The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

  Kat and Inez enter, cradling cups of coffee. ‘He looks hotter when he’s in the leather jacket,’ says Inez.

  ‘Huh?’

  They share a look. ‘Leo,’ says Inez. ‘Your friend?’

  ‘He’s not my friend. He knows Lara, my flatmate.’

  They continue to silently assess me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I say.

  Inez shrugs. ‘Nothing. Just saying, he’s hot, and if he wasn’t related to Maggie and an investor …’

  Kat rolls her eyes. ‘Not this again.’ She pushes away from the counter and wanders off, leaving me with Inez. She has a look on her artfully made-up face that I’m unable to decipher.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say, and Inez jumps a little.

  ‘I mean … technically I’m not his employee. Right?’

  ‘I guess?’

  ‘I think he has a girlfriend anyway.’ Inez emits a murmur then gives me a mournful smile. ‘Back to work.’

  I watch her go and realise Luke is staring at me, but his expression is easy to understand. He’s not impressed. I return to my task.

  I produce a more acceptable batch of tarts and leave one on Luke’s bench for him to scrutinise. Just as I do so, Leo emerges from Maggie’s office. His gaze wanders around the kitchen, then he makes his way to the exit. He slows down near the doorway, his fingers running across the bench beside him.

  I can understand Inez’s attraction to him. There’s something about Leo that I’m sure many women would find appealing – a certainty in how he walks, a quiet confidence. Maybe it’s because he’s mature.

  He catches me looking and smiles, nodding once in my direction, then makes his way out the door.

  I glance behind me to check on Inez, but she’s at work, focused and diligent.

  Chapter 9

  Perhaps I need to start interacting more with the invisible instead of defining it.

  I’ve been at Maggie’s just over three months. I’m still on three days a week – Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Getting Sunday would be ideal because the pay is better, but instead, Luke asks me to prep on Saturday for the rest of the weekend.

  It’s a grey Sunday afternoon after a difficult week at work, and I pay a visit to my parents’ graves. It’s a train ride out west then a ten-minute walk to the graveyard. I don’t have to work out the route to their site anymore. A headscarf wrapped around my head, I drop onto the grass, positioning myself at the end of the plots, between my parents.

  My head is thick with emotion as I study the granite headstones. Our relationships were not close. I don’t know that I miss our interactions, but there’s no denying that their imprint remains; invisible fingerprints that tell me where I come from and who I am supposed to be.

  In his last few years, my father seemed to soften and become smaller. One day, I saw him cry, something that terrified me because no one wants to see their parent cry. My father, an engineer who couldn’t find employment, was forced to make money through a mixed business. For decades, he sat on bundled-up regret. For years, that was my inheritance.

  The sage stalks from my last visit have withered and mostly blown away. I bring out a bag of fresh ones and throw them gently onto the graves like an offering.

  ‘Mama, I miss you. Baba, I can still hear you clearing your throat.’

  It’s strange what remains vital.

  ‘I don’t know where you are, but I need you. I need your strength.’

  I am sure that wherever they are, Mama especially does not approve of my rapid unfurling into someone who would never get into heaven. But my mother had her kindness, too. Her solutions always led to God, but I never remember her rejecting me outright.

  How did I so callously forget all that my parents did for me simply because of what they withheld?

  ‘You gave me a gift and I have wasted it. Can you please send me a sign? Please show me that everything will be OK.’

  My father passed away two and a half years after my mother. I managed only to see my mother off, later watching two women wash Mama for burial then wrap her in a white cloth. ‘She was in a rush,’ one of them told me in a low voice.

  I was numb, unsure about what to do with the information.

  ‘How do you know?’

  She smiled, her eyes on my mother’s still body. ‘They tell you.’

  A thin line of connection seems to form between their joint memory and me as I sit under the grim sky. The clouds hang low and the air is heavy with the prospect of a storm. Eventually, a light patter of rain falls against the grass as I grieve. Around me, people trail through the rows of graves, some stopping to inspect the names, others knowing exactly where they are headed.

  I sit there a while, eyes closed to a gentle breeze, which I imagine is Mama’s spirit sweeping past me. Tears spill down my cheeks. I wipe them away and exhale.

  I frequently wonder if the dead can see us, and if they can, do people change when they die? I wonder if my mother would have compassion for this version of me or if she would disapprove, the way she would have in the real world. Suddenly, I miss her. I would even face her disapproval if I could just be close to her again and feel the strength that came with her certainty.

  In my religion classes, I was taught about judgement; about hellfire and coffins that become tighter the more you sin; about hell and heaven, even when both already exist here. I don’t pretend to have experienced the worst human hell; I witnessed it at refugee camps, where people tried to carve out a new life when all hope seemed lost.

  But somehow, when you lose someone, you know the shape of such belief changes. You can’t see them encased in a box. They visit you in your dreams, looking radiant, healthy.

  I made wudu before I came, my muscle memory kicking in to allow for a seamless purification. Water is helpful that way; a symbolic and practical way to remove the accumulated dirt.

  I raise my hands, connecting them in supplication, and begin recitations, a prayer for my parents’ wellbeing in the afterlife; a hope that it truly is better than this one.

  When I get back to the apartment, Samira has just arrived.

  ‘We’re going out,’ she announces. ‘I feel like a proper night off and fresh air.’

  Lara suggests Musicale, and Samira looks to me for a reaction. She is conflicted because of her headscarf.

  ‘What?’ Lara says, feigning innocence at Samira. ‘They let in all types, even stuffy religious wom—’

  Samira quickly but clumsily wrestles Lara to the carpet. Lara grunts, but they’re fighting like siblings, so I’m not surprised when they tire quickly, mutually conceding defeat. They unlink then drop onto their backs, lying side by side.

  ‘I’m not against going. But not tonight,’ Samira pants. ‘I’m in jeans for goodness’ sake.’

  I join them on the floor, inching myself close to Lara. ‘Since when do you two wrestle? We used to be so civilised.’

  ‘Since I had kids,’ Samira surmises with a groan. ‘I don’t know how to be an adult sometimes. Everything is a battle.’

  Restlessness. That’s what we’re all suffering from. The playfulness, a desire to connect, to smash into each other in a way that unloads the accumulated stress, but safely.

  At dinner, we talk as we used to: about the everyday stuff that expands to seem like it takes up the whole world.

  We’re at a small Italian eatery in Newtown, walking distance from the apartment. It’s not the most popular one, so the atmosphere is mellow and relaxed, the background noise a sea of low voices in conversation and the occasional guffaw, mixed in with a playlist of soft acoustic songs.

  At one point, Lara starts to sing along, then she gives me a wink. ‘I used to listen to this post-fuckwit ex. You always need a soundtrack.’ When the song ends, she regales us with tales of being on tour. ‘We all have second jobs that we hate.’

  ‘At least you’re doing something you love,’ says Samira, who proceeds to roll her eyes as she describes the antics of her children and the foibles of her near-perfect
husband.

  ‘Honestly, Samira, it sounds like you’re looking for faults to make us feel better about our crap love-lives,’ says Lara, and we laugh because it’s funny but possibly true.

  ‘I haven’t slept in years,’ says Samira. ‘Is there such a thing as surface sleep?’ Then she frets over her maternal instincts. ‘I am raising actual human beings. Every time they do something that shocks me, I blame myself. Why was I so hard on my folks? And I miss doing adult stuff, y’know?’

  Samira is speaking to two women who are childless (or as Lara puts it, child-free), so technically we don’t know. But I have a sense of her meaning. I know that my life and the changes I am making in it would be completely different if I had a child with Khaled. We would not just remain connected, we would be knotted together.

  ‘Yes, but you married a Disney prince,’ I say. ‘Stop complaining. Hollywood was practically a food group for you growing up.’

  ‘Burn,’ says Lara. ‘She has a point. You were definitely the most romantic one of us.’

  Samira wears herself more loosely now. There’s a maturity to her that feels earned. Out of all of us, she is the most womanly.

  ‘You were also the most innocent,’ Lara says to Samira, and it sounds like an accusation.

  ‘Excuse me? I think Sahar gets that one,’ says Samira, mock-offended.

  ‘No. Sahar knew shit even I didn’t know.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I say.

  ‘You had a hidden stash of romance books, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘We all had that!’ Samira says.

  We take a moment, then in unison: ‘The Bronze Horseman!’

  We laugh, amused at how we passed Paullina Simons’ historical romance around like it was a guide to romance and sex. Then we lower our heads in embarrassment as the people at the table next to us glance over.

  ‘So many sex scenes,’ Lara says in a low voice, fanning herself. ‘Anyway, Sahar, you barely left the bloody kitchen, but you were always giving good advice about boys. You saw that Hakeem and I had a thing before I even knew.’

  Samira leans forward in a challenge. ‘Please, Lara, you were fooling around with guys while Sahar and I were just fantasising.’

  ‘I had my limits.’

  We give her a dubious look.

  ‘What? Daniel was my technical first.’

  ‘I hate that,’ Samira says.

  ‘We had fun. At least I can take that away from it.’

  Then Lara gives me a curious look.

  ‘What? I’m not a virgin, obviously.’

  Lara rolls her eyes, then shuffles her seat closer so that she’s right beside me. ‘Obviously. But please tell me that your ex was at least a good partner …’

  ‘Lara!’ Samira is affronted on my behalf, but I don’t mind the question. It doesn’t surprise me coming from Lara, nor is it a shock that she might wonder about me, the uptight religious girl who couldn’t talk to a boy without freaking out.

  I shrug but my face warms up. ‘The sex was good … I think. It’s not like I have anyone to compare him to.’

  Even Samira looks curious now. But you left him. You obviously had big problems with him.

  Lara shakes her head. ‘That just makes it better sometimes.’

  ‘Gosh,’ says Samira. ‘I mean, it took me a while to get used to it. I thought I was in the wrong movie the first few times.’

  We nod vigorously in agreement.

  ‘So many people should be burning in hell for lying to women about having an orgasm the first time they have sex,’ says Lara.

  ‘Yeah. I needed an education,’ I say. ‘It was pretty uncomfortable for a while.’

  Lara studies me. ‘Oh my God. You watched porn, didn’t you?’

  My cheeks flare up without delay. ‘Could you be a bit louder? I don’t think the table in the far corner heard you. And it wasn’t porn.’

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ says Lara.

  Samira has her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed as she waits for my confirmation.

  ‘It was a sex positions video on Khaled’s laptop. I watched it a couple of times.’

  Samira puts her face in her hands. ‘Couldn’t you just get an instructional book?’ she says, sounding pained.

  I hear a throat being cleared and look up to see a waiter standing beside us, his eyes wide. ‘Did you want to take a look at the dessert menu?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Samira says, and he escapes as quickly as he appeared.

  Lara is about to cough up a lung. She can’t stop laughing. ‘I’m actually just kind of stunned right now,’ she says eventually, but there’s a note of pride creeping into her voice. ‘It’s always the innocent ones you have to look out for.’

  By now we’re all laughing, but the thought burns a little. Sex was not transformative. For too long, sex was painful.

  ‘Porn is so fake,’ says Lara. ‘Not that I watch it.’ She pauses, hands raised. ‘But it’s hard to miss.’

  ‘It wasn’t porn. Porn doesn’t have narration.’

  ‘Ah, it was one of those videos. Bet it was from like 1985. Am I right? I’m right.’

  She is right. The hair was big, the women had bright pink blush and blue eye shadow. No one looked great. ‘The music was pretty cheesy,’ I say. ‘But it helped.’

  Samira is shading her eyes. She looks like she’s trying to get through a period cramp, before she shakes her head, most likely repenting on our behalf, which was my daily bread years ago. ‘You were the only person I knew who fast-forwarded the sex scenes even when your parents weren’t around,’ she tells me.

  Then she and Lara lock eyes. ‘Pretty Woman!’ they say and cackle.

  I admit, the video was not an ideal entry point to understanding sex, but it did something, like flipping on a switch. I’d forgotten that natural, sensual desire you can have when you don’t even have someone to think about.

  ‘Faaark,’ says Lara, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘I’m checking your luggage for sex toys later, Sahar.’

  ‘Lara!’ says a pained Samira. ‘Please.’

  The dessert menu falls onto the table. I watch the waiter swiftly retreat to safety.

  We shake with laughter. ‘We should give him a generous tip,’ Samira says.

  ‘Look, I was desperate. I thought sex would be easy to get used to, but it was taking ages,’ I say. ‘It hurt.’

  It would have hurt even if Khaled loved me.

  Samira nods. ‘Three months. And that’s being generous.’

  ‘Two,’ Lara says, grabbing the dessert menu.

  ‘Five,’ I say. ‘And I got a UTI every time.’

  Lara and Samira wince. ‘Yeah, where was that storyline in the romance books?’ says Samira.

  I suffered UTIs after sex for months. I suffered every time Khaled wanted me. His sister Zainab offered me a cranberry solution, but the UTIs continued. So I visited a GP – a man, who quietly prescribed antibiotics.

  ‘Not just one time, OK?’ he told me in broken English, his gaze on the prescription pad. He ripped off the sheet and placed it on the desk before me. ‘One each time. Yallah. Assalamu alaykum wa rahmatullahi wabarakatu.’

  It was the first time I realised how shame has no true anchor. It can show up at any place, from anywhere and fill you with remorse, even when you had no idea what you could have done to avoid it.

  I withdraw from these thoughts to find Lara taunting Samira about her sex life and its regularity.

  ‘No one has sex on a weeknight!’ Samira whispers fiercely.

  I shrug, because she has a point. But I’m sobered by the recollection of my husband.

  ‘Khaled had a thing for Amal Clooney,’ I tell them, taking hold of a menu.

  ‘Fuck Amal Clooney,’ Lara says. ‘She’s a unicorn. No one has Arab parents that easygoing.’

  ‘Can you imagine if one of us tried to date a celebrity?’ Samira laughs.

  ‘Can you imagine if one of us tried to date someone openly, period? I’ll have the sticky date,’ Lara says, like i
t’s a reward for a hard life. ‘Anyway, my final thoughts on sex: thank God for foreplay.’

  I’m caught in a laugh when my phone vibrates. Without thinking, I open it and find a message from Khaled. This time, it’s in Arabic and English.

  Inti talqa

  I divorce you

  A few seconds later, another follows:

  Inti talqa

  Then again:

  Inti talqa

  Inshallah the woman who is never happy can be happy now, Khaled concludes in English. In three texts, Khaled has ended our marriage. I feel the colour drain from my face as I stare at the screen. Melancholy and sorrow rise within me. It occurs to me that while my feelings have not changed, my perception – in just a few moments – has been turned upside down.

  I must claim some fault here, too. He might have been the one who began unravelling something before it could be created, but I allowed so much to happen.

  My friends want to know. They stop short of demanding that I tell them what happened to me, their entitlement as my friends.

  I know in telling them, I risk making myself look bad, perhaps even immoral. And I know in telling them, I will have to disclose the most important thread of my story. I don’t know if I’m ready, but at least some of it must be shared, and shed. I want to exorcise it from my body, in the hope that saying it out loud will set me free.

  We’re back at the apartment, a pot of Arabic coffee between us. Lara and Samira are watchful but patient, both facing me from their places beside each other at the dining table.

  They already know it’s a long story, so they are settled in. But when I struggle to get started, Samira opens the discussion.

  ‘I should have been a better friend and told you the truth: it was madness to get engaged to a man you didn’t know.’

  Lara winces. ‘To be fair, you can know someone for years and they can still be tossers.’

  ‘No,’ says Samira firmly. ‘We spent hours dissecting my love-life. But this one comes back from Jordan with a ring and we think it’s cute?’