What exactly did Malik know about Jay, anyway?
‘He is your brother. A man in the family. He should be here to help look after you. And I know Farah must miss him. Mustafa was always telling me how fond she is of him.’
I felt a twinge somewhere in my gut. She always did do anything for Jay. When you’re twins surely the person you’re meant to look out for is each other? It’s the two of you against the world. Not Farah. She was too busy fighting against the world for Jay. Covering for him, telling him off, giving him money, advice, comforting him. And he never came to me the way he did to her. It didn’t matter, though, because I wasn’t going to stick around in this place and I had my art – poring over abstract images, somehow feeling more at home when reading about these than anything else.
‘An only brother will always have a special place in his sister’s heart,’ he said. ‘Just like an only sister will have a special place in her brother’s,’ he added, thoughtfully.
‘Too bad if he doesn’t deserve it,’ I replied.
Malik leaned in closer – I noticed a small cut from when he must’ve shaved this morning.
‘Bubblee, you don’t seem to think any man deserves your sister’s attention.’
I scanned past his shoulder – Mum and Dad were looking at us as Fatti glanced our way too. I made a mental note to tell her that she can have him.
‘He’s a wash-out, Malik. Do you know what that is? Well, it doesn’t matter, because aside from that, he never once thinks to do what normal people do: work hard for their money. Forget money – have a passion that at least contributes to the world around you.’ I scoffed. ‘No, he wants everything handed to him on a silver plate – and you can thank your kala and mama for that,’ I added, looking over at Mum and Dad. Because let’s face it; spoiling someone doesn’t exactly kick their arse into gear.
Malik frowned. ‘Your amma and abba said that he’s doing some real work now. They said that Mustafa was helping him.’
Since when? They were probably making it all up.
‘If you believe that,’ I said, ‘you’ll believe anything.’
*
‘I vote Fatti,’ said Mae.
Fatti looked like a deer caught in headlights. The three of us had gone outside to get some fresh air and decide who’d be the one to call Jay.
Mae put her arm around her and said: ‘You’re the eldest. He has to listen to you.’
Fatti looked at Mae as if she was unsure whether she was taking the mickey or not. I wasn’t sure myself. Mae looked serious enough, though.
‘Why not Bubblee?’ asked Fatti.
Mae flung her arms around and put her hands on my shoulder. ‘Because our Bubs is not the most level-headed of people. And everyone knows he’s not about to listen to me, his kid sister.’
‘I hate to say it, but she’s right,’ I said. ‘After Farah, he liked you best. You never talked back to him.’
‘And you’re likeable. Obviously,’ added Mae to Fatti.
‘Of course,’ I said.
Surely, that was a given?
‘Okay,’ said Fatti. ‘I’ll do it.’
She didn’t look too sure but it was progress, at least.
‘I’ll get his phone number from Farah’s phone,’ I said.
Mae got her mobile out. ‘No need. Already have it here.’
Whatever anyone might say about Mae, she is impressive. We stood around, figuring out whether we should call now or wait.
Fatti took Mae’s phone from her and said: ‘What’s the point in waiting? Let’s just get it over and done with.’
Mae and I exchanged looks. Since when had Fatti become so assertive? Fatti looked up at us.
‘What about Mum and Dad? Shouldn’t we tell them? Or get them to call him?’
Mae rolled her eyes and was about to launch into some kind of Mae-ism when Malik came running towards us.
‘Quick,’ he said, out of breath.
The three of us looked at him as he stopped.
‘They’ve had to take him into surgery,’ he added.
My heart began beating faster, a knot forming somewhere in my gut.
‘Hurry,’ he said, already making his way through the hospital entrance again.
For the first time in my life, I saw Fatti break into a run.
*
There was nothing to do but wait. All thoughts of calling Jay went out of the window. I kept looking at Farah who stared into space. The doctors said that there’d been some unsuspected internal bleeding and when they tried to take him out of the coma it had an adverse effect or something. They rushed him into the operating theatre to try to stop the bleeding.
Mum insisted we all sit with rosary beads and pray for him, but to be quite honest, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. It’s not like I hate the guy, but when I looked at Farah and thought about the life she could’ve had, I realised she’s still young and pretty. She could come and stay with me in London. There are so many men in London. Bangladeshi men who aren’t like Malik or his brother, but evolved and into travelling and studying and learning about the world. Not just making money and having a comfortable life. Comfortable is just another word for dull.
‘Do you want a carrot stick?’ Mae offered Farah.
Farah didn’t respond.
‘I can get you Maltesers if you want?’ she added.
Farah just shook her head.
‘Mae, just sit down and be quiet for a minute,’ said Dad.
He looked over at her, seeing her face that looked hurt. Mae doesn’t look hurt very often.
‘Babba,’ he added to her, ‘now is the time to be quiet and pray to God for your brother-in-law’s health.’
No-one spoke. Fatti was fiddling with the edge of her shirt and for a few minutes we just sat in silence.
‘And even if he’s not okay,’ I said, looking up at Farah, ‘you’ll be all right.’
It was meant to be comforting – she likes that kind of thing – but Farah’s face shot up.
‘I can’t believe you,’ she said.
‘I mean it’s going to be okay,’ I replied.
She brushed back the hair that had fallen on her face and said: ‘You mean you don’t care if he’s all right.’
‘I care if you’re all right.’
I caught Malik looking at me as if he were seeing me in a new light altogether. At least it was going to put him off. A tear fell down Farah’s cheek, her face red with anger.
‘Without him there is no all right,’ she said. ‘And someone like you will never get that.’
What did she mean, someone like me? I felt my own face flush too, but now wasn’t the time to have an argument with her.
‘Just get out of here,’ she said, looking at the floor.
I looked around the room – everyone was staring at me.
‘Jay’s Abba …’ said Mum.
‘Faru,’ said Dad, ‘come now. We are all tired.’
She didn’t respond but I wasn’t about to stay where I wasn’t wanted. Especially when I hardly wanted to be there either. Did she think I came for myself? That it mattered to me what happened to him? The only thing that mattered was making sure she was okay, and if she didn’t understand that I wanted the best for her, then what was the point?
‘Forget it,’ I said, getting up. ‘I know where I’m not wanted.’
I could’ve taken a photo of my empty brown seat to replicate in the form of a sculpture later. A metaphor for absence – something that’s as unavailable as it is unoccupied.
‘Bubblee …’ said Mum, ‘wait.’
But I didn’t wait for anyone or anything. I walked out of there because sometimes it doesn’t matter what you say, people will always find fault with it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fatima
This is why I say it’s better to keep quiet than say something so, well, stupid. I tried to tell Farah that Bubblee didn’t know what she was saying, but I think I was lying. In fact, I know I was lying. And so did Farah.
‘Your sister really does say anything that comes into her head,’ said Malik when I came out of the ladies’ bathroom. Had he followed me?
I liked the idea of being followed – as if I was important enough for another person to know my movements – but not so much what he was saying to me.
‘She’s honest.’
He gave a low kind of laugh. ‘She doesn’t seem to like Bengalis and yet she is so Bengali.’
Is that all he wanted to talk about? Bubblee? I went to walk past him when he held on to my arm.
‘Fatima …’
He looked into my eyes and I felt my heart ping-pong around my chest – why didn’t it want to settle in any one place?
‘You are nothing like your sister.’
What a weird thing to say. I must’ve looked confused as he added, ‘You are more like …’ He seemed to search for the words just as he seemed to search my face. What was he looking for? Did my face have the answer?
‘What?’ I asked, my voice lowered unintentionally.
‘You are … yourself.’
My confusion just grew. What did that mean? He let go of my arm.
‘Okay,’ I replied, unsure.
Because what else was there to say? Just then I saw a flash of Mum’s bright-yellow sari as she turned the corner and saw me.
‘There you are,’ she said, looking between me and Malik. ‘Have you seen Bubblee?’
I shook my head.
‘She’s not always like this,’ she said to Malik, but I could tell she was watching the way he looked at me.
‘She is fiery,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘And very beautiful, no?’ said Mum, looking at him.
He gave a small nod. Every compliment to Bubblee felt like a stab to my heart. Why wasn’t Mae here to have a dig at Bubblee? As soon as the thought came into my head I was embarrassed at how ready I was to betray my own sister, just so this man could think more of me than of her. He gave Mum a curt nod and walked away. Mum watched him as he turned the corner and looked anxious. But then she would be, at the idea that one of her daughters might end up being a widow. The very idea made me forget about Malik for a moment.
‘Why does your sister not think about things?’ she said in a low voice.
‘It’ll be fine, Mum.’
‘Did you see the way Malik looked at her when she was saying all those things? What must he think of her? So much talking back is not what a man looks for in a wife.’
A rush of fatigue came over me. I just wanted to sit down, on my own, and eat some prawns and cheese. I could then think about what that weird moment with Malik meant, my poor bro-in-law and everything else in between. She put her hand on my face and said: ‘My good girl.’
For a moment I wanted to ask that if I’m so good, then how come they don’t care about me getting married? Why don’t they look for a husband for me like they do for Bubblee? Don’t they know she doesn’t even need the help and I do? But I’d sound pathetic and needy, and even though I’m both those things, I don’t want everyone else to know. I’d rather crawl under a rock than face all their pitying glances. Especially with Malik there to see.
‘Listen,’ said Mum. ‘Farah said she needs some medical insurance papers to call and try to get private treatment. Your abba has stored the family’s insurance in the cubby-hole under the stairs.’
I listened to her instructions and of course, because I don’t drive, I’d have to get the bus.
‘If you see that Bubblee, tell her I want to speak to her. Maybe you can talk some sense into that girl too,’ she added.
I don’t know why everyone thinks I can talk anyone into anything.
*
On the bus I looked out at the green grass, the clean pavements, and saw it all through the eyes of Malik. Does he like it here? Why do I even feel as if I want to ask him? Well, I know why I want to ask him, but what’s the point? I touched my arm where he held it and a rush of feeling came over me – I wanted to get off the bus and run back to the hospital just to see him again. And then I remembered him asking about Bubblee and Mum mentioning the two of them getting married. As if I’m not pathetic enough, I’m falling for the man Bubblee might end up with. She might say she’s not into marriage but I can’t believe it. Why would anyone want to be alone for ever? I don’t get that. If you had a choice, a real one, wouldn’t you just go for it? Like Farah did. Although now look at her. What if Mustafa didn’t make it …? I had to shut the thought from my mind – as if it might come true just by thinking it. Still, better to have loved and lost …
I got off at the bus stop and began the ten-minute walk to the house when I heard a car beeping.
‘Fatima!’ someone called out.
I looked on as I saw Ash’s car pull up into a side road. I approached him as he leaned out of the window.
‘Hello, stranger,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I said, bending down to see him.
‘Where are you going? Get in, I’ll drop you.’
‘Oh, just home,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, I can walk. I could do with it,’ I added, laughing, but he didn’t laugh back. He’s the only one I crack fat jokes with and the only one who doesn’t find it funny. I’m pretty sure the family would like me a lot more if I joked about the size of my thighs more often. But I don’t want to be known as that girl – she might be chubby but at least she’s jolly. I’m not going to be fat for ever, after all.
He’d opened the door on the passenger side and told me to get in.
‘How’s your brother-in-law doing?’ he asked as he pulled out into the road.
His sleeves were rolled up and it wasn’t the first time I’d noticed that he has quite hairy arms. I told him about Mustafa being in surgery.
‘God,’ he said, looking at me. ‘I’m sorry. Really hope he makes it okay. And I hope his car accident hasn’t put you off.’
I paused. ‘Not until you just mentioned it.’
He laughed, which made me smile. Ash’s not good-looking like Malik – he’s a bit short and his nose is kind of flat. He looks like the type of person you’d pass on the street one day and not recognise the next.
‘Weird when you think how short life can be,’ I said. ‘Not that Mustafa’s will be short. He’ll get through it.’ I saw Ash change into fourth gear from the corner of my eye. ‘It just makes you think.’
‘It does,’ he said. ‘About all the things you have. And all the things you don’t – like a wife,’ he added with a smile.
We drove past the park and I saw Bubblee pacing up and down, speaking on her phone, flapping her arms about. Probably that Sasha friend. In times like this, I wonder who I’d go to. Mae usually cheers me up in her own way but I wouldn’t be able to tell her things – flap my arms like that. But then, I’m not an arm flapper.
‘What?’ asked Ash.
I’d craned my neck, still watching Bubblee as we drove past.
‘Oh, nothing. My sister’s there.’
‘The social media slave or the London-twin?’ he asked.
‘London-twin. Bubblee.’
‘Ah, yes. Bubblee. What a name.’
‘Maybe we should pick her up. There was a bit of an argument in the hospital. I should check she’s okay.’
He laid his hand on the gear stick – my eyes darted towards number five, as it usually does out of fear.
‘About what?’ he asked.
I began to explain and realised that we were almost home. It was too late to turn back to get her. He pulled up in front of the house and exhaled after I’d finished telling him what had just happened. I waited for him to say something but he just looked at me and said: ‘Your destination, Madam.’
I wonder how he manages to be so happy all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry, or lose his temper – he’s a driving instructor, surely a bit of road rage would be expected. Maybe it’s just a front. Maybe he’s pretending he’s happy but actually he’s miserable on the inside. Maybe he an
d I are alike. He was still looking at me as I unbuckled my seatbelt.
‘Going back to the hospital after?’ he asked.
I told him I just needed to get some insurance papers from the house. Thank God I’d be alone for five minutes. I could sit for a bit before going back to the hospital. He looked at his watch.
‘I don’t have another lesson for a bit so I can drop you,’ he said.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I replied, opening the car door.
‘I’ll let you drive – don’t want you getting out of practice. You’re almost there.’
Am I, though? Every time I think I’m almost there the goal-post seems to move further away. But it’s important to try to be positive. You have to think you can do something – be something, or it’s never going to happen.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said, already getting out of the car.
He stood outside the red door, looking our house up and down. A sudden panic rose inside me about the state the place would be in – even though I knew there’s no way Mum would’ve left it messy. And then I realised, I’d be in the house with him alone. It felt a bit weird. I was glued to the spot when he looked at me, expectantly. I walked past him to open the door, fiddling with the key in the lock, wishing he’d step back a little. We went inside and I opened the curtains to let some light in as he looked around the living room, some papers cluttered on the coffee table, Dad’s rocking chair in the corner, plastic over the remote. He picked it up and laughed.
‘My parents do the same thing,’ he said, sitting in the chair, rocking back and forth.
I wanted to say that that was Dad’s chair and no-one else sits in it, but thought it might be a little rude.
‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ I asked, going into the kitchen.
‘Tea, please. But only if it’s no trouble,’ he called out.
Putting the kettle on, I quickly put out a tray of nibbles; biscuits, Bombay mix, nuts – anything I could find. In between which, I managed to squeeze some cheese into my mouth. When I took the tray in he looked at it.
‘Is there anything left in the kitchen?’
For a moment I thought he meant he didn’t want anything I’d brought out. My face must’ve had a weird expression because he looked at it and laughed.
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters Page 7