by Amal Awad
‘I am never doing that again.’
‘Are you feeling hungover?’
‘I don’t think so? What does that feel like?’
‘Well, I’ve only ever been hungover once, but I remember feeling like I wanted to vomit. And the person I was with told me to drink lots of water, which really helped.’
‘I don’t want to vomit, but I don’t think I can eat. I just want coffee.’ I drop my head onto the table.
‘I’ll make you one.’ Lara jumps up. A few seconds later, the coffee machine groans into life.
‘He’s cute,’ she says, over the machine.
‘Who?’
Lara rolls her eyes. ‘Luke. The guy who’s pulling your pigtails.’
‘He’s not, Lara. I just challenge him.’
She shrugs. ‘Same diff. He seems decent. Not that I have the best track record with figuring out the good ones. But I can generally pick out the tossers when they’re focused on someone else.’
My head starts to throb, but I also want to exit the conversation. I have the vague sense I shared a tender moment with Luke, I just can’t quite piece it together.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘check alcohol off the list. I can say, hand on heart, it’s highly overrated.’
‘Most things are.’
My phone pings and I drag it to my eyeline. Messages from Kat and Inez.
Kat calls the night ‘epic’ then writes:
You’re with Leo! Really?! Poor Nez.
But she includes a laughing–crying emoji.
Inez laments my early exit and wants to check that I’m not feeling horrible.
How cute is Luke to get you home safe? He wouldn’t let us leave. He didn’t end up coming back tho. xx
‘Did you have fun at least?’ says Lara.
‘I guess so. Maybe I’ve just missed the boat on this stuff. It feels a bit pathetic to try to catch up on some things,’ I say.
‘There’s no age limit on trying new things, babe.’
‘But shouldn’t it feel … more natural?’
‘Maybe. I wouldn’t overthink it.’ She sighs. ‘You’re going through a big thing. You don’t really know what you like, do you?’
‘In relation to?’
‘A lot of things. When I moved into my first apartment, like a proper adult after the fuckwit ex, I didn’t even know what furniture I wanted, until I took a good look. That’s what you’re doing right now – taking a good look. Speaking of which: on Saturday, you’re meeting me at my gig venue. I have a surprise for you.’
‘It doesn’t involve me singing, does it?’
‘No. I promise. You will love it. This is my thing for you to experience and it’s painless, with zero chance of humiliation.’
Back in my bedroom, I text Leo.
Please accept my apologies if I did or said anything inappropriate when I called you last night. For the first time in my life, I can blame intoxication.
I reply to Kat and assure her that I’m not ‘with’ Leo, then I message Inez and thank her for checking in. Then I ask her about a tarot card reading.
Her reply is swift.
OMG Yeeeeees. This week sometime.
BTW Leo?! He is so hot I could cry.
She includes a crying emoji.
I type a brief response.
Just ask him out already.
Then she sends me a bunch of emojis that I interpret as excited confusion but there are still tears.
Next, a message from Luke arrives. It’s to the point.
Hey … Are you feeling OK?
Luke
I stare at his message, stuck on how to reply. But then Leo’s response interrupts my thoughts.
Anytime. You are a terrible drunk and should not be left unsupervised.
This makes me smile. I quickly type out a reply to Luke.
I’m OK. Thank you, Luke. I’m sorry you missed out because I wandered off.
Luke replies within a minute.
I didn’t miss out on anything. BTW you are the most analytical drunk I have ever met.
I’m still smiling when my phone pings. It’s Salim.
Is 1 pm OK? Bring your appetite. The kids can’t wait to see you. It’s all they talk about.
It takes me a second to comprehend the message. Then I remember: I’m booked in to have lunch at his house today. I don’t know that it’s panic I feel. Instead, adrenaline kicks in. I have to do something about my appearance. I have to hide all evidence of last night.
Chapter 18
There is always a cost to freedom. It’s a matter of perspective.
Lara and Hakeem drop me off at Salim’s house on their way to meet the sheikh who will carry out their marriage ceremony. Before we left, Lara had to ply me with more caffeine. She did her best with my face and talked me down from wearing a headscarf. As she pointed out, if I am truly going to evolve, I can’t indulge in false starts so no one gets offended.
A quick stop at the bakery ensured I wouldn’t arrive empty-handed, Inez tossing in a box full of treats.
Salim’s wife, Naila, a pretty Lebanese woman from my old scripture group, is slightly taken aback when she answers the door, her daughter Aisha crowding her leg and staring up at me shyly. ‘Oh my God, Sahar! You look … so different.’ She recovers herself quickly, offering a warm greeting and the obligatory three-cheek kiss (right, left, right). ‘Mashallah,’ she says, smiling, but her eyes are darting around in a frantic inspection. But, I suppose, fair enough.
Salim approaches and hugs me, properly, then leans back and touches my hair. Behind him two more children wait, politely but with curiosity.
‘Mashallah,’ he also says, but it sounds more sincere and I am not sure what to make of it. ‘Mohammed! Fatima! Aisha! Come say salams to your aunty.’
I am already aware of their sweet natures from brief visits to Sydney, and although I worry about looking as terrible as I feel, I receive their tender embraces easily, crouching down slightly to allow for a series of quick hugs.
When we’re done, I make a wobbly rise to a standing position and smile brightly at Salim, who leads me to their living room – a white, airy space that looks straight out of a furniture store catalogue.
Salim is easy with his kids – two girls and a boy who are all primary school age – which is to say, he’s nothing like our father, or mother. Naila is more intense, peppering her language with religious platitudes the way I used to. ‘Subhanallah, I was just showing Salim old photos of us at the Sunday class.’
I mentally strap myself in, my mind flitting to the nightclub and the guy dancing like he was having a seizure, but I can’t completely tune out Naila, who is playing with her long mane of hair and retelling Sunday school adventures like she’s on a reality television show.
‘They were good times,’ I tell her, adjusting myself on the wide couch, my stomach becoming a little unsettled. Discomfort or alcohol intake? To be determined.
‘We all looked so different,’ she says, and I wonder if she thinks she’s being subtle. I imagine saying the truth out loud: Actually, the reason why I look so bad is because last night I got drunk at a nightclub. I’m also hanging out with men.
But then I soften the mean edges of my thoughts. Naila’s maternal energy is misplaced but not unusual. She reminds me of the Muslim women who used to talk about life post-marriage, keen to display their womanhood. They run households. They enjoy intimacy. They’re proper adults, but nothing they do is haram. With sex, there is insider knowledge. All of them are sheltered, in a supposedly ideal life. And this is Naila now; not mean-spirited, but in a bubble she prizes.
Lunch is chicken from a local restaurant famous for its garlic sauce. Naila takes my plate and piles on bright pink parsnip, olives and pickles. She tosses on chicken-salted hot chips and practically half a chicken. I am struggling to swallow, but thankfully nothing comes up. I eat slowly and in a way that makes it look like I’m consuming more than I am. I discreetly sneak chips onto Aisha’s plate and she looks thrilled, widen
ing her eyes and trying to mute her smile.
I allow the conversation to be led by Naila, who trumpets the achievements of the children. ‘I’m also thinking about starting a home business, like you used to have. I don’t want to go back to accounting.’ She looks at me expectantly, glancing at Salim, who nods supportively.
‘That’s wonderful. You want to make cakes?’
‘Oh, goodness no. I was thinking events. There are so many sisters getting married, and I think I could make a living out of the people I know alone. Lolly bars and table decorating, that sort of thing.’
I smile and nod. Their home is elegant and beautifully furnished. ‘I’m sure you’d be great at it,’ I say.
The kids meanwhile are taking turns staring at me. I almost feel guilty when I see them watching me, in awe, with no clue that I could reasonably be considered the worst influence possible. This is only confirmed when Naila encourages them to show off their Qur’anic skills while Salim clears the table. I smile, transported by the familiar words. While my classmates took piano lessons and ballet, I went to scripture and memorised Qur’an.
Shortly after, the children proudly trail towards me in a line, faces beaming as they delicately handle certificates that they show off one by one – awards for athletics, swimming, spelling bees, monitor duties and so on. They are gold-star students and I feel unexpectedly proud.
I try to offer encouraging words as I hand back the certificates, feeling more like a school principal than their aunt, but they each extend their skinny arms and wrap them around my neck in a tiny embrace.
I feel emotion well up, but I shake it off and give them each a kiss on the head.
‘Mashallah. Keep it up.’
The girls want to show me their bedroom, so I follow them in and listen attentively as they break down the architecture of their toy collection. They call me ‘aunty’ and easily take my hand, their shyness fading. They become more playful, loud and brash with each other as they compete for my attention, correcting each other’s long-winded stories and arguing over which toys and books to showcase.
‘Do you have a Barbie doll?’ I ask.
Fatima holds up a classic doll, with a thick mane of curly blonde hair, dressed in a white coat. ‘She’s a doctor,’ she tells me. ‘That’s what I want to be.’
We play for a while and I tell them how I used to play Barbie with Samira when we were kids. I leave out that I used to put makeshift headscarves on my dolls. I was never very good at playing Barbie, unlike Samira, whose imagination was rampant with possibilities.
Afterwards, as Naila puts out the sweets, gushing over the impressive cakes, she seems more relaxed and I start to feel bad for my harsh thoughts about her. She is simply uncomfortable, unsure what to do and how to act around someone who was once more conservative than her.
The children start picking out their desserts and Naila urges them to be patient and take turns.
‘They look like art,’ Naila says, ready to cut into the sweets.
My heart stops as I realise that one of the desserts has gelatine in it, and the other liquor. I’m torn, but then I look at Naila, who is annoying but hospitable, and my brother who is only good. And then she’s about to offer one of them to Fatima, who is insisting on the pretty bright pink one and I have to stop her.
‘Um, you know what? The bakery gave me the wrong order. Two of those you can’t eat.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I reach over and separate out the two cakes and smile apologetically at Fatima, who looks crushed. ‘Gelatine,’ I say, leaving out the liquor part.
‘Tell you what,’ I say to Fatima. ‘I’ll make you the same cake sometime and make sure it’s halal. Deal?’
‘Thank you, Aunty,’ she says, shy but smiling so wide I worry her face will crack open. She looks at Naila in triumph and happily accepts a different dessert. There’s plenty to go around and we fall into more natural conversation as we drink coffee and eat, the kids trailing off to their bedrooms with their plates. I tell Salim and Naila about my job.
‘Just enjoy it,’ Salim says. ‘Don’t make it harder than it needs to be. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Find a middle place and sit there a while. We’re here if you need anything,’ he says.
I’m still trying to work out Salim’s advice when he moves on to our parents’ house and all of its belongings. I tell him that I plan to carry out a stocktake at some point. ‘Is there anything you want?’
Salim shakes his head. ‘I have already taken care of my stuff.’
Naila offers to help. ‘When the kids are at school, I have plenty of time.’
I politely refuse and commence my exit. I arrange an Uber and rise from my seat.
‘Thank you for having me,’ I say. ‘It was good to see you all.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift?’ Salim asks at the door.
‘Uber’s on the way. Ahmed. Four point nine stars.’
‘Look, about the house …’ Salim begins. ‘I’m sorry there’s so much stuff.’ He crosses his arms, eyes on the ground.
‘I haven’t gone yet.’
Salim is surprised but he quickly gathers himself. ‘Well, it’s yours now, so you can decide what stays and what goes.’
‘I still can’t believe Mum and Dad left it for me.’
‘And no mortgage, so consider it a gift. Alhamdulillah.’
‘Why did they? I mean, they could have just left a small sum.’
Salim hesitates. ‘I think they regretted how they did some things, Sahar. I think they wanted to make sure you weren’t reliant on anyone.’
I digest this in silence. My parents saw my return before I did.
‘Are you sure you don’t want it?’ I ask. ‘It’s big enough for you and the family—’
‘I don’t want to live there. I prefer it where we are.’
Naila arrives at the door and leans into Salim.
He places his arm around her and turns back to me. ‘And they left me the business. Dad owned the property and the business, so we’re good, alhamdulillah.’
There’s money in the property, and a legacy in the business.
‘Who’s running the shop?’
Salim and Naila share a look before Salim clears his throat. ‘I sold it a year ago. With the property.’
I digest this, too. Something has been cut from me, abrupt and sudden. It hits me with unexpected force that I will never see my father in his shop again. I will never walk in and smell the produce, feel the traces of our homeland in the walls and shelves heaving with imported spices and olive oil. I will never see my father again. For the first time, I try to understand properly how that makes me feel instead of relying on some vague sense of acceptance.
I farewell my brother and leave with muddled thoughts about our meeting; about Salim’s life beyond our family, and his words of advice. He was always there for me, but perhaps I took his presence and patience for granted. I want to go back and ask him about the hurt that just rose to the surface, to pull out the words unspoken. Maybe he also felt like a guest in our parents’ home, and now that they are missing from our lives, and we are building our own, the cords that link us, already strained, will finally snap. He has his life and people who need him in a way that I do not. I have my life, including problems only I can sort through and resolve.
I divert the Uber ride, deciding to visit my parents’ graves since I’m in the area.
I don’t quite know if it’s guilt that wraps itself around me as I recall Salim’s picture-perfect existence, or if it’s my failed attempt at drinking catching up with me. Still, it’s something. A sense of disquiet. Like I have let myself down, not my parents or even God. But perhaps this experience has just loosened my tightness around alcohol. The mystery has certainly come undone.
I’m glad I went to Salim’s. His children remind me of how I once was – sweet and timid, a sense of politeness and respect in how they interact with the adults. That was me, bef
ore my parents’ rules caused me to retreat within myself. Eventually I became fearful rather than reverential, socially inept rather than simply shy.
Who I have become has diluted the past and I don’t know where the first significant change really began. Was it when my father first disciplined me? Was it the first time I was told I wasn’t allowed to do something that seemed perfectly normal and innocent? The sidelined kid who was never allowed to go to school camp, who would gradually dismantle her natural desires because the effort to reach them was so exhausting? Or could it have been when my mother, days after I first got my period, approached me with a headscarf and urged me to begin wearing it. ‘I am not going to go to hell for you,’ she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
The day is warm and I spare a thought for Inez at the bakery.
I drop down onto the small patch of grass at the ends of their plots. I cross my legs, and slip on my sunglasses. It’s hot and the sun seems extra bright. It’s also quieter in the cemetery than I expected for a Sunday. I sit in reflection, wondering if there is some futility to these visits, speaking into the air, in search of spirits.
The heat sinks into my skin, warms my clothing. The air is dense with the sound of cicadas in full song, so loud it’s like a cleansing of whatever layers remain stuck.
Words don’t come as they usually do. I don’t know what to say, or how to say it, because I am still yet to comprehend my own evolution.
With nothing to say, I cup my hands together and begin to recite prayers for my parents.
Chapter 19
Is choice an illusion when there is so much we can’t control?
The academy Inez attends is for circus performers – which is to say, the people here are all insanely fit, toned and can achieve spectacular and unnatural feats with their bodies.
In one corner, bright, shiny sheets of fabric in vibrant hues of red, blue and pink drop from the ceiling. Opposite them are a set of hoops positioned at varying levels off the ground, several women contorting their bodies around them. Then there are the trapezes, again set up to accommodate every kind of user.