the glitzy look of some of the neighborhoods.
I peered more and noticed there was a lot of construction happening. Within a kilometer of Auntie Nandy’s apartment, I counted ten cranes.
Maybe I was kind of a weird person, because I liked the old-looking stuff more than the new. There was something inviting and even comforting about the round domes we passed by.
Maybe I was done with dealing with coldness.
Cold people in particular.
I wanted to be surrounded by warmth.
I lowered the window and let the warm air touch my face. Then I leaned back, closed my eyes, and listened to Auntie Nandy singing along to a song asking if I’ve ever seen the rain.
MARVEL: SEVENTIES MUSIC
Exhibit A: “Have You Ever Seen the Rain.”
When the song ended, she started it again, turning the music up this time.
After the third time, I found myself singing along to the refrain, asking about the rain out the window as we paused at a stoplight. Three men in an SUV beside us, with shemaghs rimmed by black cords on their heads, the traditional Gulf Arab headdress, thought I was asking them a question. The driver lowered his window to check.
Auntie Nandy started laughing, which made me sing “Have you ever seen the rain?” out the window again. The men looked perplexed and then, laughing themselves, rolled up their window.
Realizing I’d asked them about the rain in a dry, desert country, I began giggling, pausing only to catch my breath and yell the word “RAIN!” whenever the band said it.
I was so giddy and happy and felt free to be away from scrutiny, to be around people who didn’t look at me weird for the way I dressed, for how Muslim I looked, but only for how weird I acted.
And that’s how I arrived at the party, with a big smile capping the happiness beginning to percolate within.
And that’s how the cute guy from the plane opened the door to me.
The cute guy from the plane was the cute guy from the airport was the cute guy at the door at this party I hadn’t wanted to go to.
I floated into the house on the giddy bubbling inside.
Maybe this party is going to be all right after all?
Maybe I can finally not be on guard and just be happy and FREE?
ADAM
FRIDAY, MARCH 8
MARVEL: COINCIDENCES
OR, IN THIS CASE, MAYBE I’d call it serendipity?
Though if I did, I’d be saying it was a happy thing that the girl from the plane yesterday was standing on the front steps of my home.
Let’s call it serendipity, then.
Of the infinite number of occurrences possible, this was the one happening: The person who I’d thought about last night when I’d unpacked and threw my journal in a dresser drawer, wondering how and when she’d begun her journal, that person was standing here looking at me, the hugest of grins on her face, surprise in her eyes.
Standing beside her was Ms. Raymond. I’m pretty sure this made my welcome smile falter a bit.
I knew she’d be coming over today, so it wasn’t as bad as seeing her yesterday at the airport. But still, it felt like my heart skipped a beat.
Just even a glimpse of her reminded me of Mom’s passing.
“Adam! How wonderful to see you!” Ms. Raymond took a step into the foyer and threw out both arms to me. “How’s university?”
“It’s good. Thanks for asking, Ms. Raymond. It’s great to see you.” I held a hand out for her shawl.
“No, I’ll keep this with me. We’re sitting outside, right? It’s a bit nippy.” She looked at the girl who had stepped in behind her, that dazzlingly big smile still on her face, cheeks flushed. “That’s the thing about Doha—it can get cool at night at this time of the year, especially near the water. Adam, this is my niece, Zayneb, my sister’s daughter. She’s visiting from Indiana on her spring break. Zayneb, this is Adam, son of the head of my school. I used to be his teacher when he was a
wee little one.”
For a second I wondered if I should say we’ve met before. Zayneb and me.
Or was that between us?
“You wouldn’t believe it, Auntie Nandy. We kinda met each other on the plane here,” Zayneb said, beaming.
“No, really?” Ms. Raymond tilted her head back. “That’s awesome. How serendipitous!”
Ms. Raymond would say that.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding at them, wondering why things got weird for me. A minute ago it was like a bright light went on inside when I opened the door.
Now I was standing in my foyer in Doha in front of a girl I’d first noticed a continent away in London, wondering what to say next.
I couldn’t believe it: I’d tried so many times to talk to her yesterday—even at the airport, before she got away—and now she was right here in my house.
But nothing came out of my mouth.
Butler. Doorman.
That was my job tonight.
Yes. Stick to the script, Adam.
And then . . . later . . . you can talk to her . . . Zayneb.
“Everyone’s either in the kitchen or on the patio.” I led the way down the hall. “There are some people in here, as well,” I added, pointing to the sunken living room on the right.
“Not me. I go to where the food’s at,” Ms. Raymond said, continuing ahead. “Zayneb, have fun.”
“What do you mean?” Zayneb stopped at the entrance to our large kitchen, buzzing with guests. “Are you saying I can’t follow you?”
“Of course you can, Zoodles, or Adam can show you where the young people are, right, Adam?”
“Sure. But I think you should get food first. It may be the best thing at the party.” I nodded at Zayneb. “Sad to say, but it’s true.”
“Okay. Then tell me what I should try.” She stepped into the kitchen and turned to me, standing in the hall. “My aunt told me your dad caters interesting cuisines.”
I followed her. “He went South Indian today. You’ve got to try the masala dosa. It’s this type of crepe with spicy potatoes. Those are my favorite.”
“This is too funny. My best friend is Tamil, and I’ve eaten this food tons of times.” She took a plate and put two round, spongy rice cakes on it. “My favorite. Idli. You just pour the sambar on top, and the idli soaks it in, and it tastes amazing.”