by Amal Awad
Inside, it’s not as musty as I thought it would be, but the air is stale, and with the blinds half-drawn, dust blankets the space in a haze of particles. There are no ghosts here, but it feels haunted. There’s a heaviness in the air. If I could light it up to show hidden worlds, what invisible beings would appear?
We lift the blinds and throw open the windows in every room.
The living room appears as I last saw it – off-white leather couches, a wooden coffee table, framed Islamic calligraphy on the walls. Then I notice the television is gone, and something’s not quite right in my mother’s crockery buffet. There are pieces missing, but it looks deliberate.
I ache. The pain is physical. I wasn’t expecting it to strike me with such force, but a quiet urgency builds with each step I take. I touch the walls, reach out for my mother’s scent, search for a memento of my father. The emotions don’t produce tears; instead, they feel stuck, lodged somewhere between the crown of my head and my heart. Despite our challenges, I was safe and protected here. I was loved, even if it didn’t feel loving all the time.
‘This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies,’ Lara says, wrapping her arms around herself.
In the bedrooms, I find several boxes neatly stacked but with no markings to indicate what’s inside. Our lives, shuttered and farewelled without ceremony.
In the kitchen, with its large adjacent dining space, are more boxes. I stem the melancholy crowding my senses. I hear the sound of memories – laughter and women speaking over each other. The sounds of joy and belonging.
I use my key to rip open a box and gasp when I realise these are my things, carefully packed as though they have been awaiting my return. I flip open the lids to reveal cake tins of different sizes and an assortment of baking tools, all packaged in plastic. I remember wrapping the items before I left for Jordan, but the boxes must be from my mother. I thought she’d given away all my things as I’d instructed.
‘Wow,’ says Lara, coming up beside me. She crouches down to sit next to me on the tiles. ‘Hoorah for hoarder mums.’
Mama was always an efficient woman, so this neat hoarding takes me by surprise.
I scramble to my old bedroom. A dua for a happy home, which I printed out and placed on the door to my room, remains stuck there, its edges browned, the black print bleeding into a faded yellow background. I touch it and a half-smile forms. It’s like navigating an abandoned place, its residents having left in haste. A museum of a past life.
Inside, there are only a few boxes stacked on top of my double bed. In the wardrobe, I find a few of my old abayat, the ones I left behind thinking my stay in Jordan would be temporary. Running my fingers across them, I close my eyes in memory. I had seen marriage as a graduation in piety, and had fully intended to dress more conservatively.
I open my eyes and pull one of the robes out. There’s mould on the shoulder pads, the result of years of neglect.
Samira and Lara crowd the doorway.
‘I have to clean all of this out,’ I tell them, already pulling at the dresses and throwing them onto the bed.
Lara removes an abaya from my hands and replaces it carefully in the wardrobe. ‘Why don’t we just take this one step at a time?’
I sense grief in the air, an anguish that haunts us all, but I can take it. It will feel odd clearing out these things, like I’m completely erasing that old version of myself in the process. I’ll hold her up against my body and see how she fits. I already know she’s too small for me in every way.
Together with Lara and Samira, I search through the boxes in the kitchen to see what can be salvaged. I want to create a home kitchen when I move into a new apartment. I have cherished my time with Lara, but I’m looking forward to having my own space for the first time in my life.
My business inventory is wedged between my library of books and trinkets from my younger years: things Mama later packed up but without any order to them. I am misty-eyed but I do not cry.
Lara rises noisily from her spot and gently squeezes my shoulder as she goes in search of her phone. ‘Music. We need music.’
‘And chocolate,’ says Samira, reaching over to her bag. ‘I brought Snickers.’
We murmur between ourselves as we continue the stocktake, occasionally stopping to add items into one of three piles: cake tins and baking trays; decorating tools; miscellaneous. My book of recipes is intact, even though the pages are yellowed around the edges. Beneath it are books filled with orders I carried out for customers, with notes in the margins.
Occasionally, we find some clothing or pyjamas that have lost their elasticity, faded items from a glory box my mother assembled for me before I was even engaged. Lara gasps at a small box containing over-the-top lingerie that I didn’t know even existed. I add a pile for rubbish.
Two hours in, Samira goes to answer the door. As always, pizza.
‘Hot, hot, hot,’ Samira yelps, dropping the boxes onto the counter. ‘Ah crap, we don’t have plates.’
‘I’m sure we do somewhere.’
I find some in the cupboard and give them a quick rinse. Then we fashion a space on the floor of the kitchen, using a rug as protection against the cold tiles. The dining table, so central to our catch-ups in the kitchen when we were young, is noticeably missing.
‘You know, when I said I wanted to do something special pre-wedding, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,’ Lara says. She rips out a slice of pizza and throws it onto a plate. ‘I probably shouldn’t be eating this, but honestly, I don’t think it’ll make a difference at this point.’
‘Are we waxing you as per tradition?’ Samira jokes.
‘Has someone given you the talk about what to expect on your wedding night?’ I say.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Lara says, but she’s happy.
Life is a spiral. We revisit the same things, but from a higher perspective. Ten or so years ago, we sat in my mother’s kitchen helping Samira work through a romantic dilemma – she thought she had lost Menem when Hakeem showed interest and she blinked.
Her situation was different to mine. But there’s an emotional symmetry to the moment when Lara prods me for information about Luke.
‘We haven’t spoken,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what it’s going to be like when I go back to work.’
Lara bites her lip. ‘I’m sorry, babe.’
I sigh. ‘I can’t be mad at him. I’m the one who walked away.’
‘What happened?’ Samira queries. She knows of Luke, but it’s Lara I spend the most time with and confide in about men.
‘I told him the truth,’ I say. ‘That my sort-of-ex-husband showed up to confront me about Naeem. But you know, it was after we’d slept together.’
‘You slept with Luke?’ Samira whips her head around to face me.
‘Not the important point right now, Samira,’ says Lara, but she bites back a smile. Then she gives me a sly look. ‘I didn’t ask before because you seemed really upset, but how was it?’
‘Lara!’ Samira shakes her head as she pulls out another slice of pizza. ‘Are we really having this conversation?’
‘I’m just curious. I mean, your husband was the worst.’ Then Lara remembers herself. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t cool.’
‘Well, you know …’ I play with my food. ‘He was different. In a good way. It helped that we actually like each other.’
Samira’s eyes widen, her mouth full. ‘Oh my God. Are we comparing our sex lives now? Is that what we’re doing?’
‘We’re not comparing,’ says Lara. ‘Gawd. Did he faint when he saw your boobs?’
‘No, but he stayed there a while.’
‘I give up,’ Samira laments.
Then my smile fades. ‘Is it awful that I live like the past never happened? I never mourned Naeem. I never honoured him outside of my mind. I feel like I cheated him out of being mourned properly because I had to pretend nothing had happened.’
‘You were in that explosion, too,’ says Samira, her face drawn.
&nb
sp; ‘It’s going to sound crazy, but when I think about it, all I can see is what the explosion did to him. Like it didn’t really happen to me; I watched it happen to someone else.’
Lara and Samira are both quiet.
‘I know they’re ugly, but I like my scars. I swear, if I didn’t have them, I worry I’d find a way to forget.’
‘Can you understand Luke’s perspective, then?’ Lara says. ‘How does he compete with that?’
‘He can’t.’
‘He’s not supposed to,’ Samira says. ‘Do you think you had one chance at love and now it’s over?’
‘Luke isn’t really an option right now,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I think I should move on.’
‘But you really like him, don’t you?’ Lara says, leaning in closer.
‘I do. But this is what happens when I try to do normal.’
‘Babe, this is normal. Even Samira’s love-life was crap before she got over herself.’
‘Hey!’ Samira kicks Lara in the leg.
Lara continues, unperturbed. ‘I mean, her story was definitely more romantic comedy than drama. But still. She had hiccups.’
Samira shrugs her agreement. ‘True. Menem stopped speaking to me for a while, remember? I mean, he’s Muslim but he was always untraditional, so I think I did his head in with my insecurities. Luke probably has no idea what a Muslim woman has to deal with. This is easy for him.’
Lara nods. ‘And it probably doesn’t help that he’s intense like you.’ She contemplates for a moment. ‘I think I’m more midday movie. Sahar is “based on a true story” drama, what with refugee camps and whatnot. I’m telling you, embrace it. It’s the only way.’ When I don’t respond, she studies me. ‘You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?’
I shake my head. ‘Not guilty. Just … icky.’ I could have come back and slept with a man just because, but I never did. I was intimate with someone I genuinely have feelings for. So why does it feel so bad?
‘A lot is happening at once,’ Lara says. ‘But you haven’t done anything wrong. You were getting to know someone.’
Samira clears her throat. ‘While I have evidently become the Sahar of the group, and I am quietly repenting on your behalf, Lara is right. You should talk to Luke. At least then you’ll have an answer. I sucked it up and it worked out pretty well.’
I warm at the memory of lying in bed with Luke, of slow dancing with him in the intoxicating haze of early attraction. The amount of trust he had earned was immense for me to be able to do all of that and not wake up in a cloud of shame. He was gentle and loving and showed a desire I had only ever seen play out in my mind.
‘Enough about me,’ I say. ‘How are we going to celebrate Lara getting over herself?’
‘Ha!’ Lara abandons her pizza in order to tackle me. But it’s not long before it’s a group thing.
Two days later, I’m at the academy with Samira, preparing for one of two things I have to do before I return to Maggie’s. Samira has a weighty tripod, a large shade and an impressive camera with a fancy flash. My instructor, Amber, and some of the regulars, including Inez, are with me. Samira says it will be more dramatic to have a few people present, but she is focused on me.
I stretch while Samira sets up. I can’t help but be impressed as I watch her work.
When it’s time, I get up and head to a trapeze swing beside Inez. ‘Is here OK?’ I ask, tying up my hair.
‘Yes.’ Samira takes a test shot then twists her mouth. ‘But do you mind keeping your hair out?’
I take my place behind the swing. ‘It’s not very practical.’
Samira is already clicking away with a remote, making adjustments as she goes. ‘But it’s more photogenic.’
I leave my hair out.
Amber guides us onto our swings and I move into position. As I progress into the movements, I am pleased by the improvement in my ability. When I drop into a half-angel, I can see the expression of gentle surprise on Samira’s face.
‘What’s this called?’ Samira says, clicking away.
‘A half-angel.’
Samira chuckles. ‘I wonder what a full one looks like.’
Leo is helping me complete one of the final items of The Experiment. Tomorrow I return to work, so he insists we celebrate with dinner at an Italian restaurant he describes as Sydney’s best-kept secret. ‘Better than my speak-easy,’ he jokes.
Afterwards, we ride back to Newtown on his motorcycle. Leo parks on the main strip outside a tattoo parlour. We remove our helmets, and he indicates the door, the frame of which is inked in black and red.
‘You sure about this?’ he asks.
‘I think so. But I still have no idea what to get.’
‘That’s OK. They have books that you can flip through. Lots of pretty pictures and nice words. Just start small. How about a chest plate?’
‘Very funny.’
When I don’t move, Leo helps me off the bike. ‘Want my advice?’
‘Always.’
‘Get something easy to hide. That way, if you end up hating it, you don’t have to see it.’
I loosen up and shake away my nerves as Leo releases his hold. I’m not interested in a symbol, or a reminder. But I think there’s a way to imprint my story with something that doesn’t try to encapsulate or bind it; something that no matter how much I grow and change will always resonate.
‘Do you know where you want it?’ Leo asks.
I bite my lip. ‘Can they tattoo over a scar?’
‘Pretty sure they can.’ Leo smiles his approval and reaches down to take my hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘It will only hurt for a minute.’
Chapter 29
I am healing my timeline.
My first day back at work and it quickly feels normal.
Inez and Kat are pleased to see me, both involving me in their creations.
Luke is polite. He acts the same way he did after he first kissed me – like nothing ever happened. It hurts, but I can’t bring myself to ask him for a private chat.
Instead, I ask him if it’s OK to use the chocolate studio to flex my tempering muscles.
‘Of course,’ he replies.
I want to say something, but my mind feels empty.
I use the time in the studio to make chocolates for Lara’s bonbonnières. I opt for milk chocolate hearts filled with raspberry cream and dusted with a sweep of red lustre.
It doesn’t take long to box them. Afterwards, I retrieve my notes for the tarot project and get to work. The Tower, card number sixteen: a building on fire and people leaping from it before it will be burnt to ash. Sudden and unexpected upheaval that ushers in the opportunity to rebuild. This one has to be dark chocolate: bitter with a sweet surprise inside – peanut brittle, or perhaps hard caramel.
I lose track of time, and before I know it Inez and Kat sweep into the studio. I check my phone and see it’s five thirty.
‘We’re going out and we’re not taking no for an answer,’ says Kat.
Inez bites her lip. ‘You can say no.’
I smile. ‘I’d love to come.’
We end up at the bar Luke took me to the night we first kissed. Kat goes up to the counter and starts ordering.
‘Hey, it’s mocktail girl.’
I look up to see Aiden, the bartender who made me a special drink.
He smiles. ‘I was wondering when I’d see you again.’
I feel Kat’s and Inez’s eyes on me.
‘Shiraz, mojito and whatever she wants,’ Kat says to Aiden, inclining her head towards me. ‘You obviously know her order.’
Kat and Inez go in search of a table, while I wait for the drinks.
‘So, what can I get you?’ Aiden says.
Before I can respond, I hear a man clear his throat behind me. Without looking, I know it’s Luke. I turn to face him and manage a polite smile.
Then I realise he’s not alone. Beside him is his ex-girlfriend, Bianca. She’s dressed casually in a strapless top and jeans, her face made up mor
e naturally than the night I saw her at the club. Her hair is still silky and long, and her beauty is blinding. Up close, I see that she seems more ordinary in other ways. Not exactly warm, but she’s no Cruella.
Luke’s eyes meet mine and he nods but doesn’t say anything.
I turn back to Aiden. ‘Please make me something special again. But this time I’m paying.’
‘Luke’s here. With Bianca,’ I say as I place the drinks down on the tall table Kat and Inez have secured towards the back.
‘Who?’ says Kat, taking her drink.
I give her a look. ‘Really? The woman you call Cruella.’
Kat nearly chokes on her drink. Then she looks guilty. ‘We were going to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’ I take a seat and study the impressive drink Aiden has made for me. It’s a rainbow of lemon, raspberry and orange.
Inez and Kat exchange a look.
‘Well, we weren’t sure what to tell you,’ Inez says, consoling and kind. ‘We just saw him walk out of a club with her one night when we were out drinking. But I guess this confirms it.’
I force my mouth into a smile. ‘It’s OK. We’re not together. He can see whoever he wants.’ I raise my glass. ‘Besides, cute bartender gave me his number.’
I glance behind me to look at Aiden. But it’s impossible not to see Luke and Bianca at a table near the front, deep in conversation, their heads close together.
Chapter 30
We are not the things we do, even though they say so much about us.
It’s the day before Lara’s wedding, and the day of her KK. Samira drives us to the sheikh’s ramshackle office in the western suburbs, where Hakeem is waiting with a friend. The sheikh is old with a thick grey beard and a majestic red turban. He reminds me of my father and I smile as he intones a brief lecture on the duties of the husband and wife, and tries to keep it light by telling Hakeem that a smart man lets his wife be right.