The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

  I exhale noisily. ‘OK. I need to work, to do something with my body. I’m antsy.’ Full of all these emotions and nowhere to put them.

  Lara is enlivened by my admission. She taps her phone against her face, looking up at the ceiling. ‘OK. We know you can find work easily enough. The movement stuff … why don’t you do some dancing or yoga? I did pole dancing for a while. It was pretty cool.’

  I sigh and shake my head. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No, really!’ Then she registers my expression, the conservative parts of me fanning out and constructing a boundary. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘not pole dancing. How about you come to my gym as a visitor?’

  A tiny thrill rushes through my body. Exercise sweeps away my anxiety better than intimacy, or even the stirrings of love.

  I smile and Lara looks satisfied. ‘Good,’ she says with a decisive nod. ‘Now, the day isn’t over yet. Follow me.’

  We navigate our way through the congregation of tables and emerge into the bright sunlight. I’m grateful for Lara’s patience, but eventually, my history will surface. I cannot avoid it forever, and I don’t want to. I want to share what happened, despite the fear that my friends will judge me for it. Sooner or later, I will have to explain how I fell in love in Jordan, but not with my husband.

  Lara leads me to the chocolate shop next door. We enter, an old-school bell ringing out as we step inside. Several customers crowd the space that’s deceptively larger than it appears from the outside. I head to a small counter where a variety of handmade chocolates are on display. Many of them are in bold colours – lapis blue, gold, silver, lemon yellow. Others are marbled, dusted, topped with an almond. There are pralines and shards in white, milk and dark chocolate. I crane my neck for a better look and see more elaborate offerings, as well as chocolates packaged in colourful boxes on a shelf, ready to go.

  ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ says Lara, coming to a stop beside me. ‘And they taste amazing.’

  ‘Stunning.’ The craft involved, the care and delicacy.

  ‘Sometimes I look through the window and imagine the flavours,’ she says. Then her phone rings and she raises a finger in apology before escaping out the front door.

  I direct my attention to the back of the store, where through a doorway, I can see the studio. A man in chef’s whites is tempering chocolate on a metre-long marble counter, thick, wavy hair peeking out from under his chef’s cap. His concentration is steady, his movements concise and clipped. He is not expressive, but what some might assess as boredom I recognise as ease; he is practised at what he does. Doesn’t have to think too hard. He’s in a creative zone, oblivious to the bustle of the shop.

  Occasionally, he is eclipsed by browsing customers, but I stay in place, losing what must be minutes watching him work. He’s good, and my body is responsive to the image. Very quickly, my hands itch to be doing the same. I catch myself almost imitating the dance of his limbs – one arm extending swiftly to scoop up the melted chocolate with a tempering spatula, his other hand swiftly removing it with a bench scraper. The sounds and scents flood my senses as if I’m the one standing behind the counter.

  Muscle memory. I used to temper chocolate for cake decoration, but in much smaller amounts. I feel cheered by the feelings it has reawakened within me, my creative brain wearily emerging from its years-long slumber.

  Chapter 3

  Some things aren’t lost, only misplaced.

  Not far from Lara’s apartment is an organic grocery store. On the way back from the chocolate shop, I drag Lara inside, insisting on gifting her some groceries because I’m an unexpected house guest. Besides, Lara’s bare kitchen depresses me. She half-heartedly tries to stop me, but then her phone pings again and she leaves me to tour the shop alone.

  The prices are steep but the produce is fresh. I move easily in these spaces, no matter how crowded they are, speaking an invisible language with nature. I choose generously from the bounty, undeterred by cost. Always frugal, never needing possessions, I have savings. Most of the money I made from my business went directly back into it.

  I fill my basket with shiny red apples, stone fruits marbled orange and brown in appropriate amounts, a punnet of strawberries, a thin offering of blueberries in a small plastic packet. My entire body changes as I find my flow and build a menu in my mind. I will make dinner and dessert. I pile in some bananas, just shy of ripeness. Vegetables follow. I bypass the bagged lettuce and find a crown of cauliflower, to be fried until golden. Next, onions, then straight to the deli section. I opt for chicken instead of lamb, and I can already smell the ma’loubeh like it’s in front of me. They have Lebanese bread, so I buy two bags. I take my time choosing the haloumi, worrying over saltiness levels. As a final indulgence, I buy a large tub of mixed olives. Then I remember the coffee this morning and circle back to find a Turkish blend.

  As we walk home, shopping bags between us, Lara is quiet and I can sense something is awry.

  ‘Are you OK? You seem distracted,’ I ask.

  Her response is delayed and hesitant. ‘Nope. Just a gig thing. Don’t ever become a musician.’ She smiles brightly.

  ‘Where can I listen to your music by the way?’

  Lara’s eyes light up, her look tentative. ‘You want to hear something?’

  ‘I have no idea about music, but if it’s yours, I’m in.’

  ‘We’re doing a show next week. It’s a classy place. Still a bar, though.’

  ‘I’d like to come.’

  Lara smiles wide and true. Then she looks grateful. It must be lonely being on her path, I realise. Minimal support, no anchor, even with a small place to call home. ‘Hakeem might come too,’ she says, but I can’t tell from her tone if he generally attends her performances or avoids them.

  I mentally chew on this, trying to form an image of me sitting in a bar with Hakeem that doesn’t jar.

  We continue on in silence, but I can’t shake the sense that she is still hiding something from me. When we reach the gate to her complex, it becomes clear what it is.

  I can see her at the entrance to the building: Samira, looking the same as she did the last time I saw her two years ago. She stands elegantly, dressed simply in black jeans and a blue knit top, her head-covering a turban, the kind I used to see Egyptian mums wear but which is becoming common among younger women negotiating their modesty.

  My stomach drops. Samira is, in so many ways, a tattoo, a permanent imprint of my past and who I am. And here, I feel our connection erupt into life, even if our frequencies are out of sync, a little uneasy. Her expression differs from the last time we met: there’s no joy in this reunion, no warmth to be found in her stern features. I detect something else. Confusion.

  And there’s more. She looks deeply disappointed.

  In the kitchen, I drop my bags and start unpacking the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. I’m reconsidering my initial idea of ma’loubeh, which takes time. It literally means ‘upside down’, because you cook the ingredients in a pot on the stove, then flip it upside down onto a large tray when it’s ready to eat. There’s an element of theatre – and suspense. The dish should retain its shape once it’s been emptied from the pot. If it falls apart, something’s failed in the cooking process.

  Samira watches me from the side, leaning against the kitchen bench where Lara is perched beside her. She removes her head-covering and shakes out her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sahar!’ Lara says. ‘I broke. Samira called me and she could tell that I was hiding something from her. She can always tell!’

  Samira rolls her eyes. ‘Please. I didn’t even have to take out a torture kit. Lara wanted me to know.’

  I’m in trouble with the woman I’ve always considered my best friend, yet it strikes me that this scene is reminiscent of the many hours we lost together before adulthood took the wheel. The three of us in the kitchen of my parents’ house, me commanding the space with ingredients as I cooked and baked, keeping my world neat and tidy and delicious. But this is some un
derworld version, more darkness than light.

  ‘It’s true,’ Lara says. ‘I suck at lying. Look, you don’t have to tell your brother you’re here, but you know Samira would kill us if we hid this from her. I just needed to rip off the bandaid.’

  Samira comes up beside me. She takes a bag of fruit out of my hands and pulls me into alignment so that we’re facing each other. My cheeks are burning red, as they like to when my emotions run high. My stomach turns as she stares at me. Her mouth is moving, but I’m mentally unpacking the steps for the dish: fry the cauliflower and onions; cook the chicken in the pot; add rice and cook for at least an hour. Maybe I should tell her that we can sort all this out after I’ve placed the ingredients in the pot.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sahar,’ Lara says from across the kitchen. She looks contrite, but also burdened. ‘I’m worried about you,’ she continues, her voice lowered. ‘Also, I ghosted Samira once and she didn’t take it well. Samira is a bit scary now.’

  Samira turns slowly to look at Lara, her mouth open in genuine offence.

  ‘Strong! I mean strong.’

  I forgot to buy yoghurt. Ma’loubeh is typically served with yoghurt and a salad. I have cucumbers and tomatoes at least.

  Samira returns her gaze to me. ‘Sahar. What is going on?’ she says, her patience thinned out.

  I wonder if she is simply hurt that she wasn’t my first stop. ‘I didn’t want to intrude on you. It didn’t seem right to just show up.’ I expect she comprehends my meaning: the impropriety of my appearance at a house occupied by her husband, a man who is unrelated to me, and when she is a mother.

  But Samira’s downturned mouth and crossed arms, the slight inclination of her head as she investigates my expression, tell me she is not convinced. Even I know this excuse only has a certain amount of elasticity to it. I was avoiding Samira, and she knows it. But I couldn’t bring myself to face her before I understood better how all of this looks.

  ‘Please don’t take it personally.’

  ‘I’ve had it up to here with you two,’ Samira says. ‘How is it that I turned out to be the most normal one?’

  Lara flinches, then leans forward from her place on the kitchen bench. ‘Don’t get cross at her,’ she tells Samira. ‘Getting divorced isn’t as easy as you think.’

  ‘Lara!’ I say, my frustration spilling out.

  ‘Oh fuck. I’m so sorry. I really suck at this.’

  Samira’s eyes brim with tears. ‘Sahar. I’m not going to push you on why you didn’t tell me you were coming. I just need to know if you’re in any danger.’

  I turn to find Lara looking at me expectantly, her face creased in worry. Samira is also staring, demanding the truth. I’m too exhausted to lie.

  ‘I’m not divorced. Yet. But I have left Khaled, and I came here without telling him where I was going.’

  Samira exhales. ‘Did you tell him you were leaving the country?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I left him a note.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Lara.

  A faint recollection takes shape in my mind. Lara’s ‘crazy ex’ showing up on her doorstep, leaving unsolicited gifts of love, attacking her when she was closing up at work one evening. Then it clicks: I am being disruptive and selfish. I need to reassure her that I am not wreaking similar havoc upon her with my arrival.

  ‘There’s no danger. But I should get out of here sooner rather than later.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ says Lara, sliding down from the bench.

  ‘Sahar, enough,’ Samira says, her voice soft but firm. ‘Stop being a hero.’

  Lara is right. Samira is scarier now.

  Samira pauses and when she speaks again, her tone is gentle. ‘Are you here on your own?’

  It takes me a moment to realise what she’s asking, and I feel shame rising at my failure to stay connected with my friends.

  ‘You mentioned a pregnancy or two,’ Samira continues carefully. ‘But you dropped off after the last announcement.’

  ‘Four. I’ve had four miscarriages,’ I tell her without emotion. Still, at any moment, the cracks will appear.

  Lara’s eyes well up, but to her credit she reserves the moment for me and does not get dramatic. Samira immediately softens and pulls me in for a hug. The emotion vibrates off her body in thick waves, but I feel nothing.

  My body doesn’t hold on to babies. I don’t know why they came to me at all when they had no intention of staying. I fell pregnant in the first year, and miscarried a month in. More pregnancies – and losses – followed. I suffered the miscarriages quietly, refusing to be anything less than stoic.

  I don’t tell my friends that despite the pain of loss, there was a sense of relief the last time I miscarried. There was acceptance as a door slammed shut; a question truly answered. You cannot have a baby. You are never going to be a mother. You cannot hide behind your duties. You will need to find something else to fill this gap. You don’t have to be a wife anymore.

  In fact, a practical side of me lit up, reassuring me that it was biological – and my fate. Now, it is accompanied by a sense of relief because Khaled and I do not belong together and a child does not deserve to have us as parents.

  All I have left of the experience of being pregnant are moments of what it feels like to be a mother. Even when the foetuses were the size of a pea, I felt love vibrate through me, warming my insides and lightening my worry. I felt less alone, assured that no matter what lay ahead, I would be inextricably linked to another human being in the highest form of unconditional love.

  It takes me a few moments to orientate myself again to my new reality, one in which my best friend has arrived on the scene and is holding up a blinding mirror to me. This is exactly what I didn’t want.

  Lara joins us in the hug. The embrace tightens and we linger in it, but I hold still, making room for their emotions until we finally separate.

  Samira relaxes. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I asked Khaled for a divorce and he wouldn’t give it to me.’

  ‘The bastard,’ says Lara, looking ready to fight the air in place of a man she doesn’t know.

  ‘We’re kind of missing the first part of that story,’ says Samira.

  ‘Or all of it,’ I say. ‘It’s a long story. Can I cook first and we can talk later?’

  The tension has broken, but I feel chastised, my high mood from the outing dissolved.

  I continue to unpack with Samira’s help, while Lara picks at the fruit.

  ‘I’m not scary,’ Samira says, piercing the silence. ‘I just don’t take any shit from anyone.’

  ‘She has kids,’ says Lara.

  ‘I have kids who test me every day.’

  Lara nods and grins, popping a strawberry into her mouth. ‘It’s adorable.’

  I smile appropriately, but my mind is elsewhere. Seeing Samira has advanced me further and faster than I wished to go. And now I feel like the rest must follow: I have to contact my brother. And I have to go to my parents’ home and see what remains.

  The next morning, I summon my courage and reach for my phone. I know before I’ve switched it on that Khaled has words for me and I will not like them. That he is disgusted with me. That he is disappointed and embarrassed. That despite his frequent refrain, I was never free.

  I connect to the wi-fi and wait for the signal to solidify. Several minutes pass, but no notifications appear. A solid feeling lands in my stomach but I shake it away.

  While my phone is on, I send Salim a brief message advising him that I’m in Sydney, knowing the more appropriate thing to do is to call him. But thinking of Salim makes me think of my parents. I don’t know what talking to him will do, what thoughts and memories will erupt. Already the reminder that I’m an orphan now is turning my stomach.

  My parents died too young, but even they would tell me if they could that this was simply their naseeb, their fate. No one gets out alive.

  I hit ‘send’ then busy myself in the kitchen, cleaning
the cupboards, arranging the rest of the new additions from the grocery store. I make a list of items I will need: different-sized mixing bowls, some baking trays, utensils. It’s clear Lara never cooks.

  An hour later, my phone rings. Salim’s voice is drenched in cautious concern, like he’s treading on thin ice that could crack below him at any moment. But there is an edge to his tone. My insides curl up and I feel a pang of anxiety.

  ‘Are you going to stay at Mum and Dad’s house?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I tell him.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘With a friend.’

  ‘Samira?’

  ‘Her cousin, Lara.’

  Silence. Perhaps disapproval. Salim may have heard about Lara’s new direction, her lack of piety. Laughable, I think, as I contemplate how much faith has held her together, even if she doesn’t pray five times a day.

  ‘Come over, see the family. We’re here for you. You can stay here if you want.’

  ‘I’ll come by soon, inshallah. I promise.’

  ‘Sis, call him. He’s your husband. What am I going to tell him if he calls here?’

  I hang up on a false promise to call Khaled. The truth is, I have no idea what to say to a man who never listens.

  Chapter 4

  Unravelling begins with a single thread.

  Tonight is Lara’s gig. It’s at a modern ‘upmarket’ bar, she assured me, as if that should make a difference. I am wearing my obligatory singlet – the tight black one I wear under everything. The layers will slowly come on, blanketing me, hiding so many things.

  Here, I threaten to completely undo it all.

  I take the singlet off, so that I’m only in my underwear, and start to arrange my hair, rolling the long locks into a neat bun. My current way of wearing a headscarf is less voluminous. My neck is visible when I opt for the turban style. It suggests a fashionable quality I don’t have.