I glance around to make sure I’m alone.
“Yes, Daddo, it’s me, Bilal.”
Another beat of silence. “What time is it there?”
I sigh. “It’s one o’clock, Daddo. How is your health?”
I can’t just ask to speak to my father right away, or else she’ll think something is wrong.
But my grandmother’s curiosity behind my call is so strong that she doesn’t even answer my question about her health—no complaints about her knees or a headache or anything like that. I think she knows that until I talk to Baba, she won’t find out why I’m calling.
“I’m putting your father on the phone.”
“Bilal?” Baba sounds worried. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school? Are you sick?”
I peek around the corner. “No, I’m not sick at all. In fact, I have some good news—it’s baseball news!”
I hope he doesn’t notice I ignored his first question.
Baba lets out a breath that sounds like relief. “What is your news, Bilal?”
A red kickball rolls past and stops at the opening between the trailers. I press myself against the wall as a kid stoops to pick it up. She doesn’t even glance my way. Still, I keep my voice low, which is hard when I feel like shouting from the rooftop, as Mr. Jacobs would say.
“My team is playing an exhibition game at Nationals Park, where the Washington Nationals baseball team plays. And guess who’s going to be there? Omar Khan! Not playing, though—he’ll be watching. And it’s in six weeks and you have to come. You can’t miss it, Baba!”
Baba laughs, and I can imagine him holding up his hands in surrender. “That is wonderful news, Bilal. I remember Omar as a good man and an excellent cricketer.”
“So you’ll be here by then?”
“Actually, I have some news of my own.”
My heart sinks to my knees. More delays. I grip the phone, willing my voice to not sound sad when he says he can’t come.
“I’ll be there next week, Bilal—in eight days, actually.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“Bilal?”
I find my voice. “Baba, you’re coming? Here? Next week?”
“Eight more days. On Pakistan Day.” He laughs, and my heart soars. I want to laugh and cry at the same time, but I am supposed to be hiding Ammi’s phone and the fact that I am calling Pakistan all the way from Virginia.
“I will bring your cricket bat. You must be missing it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need it here, Baba. No one plays.”
“We will play together when I get there. I promise.”
Talking about my cricket bat makes me think of my old team. “What happened to Mudassar’s father, Baba?”
Baba takes a breath before he answers. “He is under investigation now.”
“Does that mean he’s in trouble?”
“Not yet. But my name has been cleared, and I am now free to leave, praise to Allah.”
I want to ask Baba if I can finally talk to Mudassar, but I am almost sure the answer is no. I will ask Baba once he is here. I still cannot believe that I will see him. Eight more days!
“Let me speak to your mother, Bilal. You can put me on speakerphone, and we’ll tell her together.”
Uh-oh.
“Bilal? Are you still there?”
I swallow. “Yes, Baba. I’m still here. But Ammi is . . . not here.”
“Well, when she gets home, tell her we’ll Skype this weekend. I wanted to tell you all then so I could see your faces. But when I heard your voice, Bilal, I could not keep it a secret.”
Another ball rolls by, this time a basketball. Followed by Mr. Jacobs.
“Bilal?” Mr. Jacobs scoops up the ball. “Who are you talking to back here?”
I freeze.
“Bilal?” Baba’s voice calls in my other ear. “Are you still there?”
Mr. Jacobs tucks the basketball under one arm and waits. He doesn’t look mad, just curious.
“Um, I have to go, Baba. I will tell everyone this is a Skype weekend.”
And I have the feeling I will also have to tell Mr. Jacobs what I am doing on my mother’s cell phone during recess. Even so, I cannot stop grinning.
“Can you keep our secret, Bilal jaan? I want them to be surprised.”
I think of what my mother would do if she knew I was calling Baba from school.
“Yes, Baba. I will keep our secret.”
Baba calls us on Skype as promised, and his announcement is met with tears of joy, jumping, and hugging. Humza smiles and claps at our happy faces, then goes back to pushing his dump truck and making vroom noises. The rest of us all talk over one another—my mother and Auntie praise Allah, Uncle wipes a tear from his eye with his knuckle, and Jalaal fistbumps with me. Hira even hugs the computer screen. Once everyone quiets down again, Baba wipes his eye and sighs. “Bilal did an excellent job of keeping our secret.”
Ammi’s eyebrow lifts. “Secret?”
She turns to me. “You knew your father was coming?”
All I can do is force a laugh.
“How did you know?”
I wish I could say Baba wrote it in one of his letters, but I can’t say a lie right in front of him.
Baba chuckles. “Bilal surprised me with a phone call the other day.”
Everyone swivels around to look at me.
“We talked a few days ago, when he called to tell me about his baseball news.”
My mother narrows her eyes. “Which day was that?”
No, no, no.
Baba shrugs. “It was, what, Bilal? Monday? Around ten o’clock in the evening my time.”
“Oh, really?” I can see when my mother figures out the math. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.
I sigh. When Mr. Jacobs caught me talking on the cell phone at school, he just told me to put it away—I didn’t even get in trouble. I know I won’t be as lucky with Ammi. She might be mad about the phone call, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
Baba is coming home.
Twenty-four
The house is decorated with Welcome to America signs in Urdu, except for Hira’s sign, which reads Welcome Home! in English. Of course.
“Baba knows English already.” Hira draws a figure of a smiling girl, arms open wide.
But this isn’t really his home. I wonder where we’ll live when Baba gets here. Hopefully somewhere close by. Wherever we end up, it will finally feel like home with Baba here.
Baba’s plane is supposed to land at 3:40 this afternoon, but we head to the airport extra early in case there’s traffic. Auntie and Jalaal stay home because we need to leave room in the van for Baba and his suitcases. Who knows how many he’ll have? He promised to bring my cricket bat, and I’ve already got a place picked out to hang it, right above my desk.
I am surprised by Dulles Airport’s towering concrete columns soaring skyward in front of a glass wall, topped with a roof that curves toward the clouds. When we arrived here nearly nine months ago, I never noticed any of these things; I only noticed what wasn’t there: Baba.
Uncle finds a parking place right away. I climb out of the van, careful to not crease the signs we made. Hira scrambles out after me, gripping the strings of the brightly colored helium balloons that bob in the breeze.
“How much longer?” Hira asks, skipping ahead.
“Stay beside me, Hira,” my mother cautions, pushing Humza in his stroller.
Uncle checks his phone. “He should land in about fortyfive minutes.”
“But he still has to claim his luggage and go through customs.” My mother takes Hira’s non-balloon-holding hand. “We’ll have to be patient just a little while longer.”
I have been patient. For almost nine months. It’s a good thing Baba is coming now, because after today I have no patience left. At least not the waiting-for-Baba kind of patience.
We enter through the sliding glass doors, go up the ramp, and pass under a sign that reads International A
rrivals.
Scanning the rows of plastic seats, I spot a few empty ones, but I’m too jumpy to sit. Instead I join the crowd at the rope separating us from the passengers emerging through swinging double doors. Other people brought balloons, and some hold flowers, but no one has signs like Hira and I made. I unroll mine to make sure it’ll be right side up when Baba sees it.
A crowd streams through the double doors, most speaking a language I don’t recognize. I glance back at my mother, who shakes her head and mouths, “Next flight.”
It seems like forever has passed when Hira comes up and leans against me. “Is Baba’s plane next?” she asks. I put my arm around her and nod.
“He is going to love your sign.” I smile at the crayon-drawn letters.
The double doors pop open, and people in airline uniforms stream out, pulling suitcases on wheels. I recognize the Qatar Airways uniforms from our flight to America last year.
“Hira! He’s coming!”
We hold up our signs, careful not to crinkle the paper.
Each time the doors swing open, I stand on my tiptoes to see if it’s Baba. I don’t know why I do this since we’re right up front, but being a few toes taller might make it easier for Baba to spot us as soon as he comes through the doors.
Some people speak Urdu, some Arabic, and some English, but not one of them is Baba. The crowd thins as people wave, hug, and then leave together. Hira’s sign is half on the ground, and I remind her to not let it drag on the floor, to be ready for Baba.
The double doors open less and less often, until finally they stay closed altogether.
I turn to where my mother sits with Uncle. He’s on the phone, stopping every once in a while to say something to Ammi. Finally he gets up, slides his phone into his jacket pocket, and strides over to the information desk.
My mother looks so alone, even though Humza is with her, asleep in his stroller. Why does Baba have to be the last one off the plane? I want to join her, but when Baba comes through the doors, I want him to see my sign.
“Hira, why don’t you go and sit with Ammi? I’ll call you over when he comes.”
She frowns and hands me her sign. “When you see him, hold up my sign, too, okay? Then I’ll come right over and hold it up myself.”
I nod and take the sign from her hands, the drawing of the happy girl with her arms open wide smiling up at me. Near the top, where Hira had been gripping the poster, the paper is wrinkled and damp.
I stand with the signs for what seems like another forever, and the doors finally open again. My chest fills with hope, and I lift my sign right along with Hira’s. But this time people with different uniforms burst through the doors—a different airline. Not Baba’s.
I feel my mother’s hand on my shoulder, and I turn.
“When is Baba coming?”
My mother doesn’t even try to smile. “He wasn’t on the flight for some reason.”
Uncle joins us, holding Hira’s hand. “Today is Pakistan Day, and you know how traffic is on a holiday. He may have missed his flight. He’s probably on the next one.” But Uncle doesn’t sound hopeful.
There is no way Baba would have missed that flight—Pakistan Day or not. He knew there would be traffic, so he would have left extra early.
Uncle squeezes my mother’s hand. “Don’t worry,Baji. I’m going to take you all home, and then come back and see what I can learn. Perhaps his connecting flight changed and he’s coming in on a different airline.”
By this time Humza is awake and yells to be let out of his stroller. I give him one of the balloons, and he quiets down again.
I look from my mother to my uncle. “I want to come with you.” They shake their heads.
“You have school tomorrow, Bilal.” Ammi puts her arm around my shoulders.
Uncle nods. “I may be late. But I will keep everyone posted.”
On the way home I hold my rolled-up sign on my lap. Maybe Uncle could bring our signs with him when he returns to the airport. But when I ask him, he says we should hang the signs at home, where my father will see them right when he walks in the door. The balloons dip and rise between Hira and me, like they’re trying to cheer us up. It’s not working.
My mother or uncle must have already texted Auntie, because when we get home, she greets me with a hug. The house smells like a feast, but the feast will have to wait. I put up our signs with magnets right on the front door, so Baba will see them when he drives up later with Uncle.
But Uncle doesn’t come back until way after I’m in bed.
Above me, headlights spread across the ceiling. I throw off the covers and race downstairs. Uncle comes through the door, carrying the signs. He does not bring Baba.
When Uncle sees me, his frown turns to a smile, but his eyes still look worried.
My mother’s footsteps pad quickly into the foyer. “Anything?”
Auntie calls from the kitchen: “Hassan?”Then she joins us in the foyer.
Uncle glances at them, then looks at me. “He’ll need to rebook his flight, of course.”
My mother stares at her brother, like she’s trying to read his mind or send him a message through her thoughts. She nods. “Of course.”
Uncle rolls up the signs, hiding Hira’s and my pictures and words. He pats my shoulder. “It’s late. Time for bed, Bilal.”
They start down the hallway toward the kitchen, leaving me at the bottom of the stairs. But I do not move. I do not go upstairs like I am supposed to.
Ammi pauses, turning. “Bilal?”
Uncle and Auntie turn then, too, waiting.
We are always waiting. Waiting for Baba. Waiting for Baba who isn’t coming this time.
“It’s time for bed, Bilal jaan.” Ammi’s voice sounds tired.
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut to keep any tears from leaking out. When I open my eyes, there are our welcome posters tucked under Uncle’s arm, which is not where they should be at all. I grab the posters, and Uncle takes a step back in surprise.
Ammi gasps. “Bilal!” but I don’t care if I’m in trouble for being disrespectful.
I yank open the front door and find the magnets still clinging to the metal. Tucking my poster under my arm, I unroll Hira’s poster, grab some magnets, and slam them onto her drawing. It’s not working—the ends are too curled from being rolled up—and the heavy poster board spits the magnets back onto the floor.
My tears are coming even though I don’t want them to and now Hira’s drawing is a blur of her smiling self with her empty arms open wide and I need more magnets. I pin her poster with one hand and bend to scoop up the fallen magnets, but her poster starts to slip.
Then Uncle’s hands are there on the poster, holding it steady. Auntie holds magnets for me to pluck from her hand. Ammi slips my poster from under my arm and rolls it the opposite way so it won’t curl. We work in silence until the posters are back in place and my breathing starts to slow back down to normal.
We stand together underneath the porch light, looking at the posters, back where they should be. Waiting for Baba.
Twenty-five
It takes another two days before our call finally gets through to Karachi. Daddo explains that they wouldn’t let Baba leave because he didn’t have all the right stamps and signatures on his papers. They made him stay at the airport to answer all their questions before they would let him make any phone calls or go back home. Daddo says this is all Mudassar’s father’s doing. Baba says that Daddo is right.
“He is a powerful man in this city, with many friends who owe him favors.” Baba sighs. “But I will find a way.”
“Can’t we go back home?” I ask.
But Ammi only shakes her head and leaves the room.
I never thought I would be thankful for baseball, but I am. I have no baseball memories with Baba; when I’m out on the field, it is easy to go for an hour or more without thinking of him. I used to try to imagine Baba there in the stands, cheering me on, but lately his face is fading more and more in
my mind.
At baseball practice, all anyone can talk about is qualifying for the semi-finals at Nats Park. With each win, the Cardinals get closer to the exhibition game, closer to playing under the big lights, as Coach Matt says.
I don’t even care about winning that game anymore. My pitching has gotten better and better, but I’m still nowhere near as good as Jordan. For the big game it will be Jordan out there on the mound, and I’ll be sitting in the dugout.
Jack can’t stop talking about the game. “My dad works on the Hill, so he’s got special tickets for the game, right up front with the VIPs.” Jack nods like he’s the one who went out and got the special tickets. “It’s all about who you know.”
I don’t know what hill he’s talking about until Akash whispers, “Jack’s always going on about his dad and Capitol Hill and how important he is in the government, blah, blah, blah.” Akash rolls his eyes. “That’s how it is with politicians—they’re always doing favors for each other, pulling strings.”
I still can’t think of Omar Khan as a politician. To me, he’s still the world’s best cricket player. I would give anything to meet him. Maybe I should care if our team wins, because if we do, then we get to shake hands with the VIPs. I’ll bring a Sharpie pen and ask Omar Khan to autograph my arm and then never wash it again.
The Cardinals make it to the semi-final game, and Coach Pablo says we haven’t had a season like this ever. My teammates whoop and clap as we board the bus for Nats Park.
“All right, folks,” Coach Matt says after we’ve taken our seats. “Let’s bring the volume down a notch and focus on the game ahead. Remember, the outcome doesn’t matter—as long as you try your best.”
Which we all know is a lie. Winning does matter. To the Cardinals, and now to me if it means I’ll get to meet Omar Khan. Jordan sits three seats in front of me—alone, of course. I wonder if she’s nervous. Probably not.
Our bus drives past the main entrance to the park, where people stream into the gate under a red sign that reads Nationals Park Center Field Gate. Shiny, silver baseballs as big as me line the top of the wall along the street. I see a distorted reflection of our bus in the underside of each giant silver baseball as we move through traffic and turn a corner. This side of the stadium isn’t fancy like the front—it looks more like an office building or apartments. We get off the bus and walk through a black gate, the one Akash says the players use. I wonder if this is the gate that Omar Khan will walk through.
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