by Amal Awad
‘I think we can all agree that this is unusual,’ she says, ‘but he assures me that he’s OK.’
‘He’s human, after all,’ Kat says with a snicker.
‘Inez, you’re in charge,’ Maggie says. ‘Sahar, you wanted to see me?’
I grab the prototype of tarot chocolates from under my bench and the deck of cards Lara gifted me, and follow Maggie into her office.
‘OK, miss,’ Maggie says, shimmying into her seat. ‘What do you want to show me?’
My hands tremble as I pass her the rectangular black box with a red ribbon.
Maggie unties the ribbon with a flourish and leans back to take in the selection. She inspects the tray of multi-flavoured decorated chocolates, then glances up at me.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘Each chocolate represents a tarot card,’ I say. ‘More specifically, the twenty-two cards in the Major Arcana.’
Maggie winces. ‘English, please.’
‘OK.’ I produce Lara’s deck and open the box, but the cards are stuck, so I have to wrestle them out. ‘Sorry.’
Maggie waits, more patient and curious now, her fingers splayed across her cheek.
I forage for the majors and fan them out across the bench. ‘The Major Arcana represent the big milestones in life. The Fool,’ I say, holding up the card, ‘sets out on a journey to liberation. The World …’ I hold up the card, which shows a naked woman wrapped only in a garland of leaves, surrounded by symbols of her liberation. ‘This is the end of the journey. Completion and wholeness. In between, we have the big things we are confronted with when we live fully: love, separation, hope, and, of course, fulfilment. If you’re lucky, an authentic life.’ I take a breath. ‘Each chocolate is one of these cards. But they’re not made to look like them; I have designed each one to taste like the meaning of the card.’
I have Maggie’s attention. ‘OK, you’ve got me interested. But it sounds like a lot of work.’
‘It is, and I know I need to revise it. The chocolates take a long time to produce, so I will need to modify them, and perhaps offer them individually across a period of time, rather than as a box set. Then there could be a highly priced box for a special occasion. But what do you think of the basic idea?’
Maggie studies the tray. ‘May I?’
I nod. ‘I made a few of each.’
Maggie selects one randomly and cuts it open. She nods, impressed. ‘Nicely filled,’ she says, taking in the thick ganache centre. She bites into it. ‘Chilli. Which one is this?’
‘The Devil.’
Maggie looks surprised. ‘Aren’t you clever?’
‘You like it?’
‘Sahar, this is fabulous.’
I sit in the moment, moved by Maggie’s approval.
‘I had my cards read once,’ Maggie says. ‘She was a relative of a relative. An old Italian woman who stopped halfway to have a ciggie.’ Maggie cackles. ‘She read my cup, too.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t remember all the details, but she did tell me I would get married and I did. I just would’ve liked her to have warned me about the divorce, too.’
We laugh and I point to the cards. ‘The Devil symbolises bondage but also marriage.’
‘Sounds about right.’ Maggie bites into a white chocolate square. ‘How do I know which is which?’
‘We’ll have it on the box. But that one is The Star. Wishes fulfilled.’
‘Popping candy inside. Super clever.’ Next, Maggie plucks out a heart-shaped piece and cuts it open. It oozes a pink filling.
‘The Lovers.’
Maggie lets out a long, contented sigh. ‘There it is. You finally found your voice.’
‘What’s my voice?’
‘Chocolate as life. You like mysterious things. You’re a feeler. It’s a good voice to have. It means you’ll connect with people, not just their tastebuds.’
‘Thank you, Maggie.’
‘This is very good, Sahar. You paid attention. You’re not as different as you thought you were, right? No crying.’
But I can’t stop it. My eyes brim with tears and Maggie rises from her seat and pulls me close. ‘You’re doing just fine.’
When we separate, I wipe away a tear and clear my throat. ‘There’s something else I wanted to run by you. It’s not fully formed in my head yet.’
Maggie listens as she covers the chocolate box and ties the ribbon.
‘I haven’t figured out exactly how it would work, but how would you feel about introducing a charitable initiative? Or involvement in a community program? Something to contribute to the community.’
Maggie lets out a tiny sigh as she studies me. I don’t know what to make of her response because she is inspecting me like I have chocolate on my face.
‘That sounds like a very good idea, Sahar.’ She remains quietly intense for a few more seconds, then abandons the box and takes my hands. ‘I’m very glad that I took you to that improv theatre and made you face your worst fears.’
‘What, making an idiot of myself in front of other people?’
‘Raising your voice.’ Maggie smiles. ‘Maybe we should arrange another team-building day. How do you feel about singing?’
‘Oh God no, please.’
‘I think Luke would love it.’ Then her expression grows serious as she notices my response. ‘I know you don’t see me a lot, but I see a lot more than you think. There’s something between you two, yes?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘I don’t want to micromanage your personal lives. You’re adults. But you have to see him every day and we’re not a big team here.’
‘I know.’
‘Do I need to have a word with him?’
‘No. We’re fine. Honestly.’
When I leave Maggie’s office, it occurs to me that ordinary joy comes in being true to what you’re curious about. Even with The Experiment coming to an end, I never sought out what truly interests me. And sometimes, you have to go back to the beginning.
I return to my bench in an inflated mood and get to work on my cake for the day – a peaches-and-cream sponge. I lose myself in the work, and I’ve just finished a batch of cakes when Kat ushers in Samira.
I look up in surprise. ‘What are you doing here? Is everything OK?’
Samira lingers at the doorway, a bit shy to enter. In her arms is a large white box tied with a red ribbon.
‘It’s OK, come in,’ Kat says.
‘I wanted to surprise you, but I couldn’t wait.’ Samira holds the box aloft. ‘Is there somewhere clean I can put this down?’
I sweep the debris off my counter and give it a quick wipe down. Samira carefully manoeuvres the package onto the counter.
‘Open it,’ she says, stepping back and lacing her hands together, her smile more brilliant than the sun.
‘What is it?’
‘Just open it.’
I untie the ribbon and lift the lid of the box. Inside, resting on some tissue paper, is a framed black-and-white photograph of me doing a half-angel. The rest of the class are in it, too, but they’re out of focus. Only I am clear. The lines of my body are tight, my hair hanging down.
I look at it in awe, unable to speak.
‘Please tell me you like it,’ Samira says.
I turn to Samira and embrace her like it’s the last time I’m going to see her. When we break apart, I see that she too is emotional.
‘OK, you like it.’ She brushes her forehead and says, ‘Phew,’ then she wipes away the tears spilling from her eyes.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.
‘So beautiful,’ says Inez, coming to a stop beside Kat.
‘Wicked,’ says Kat, lifting it up.
Maggie joins us, her eyes switching between the frame and me. ‘This is you.’
I nod. ‘I know, I find it hard to believe, too. My friend Samira took it.’
Maggie analyses Samira, who is still swimming in pride – she knows I’m floored.
‘Co
uld you take photos of us? Make it look like we know what we’re doing?’ Maggie asks.
Samira laughs. ‘I would love to.’
A few minutes later, I am preparing to walk Samira out when Kat calls out, ‘Give her some tarts.’
‘Want some treats?’ I say.
Samira grins. ‘Like that’s even a question.’
I package up some caramel and fruit tarts then lead her out.
When we reach her car, Samira places the box inside then turns to face me, taking my hands in hers. ‘Sahar, are you in love with Luke?’
I look away. ‘I don’t know. Luke is different. It doesn’t feel the same with him as how I felt with Naeem. What I had with Naeem was real, but … it was a connection I had no say in. With Luke, I had a say in it.’
Samira ponders this. ‘You should tell Luke how you feel. It can’t get worse, right?’
‘Of course it can. We work together. But when he’s not there, it’s never the same.’
‘I understand.’
I think she does. Or wants to, which is the same thing.
‘I love you so much, Samira.’
‘Stop it. No one is dying here.’
But I can see that we’re both drowning in some emotion we didn’t realise was there.
Samira pulls me close. ‘I hate what you went through, Sahar, but I’m so glad you came back. It’s not as lonely, you know?’
‘I know. I’m glad too.’
Samira swoops into her car before we can dissolve into another round of shared tears. I wave as she drives off, then head back into the kitchen.
Maggie makes a beeline for me. ‘I wasn’t kidding about your friend. Can you get her in to take photos of us? I think we’ve got our team.’
‘Of course.’
But as I look around me, I know we don’t. Luke is not here, and our team is incomplete.
After work, I make my way to Luke’s apartment. I am uncertain about what I will say to him, assuming he’s even home, and that he’s alone. This is not my final step to liberation or a happy ending. It’s a necessary step I have to take, because he is a gap I had not anticipated, but one I don’t wish to fill with something or someone else. I have a right to this – to getting to know someone on my terms – without needing it to mean something before it can show me what it wants to be.
I press the buzzer and wait, a box of my tarot chocolates in hand. There are brushstrokes of orange in the sunset sky, and I wonder how, even when the worst things happen, so much remains beautiful.
‘Yep,’ Luke’s voice comes through the intercom.
‘It’s me. Sahar.’
After a pause, the door buzzes open, and I take a nervy ride in the lift up to Luke’s floor. When I arrive, he’s at the door, waiting for me.
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
He stares back at me, and I think he is going to turn me away. But then he shrugs and steps aside, indicating for me to enter.
I walk inside.
Luke brushes past me and heads to the kitchen, where a pot boils away on the stove. As usual, music is filling the space, but Luke turns it down then returns to the kitchen bench.
‘I was hoping you’d be home,’ I begin nervously. ‘I want to apologise. And to explain. If you’ll let me.’
Luke stays focused on his food preparation. He chops into carrots, the sound dull and sharp.
I am uncomfortable, ready to flee, but I force out the words. ‘I’m not going to make excuses or try to change the story. I know I messed up. And I am so deeply sorry.’
Luke’s focus is still heavily on the vegetables.
‘I wasn’t trying to hurt you. But I was a mess, and I needed to sort things out.’
As Luke chops away, I lose patience.
‘Will you at least listen to me?’
He lets out a sigh and abandons his knife. ‘You’re sorry, you feel better, we’re all good.’
‘You slept with your ex!’
‘You went to Leo!’
There’s silence as we both take in each other’s words.
‘There’s nothing between me and Leo,’ I say carefully.
Luke shakes his head. ‘I told you I would be there if you needed me. Instead you slept with me, snuck out, then went to Leo.’
Technically, all true. In facts, however, not essence. Regardless, it doesn’t sound very good.
‘Luke, I didn’t want to involve you. All Leo did was give me a safe space to talk to my ex-husband.’
And, well, he helped me get a tattoo, but this is hardly the time to mention that.
Luke abandons the food. He places his hands against the bench, looking genuinely upset. ‘I was already involved, Sahar. We slept together. I was just trying to catch my breath.’
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to hurt you so—’
‘So you went and decided for me.’
‘It was easy to go to Leo. He’s a friend. You’re not.’
Luke can’t look at me.
‘Luke.’
He remains silent.
‘That’s all?’
‘By the way, I didn’t sleep with Bianca. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to her.’
‘You were at the bar together.’
‘We both had things to say.’
The revelation should make me feel better, but knowing he’s unattached and still rejecting me is much worse.
‘I’m back at work tomorrow,’ he says. ‘It’ll be weird for a while, but eventually, it will go back to normal. It’s no big deal.’
Luke’s dismissal splits me open. My time with him was ephemeral. Intimate in ways beyond the physical. As I contemplate the rigidity in his body, I realise that he is more fully formed in my eyes than Khaled and even Naeem. He has greater dimension. With him, I got to try out how it feels to build a connection, not simply get handed one. In some ways, I already knew him before we became intimate. Naeem was a genuine, inexplicable connection, but one that had nowhere to go. I have landed in the place I was taught to avoid my whole life; the place our mothers warned us about when it comes to men and their gaze. In all of the lessons on how to behave, we were never taught to examine the emotional outcome.
I try to orientate myself, my face aflame. Then I remember the box of my Major Arcana chocolates, and place it on the counter. ‘I hope you like them.’
I start to walk away, then stop and turn around, but Luke is back to his work.
‘You know, it was a big deal to me, Luke,’ I say quietly, my voice steady. ‘I have only ever been with one other person. And I felt more connected to you in a few months than I did in eight years with him.’
Overcome by emotion, I turn around and continue walking towards the door. I’m halfway across the room when I feel a hand on my shoulder and I stop. I’m shaking as I turn around to face Luke, who pulls me towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He meets my gaze, cups my face in his hands, using his thumb to rub my cheek. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeats, his mouth searching for mine. ‘I have so much to learn.’
Chapter 33
I don’t always know how the pieces come to fit together, only that when you’re in the right place, eventually they must.
The following day, Luke is at my apartment. We spent the previous night together – an evening talking, reviving our connection.
In my small living room, Luke holds up a frame and inspects it. ‘Your folks?’
It’s a series of black-and-white photos of my parents in their youth, smiling because life was yet to fill them up with ideas and ambiguities.
‘Yes. Before they got super religious.’
Luke studies it, and I watch him. He lingers. ‘It must be hard with them both gone.’
‘It is. I kind of feel like I said goodbye to them on bad terms.’
‘You had a fight?’
‘No. We were just … disconnected. I don’t think we ever understood each other.’
‘They were your parents. Join the club.’
Luke repla
ces the frame, which takes central place on the multi-coloured runner spread out on my small wooden buffet. I found it at a furniture shop one afternoon after work. It’s light brown, worn out in a few places, but also full of character. It carries silent histories.
Luke continues along the shelf. Next, a family photo taken in Palestine when I was eight or nine. We’re neatly positioned in front of a backdrop of a painted rainforest.
Luke smiles. ‘Cute.’
Then, a photo of Salim and Naila on their wedding day, both of them looking content, almost relieved. Beside that a compilation of photos of their children from a few years ago. I still owe them their special cakes.
I wrap my arms around Luke from behind. I’m excited to share this with him. I have never collected visible memories, but I’ve always noticed it in other people’s spaces. This table, packed with the people I love, is proof of my fullness.
Luke has moved on to the photos of my girls: Lara and Samira, taken on the morning of Lara’s wedding. I wrestled with which one to frame. I almost chose one where Lara was dolled up as a dreamy bride, her hair long with a slight wave, but I liked this one, taken by Inez. We’re assembled in the kitchen, a pot of Arabic coffee in the centre of the table, all three of us happy but unkempt and yet to be made up. The real us.
‘This one definitely brings out your natural glow,’ Luke jokes, and I mock-smack him on the arm. He laughs then moves on to a photo of the three of us from our university years.
‘Oh crap, no,’ I say, but Luke has raised the frame too high for me to reach it.
‘You’ve got it on display,’ he protests.
‘I need to ease you in with that one!’
Luke lowers the photo to examine it properly. He scrunches his eyes, bringing the image closer. ‘This can’t be you,’ he says.
‘I was a late bloomer.’
Luke gives me a strange look. ‘I’m not insulting you. I genuinely can’t believe this is you.’
I shrug. ‘I look different.’ The girl in that photo feels like a phantom limb. I can never really shake her, no matter how irrelevant she is to the person I have become.