‘Oh,’ replied Bubblee.
‘He’ll be okay,’ added Fatti. ‘You’ll see. He’ll be just fine.’
Unlike Fatti’s eating habits, her voice is kind of even. Some might say it’s monotone – they’re people who have a problem with consistency – but right then her voice had a note of panic.
‘Why are you being so weird?’ I asked her later when she got up to use the bathroom.
‘Am I? No, I’m not.’
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Your face,’ I replied, laughing.
She sighed. ‘You should go and sit with Farah.’
‘And say what? Sorry your husband’s in a coma?’
‘Mae.’
Fatti closed her eyes and splashed her face with some water. The problem with Fatti is that she’s a worrier. Every little thing will have her crease her eyebrows, look from side to side and probably throw up.
‘Poor Farah,’ she said, under her breath. ‘She doesn’t deserve this,’ she added, looking at me.
‘You’re telling me.’
‘And Mustafa. Lying there with all those wires going through him, not having a clue that his wife’s crying her eyes out.’
I squirted some disinfectant soap and rubbed it into my hands.
‘He’s too nice to be in a coma,’ she added.
‘Yeah, well, it’d be great if only murderers and rapists got put in comas, but I don’t think that’s how it works.’
She paused, leaning against the sink. ‘Did you finish your history homework?’
‘Not exactly top of my list of priorities right now,’ I said.
‘You’ve had all week. You’ve got subjects other than media and English, Mae.’
‘Have I?’ I said, leaning forward in shock as if I’d just found this out. I leaned back and rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t know how I’d keep up if it wasn’t for you.’
Fatti dragged me by the arm as we came out of the bathroom and sat me down in the waiting room.
‘My poor daughter,’ said Mum. ‘My poor sister.’
I glanced at Fatti as Bubblee walked into the room. ‘Has anyone called Mustafa’s mum to let her know?’
We all looked at each other. No-one had enough of their head about them to actually call Mustafa’s mum in Bangladesh.
‘She won’t forgive me,’ said Mum.
Bubblee sighed and got her phone out. ‘You didn’t drive into him, Amma. What’s her number?’
‘No, no. I’ll call her myself.’
With which Mum got her special calling card out and left the room. Dad got up a few moments later and followed her out of the room.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Bubblee. ‘Her sister’s son is married to her daughter and they still only speak to each other once every few months.’
‘Weird, for sure,’ I mumbled, scrolling through Twitter, reading all the messages I was getting about Mustafa.
Bubblee nudged me and looked over at Fatti who was wringing her hands. She’s mostly like a human but also a bit like a puppy – especially when she looks up at you like she did just then.
‘I don’t want Farah to be unhappy,’ she said.
Er, obviously.
‘Then you’d better stop looking like someone’s about to die,’ said Bubblee. ‘Because that’s the last thing Farah needs.’
*
We all came home that night – Bubblee volunteered to go home with Farah so she wouldn’t be sleeping alone. Mum, Dad, Fatti and I went to bed but when I got to my room and put my hand in my jeans pocket I realised I’d forgotten my phone, recording and propped up against the bread-bin in the kitchen. Walking past Mum and Dad’s bedroom, I heard them muttering. I’d have just walked past but something made me lean in and listen.
‘Did you see how short she’d cut her beautiful, long hair?’ I heard Mum say to Dad from outside their bedroom.
Amazing, isn’t it? Their son-in-law’s done in and in a coma, and Mum wanted to chat about Bubblee’s hair.
‘I spoke to Mrs Bhatchariya about boys for her. She said she’d send me some details, but you know what I think. We shouldn’t have let her go to London,’ added Mum.
‘Why couldn’t she be like our Faru?’ said Dad.
I was surprised they didn’t say Fatti. Nothing Fatti does is ever wrong. Speaking of the expanding devil, she came up the stairs and saw me crouching outside Mum and Dad’s door.
‘What are you doing there?’ she whispered, crouching with me.
‘Shh. I thought you’d gone to bed.’
‘Is that Mum crying?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘Do you think Dad’s comforting her?’ she asked.
I let out a stifled laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’
Fatti began shifting on each leg until she couldn’t take it any more and sat back, leaning against the wall.
‘Why do you think that’s weird?’ she asked. ‘They’re always chatting in that room.’
‘Are they?’ I asked.
‘You might notice if you weren’t on your phone all the time.’
‘I only know what I need to know, thanks,’ I replied.
Fatti shook her head at me.
‘You think he’s going to be okay?’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Mustafa.’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Hope so.’
‘What if he’s not, though?’ Fatti looked at me, fear in her eyes. ‘What if he … dies?’ Tears welled and were in danger of rolling down her cheeks.
‘You always think the worst’s going to happen.’
Fatti looked like she was about to say something when we heard Dad speak.
‘Malik is getting on a flight and coming as soon as possible.’
Our aunt and uncle are too old to travel and so their third eldest is coming instead.
‘Maybe this is why it’s all happened,’ said Mum. ‘Malik will come and then …’
Fatti struggled off the ground, interrupting my eavesdropping with her deep breaths and suppressed sighing.
‘Do you think Bubblee and Farah are okay on their own in Farah’s house? Maybe I should’ve stayed with her instead?’ she said as she hovered over me.
‘They’ll be fine. It’s not like they’ll kill each other – not while Farah’s husband’s in hospital,’ I replied.
‘You shouldn’t be eavesdropping,’ said Fatti, putting both hands on her hips.
I shooed her away. She was killing my buzz as I continued to listen in to my parents’ room, so she plodded away.
‘But is it the right time?’ said Mum.
Right time for what? I leaned in closer as they both went quiet. Then Dad spoke.
‘It doesn’t matter that he’s coming. Mustafa is here and you never worry about it.’
‘Mustafa is different. He’s the same as us now,’ said Mum. ‘Maybe Malik will also be like us one day. It will be the answer to our prayers and then we could tell her.’
‘We’ve waited very long,’ said Dad.
What were they talking about? Annoying Fatti who made me miss half the conversation with her anti-eavesdropping morals. Before I knew it, Mum and Dad began talking about shopping that was needed and how Farah should stay with us while Mustafa’s in hospital. Then I heard the creaking of the bunk as they both seemed to get ready to sleep.
I went downstairs to get my phone and switched off the recording. Before I deleted it I thought I might as well check what it had caught and, sure as anything, there was Fatti, stuffing her gob with mashed prawns and cream cheese.
*
‘Has someone tried to call Jay?’ asked Bubblee. ‘Farah’ll want him to know.’
I looked at Fatti. Fatti looked at me. It hadn’t occurred to any of us that he should be told, given that he never knows what’s going on in the family anyway. Mum and Dad were walking down the hospital corridor where we’d congregated. Farah was in Mustafa’s room. Whe
n we asked them, Dad said: ‘No, no. Better to keep him out of it for now.’
‘He’ll just worry,’ said Mum. ‘Such a busy boy, trying to make something of himself.’
Bubblee scoffed as she folded her arms. Mum looked at her and raised her finger, while Dad mumbled something about needing some tea. It’s not as if Bubblee actually said anything, but God forbid anyone even suggest that Jay’s a waste. Which, as the youngest, I can appreciate without feeling too bothered about it. Bubblee’s bothered about everything, though. It’s just who she is.
‘Your amma is already worried enough. Don’t worry her more,’ said Dad to Bubblee. ‘And she isn’t wrong.’ He looked towards Mum who was staring at him. ‘You’re getting old and must think about getting married. Look at Mustafa and think how things can turn out.’
It’s not like he raised his voice or anything, but it was a bit off-topic.
Even in the middle of a hospital Asian parents have to speak about marriage. #Obsessed #Marriage #Coma.
Bubblee went to protest but Fatti nudged her as Mum looked at her.
‘Our son is trying to be a man,’ she said. ‘You should try to be a woman.’
Dad looked at the ground and followed Mum as they both walked away, leaving Bubblee, basically bubbling with anger. Who can blame her? I mean, bit harsh telling her that the only way she’s a woman is if she gets married. Plus, what did that make Fatti, who’d turned a shade of red too when Mum said that. Our amma needs to get with the programme. Can’t fight these oldies though, they’re stuck in their ways. Shame, really. Mum’s all right when she’s chilled out and not worrying about the fact that Farah’s not had a baby, the rice has run out or that Bubblee’s not married. She’s even interesting when you listen to the stories she tells about her childhood.
‘Unbelievable,’ Bubblee exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. The nurse behind the desk shot us a look. ‘Our brother-in-law’s in a coma and all Mum can think about is me getting married.’
I think it was a good idea to have a hidden camera running – you have to love media equipment. This would’ve been the time I’d have had to switch it off otherwise. Fatti fidgeted with her hands. I put my arm around Bubblee.
‘You’re twenty-eight, Bangladeshi and single. What else are they going to think about?’
Bubblee looked at me as if she was about to tell me to go to my room, before glancing at Fatti.
‘I don’t understand why they’re not on your back,’ she said to Fatti, shrugging my arm off her shoulder. ‘You’re two years older then me.’
‘Mae, go check if Mum’s okay,’ said Fatti to me.
‘You check,’ I replied.
She gave me her fairy godmother look so of course I had to listen. I swear, being the youngest in the family sucks.
‘All right, Ma?’ I said, slouching in the seat next to Mum and resting my arm on her shoulder.
‘Mae – sit like a girl.’
‘Oops, sorry,’ I said, putting my hands in the air before crossing my ankles. I pointed at them to show Mum how careful I was with her instruction. She ignored me. I tell you, it takes some kind of resilience to put up with this stuff.
‘So, er, Jay,’ I said.
‘Tst, Jahangeer,’ pronounced Mum. ‘We give him this beautiful name and you spoil it.’
Talk about touchy.
‘He’s the one who prefers it,’ I replied. ‘He hates his name. Jahangeer. Jahangeeeeeer,’ I said, spreading my arms out in dramatic Bollywood fashion. I sat back after Mum slapped my leg. ‘I mean, who can blame him?’
She chose to ignore this before she said: ‘Go and see where your abba is.’
‘But I want to talk to you, Amma.’ I gripped her shoulders and shook them. ‘See how you’re feeling, talk about what’s going on in here,’ I added, patting her bony chest.
She didn’t brush my arm off, so that was something. Mum stared at the wall in front of us that had disaster warnings of AIDS and Meningitis and all the diseases under the Wyvernage sky.
‘You girls don’t understand the struggles we’ve gone through.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘You know how easy your life is?’
I wanted to say easy’s not the word I’d use, but best not to rattle cages in hospitals and all that. Mum turned to me, her eyes softening. If I could’ve angled my video camera right then I’d have focused on those eyes.
‘You were such a good baby.’
This had me straighten up in my chair with pride.
‘And then you started speaking,’ she added. ‘Every time I would tell you to be quiet, Fatti would take you and talk to you.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell her I brought some of her cheese for her.’
She rummaged in her handbag to look for it, found it and put it carefully in one of the bag’s pockets.
‘Now check if your abba is fine,’ she said finally.
‘All right then. Good talk, Mum.’
I lifted myself off the chair and went in search of Dad who was standing in front of the vending machine, looking a little hard done by.
‘Every time,’ he said. ‘You put in money and nothing comes out.’
I nudged him out of the way and grabbed both sides of the vending machine, shaking it. That didn’t work so I bent down and shoved my arm up to get hold of his packet of Maltesers that had got stuck between the Bounty and M&Ms. It was too far up for me to reach. I saw him shaking his head at me. With one last try I flung myself at the machine, hitting it with my arm, and out fell the Maltesers.
‘You’re welcome, Pops,’ I said, handing him his packet of e-numbers.
He looked at the packet, turning it around in his hands. ‘You know, sometimes your amma is a little harsh.’
‘No kidding,’ I said.
‘But it’s only because she wants the best for you girls,’ he added, shaking his Maltesers at me.
He handed them to me and said: ‘Now go and give these to Faru.’
I sighed and walked down the quiet, grey corridor, cleaning my hands at one of the hand sanitisers attached to the walls. Farah was sitting on the green leather chair, next to Mustafa’s bed, staring at him.
‘Hey,’ I said, looking around for Bubblee and Fatti.
I opened the packet of Maltesers and handed them to her. She put them on her lap.
‘How’re you doing?’ I asked.
She nodded. What did that mean?
‘You’ve got to hope for the best,’ I said, looking at Mustafa.
I wanted to prod him, just to see what reaction, if any, I’d get from him: would he twitch? Give a deeper intake of breath? Just stay motionless? But I don’t think Farah would’ve been too happy about that. I’d have been accused of not taking anything seriously. It’s just that, granted he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t exactly alive either, was he? It was kind of fascinating – all of us watching a man in limbo.
‘Jay’s the one who calls himself Jay, isn’t it?’ I said.
She looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Mum goes on at us as if we’re the ones who’ve spoilt his name.’
She looked at me like: What the hell are you talking about? ‘Has he called?’
‘No, I mean he doesn’t like being called Jahangeer, does he?’
She looked at me, confused, but I was just trying to make conversation that didn’t have to do with Mustafa.
‘Mae – go and see if Mum and Dad are okay.’
You’ve got to wonder, don’t you? Who’s making sure I’m okay? So I took out my phone and decided to check my Twitter account – and what do you know? I got thirty-two new followers.
CHAPTER SIX
Fatima
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Was it my fault? I looked up at the sky, in case I got a sign whether it was or not. Did I give my sister the evil eye? It’s not as if I wanted to marry her husband – just that, what would it be like to come home to someone who loves you? What’s worse is that I can never stop my tears from falling and everyone loo
ks at me like I’m this pathetic person. How do you make yourself disappear? So you can feel what you feel without worrying about what other people see?
When we got home after the second day at the hospital Mum and Dad insisted that Farah come and stay with us – we’d all be together under one house, just like old times.
‘Apart from Jay,’ said Mae without looking up from her phone.
‘Look at this,’ said Bubblee, picking up the local newspaper. ‘Front page news.’
She skimmed through it and dropped it on the table. Mae went to read the article.
‘Car accident leaves old lady’s prize-winning poodle in need of veterinary care.’ Mae laughed. ‘The victim …’ She looked up. ‘… That’d be our bro-in-law – is in a coma. He is thought to be in a critical but stable condition.’
‘This place,’ said Bubblee, shaking her head. ‘A poodle’s disturbed and it’s front-page news.’
‘Marnie was complaining about the traffic on Bingham Road because of the branch that fell from the tree,’ added Dad.
‘That’s Mrs Lemington,’ I said. ‘She loves her dog. We should probably send her something.’
Farah stared at the page and didn’t say anything.
‘Animals matter more than humans here.’ Mum shook her head as she went straight into the kitchen and I followed her to help prepare dinner for everyone. Bubblee loomed in the doorway.
‘This is just typical.’
How does she manage to fill a room like that without being fat? I always seem to fill it in the wrong way – not knowing where to put myself – where to shift or pause. But not Bubblee. She enters a room and people have to look. You can’t not look at beauty: her brown hair, chopped and cut messily; her big eyes darting between Mum and Dad; rose-bud mouth pursed in her usual annoyed way. All this and living her independent life in London, not being tied to what people tell her; knowing what she wants and then just going out to get it. It’s almost as if she knows she has a right to it. Or at least a right to try. I suppose everyone has that right, but how do some people just feel it? I’m told she and I have the same eyes, but I don’t see it. I see nothing of myself in any of my sisters.
‘When was the last time Dad entered the kitchen?’ Bubblee added, putting down her patchwork bag that bulged at the seams.
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters Page 4