Written in the Stars

by Aisha Saeed

  Chapter 32

  The thick beige curtains keep the room shaded. Voices echo off the tiled floor just outside.

  “Amin, is she coming out? It’s almost noon. Saba set the table over an hour ago, and I spent all morning cooking. Everything is getting cold.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be out in a minute. It was a long day yesterday.”

  “Still, look at all this food, the cholay, halvah, nihari . . . You know, the butcher gave me such a hard time. I really wanted to serve everything warm. It won’t be tasty otherwise.”

  “I’ll go check on her.”

  I shut my eyes and draw my covers over myself. The door opens and shuts. I hear another person, her voice sharp.

  “She’s taking her sweet time, isn’t she?”

  “Stop that,” replies the woman. “She’s a bride. It can take some time to get dressed. Help me put these pots on the stove. Just a little heat, and they will be warm again.”

  Footsteps approach the bed.

  “Naila?”

  I clench my jaw.

  “Are you okay?” He tilts his head. “Feeling better?”

  I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

  “Well, um, I hope you are.” He clears his throat. “Brunch is ready. We would love it if you could join us.”

  He stands at the foot of the bed and grips the corner post. He looks at me with a hesitant smile. “Should I tell her you will be out in a few minutes?”

  No, I want to tell him. I want you to leave me alone. I want you all to just disappear. But I can’t say any of this. Not until I know my next step.

  A small gasp emerges when I enter the dining room fifteen minutes later. I look up. Three women stare back at me. They take in my wrinkled cotton clothing, the shawl draped around my shoulders, the brown slippers on my feet.

  Amin’s mother, Nasim, stares at me before shaking her head. “Come join us. It’s our first meal as a family.” She points to an empty chair. Amin sits next to me.

  She introduces me to everyone sitting around the table. Saba, her daughter, who I now recognize from earlier meetings at my uncle’s home, is seated to her left. Her reddish-brown hair is cut in a short bob. She rests one bony hand under her severe chin and watches me, unsmiling. Feiza, the other daughter-in-law, is seated on the other side with a little girl in her arms. Feiza’s hair is long and braided; loose tendrils frame her pretty oval face and large eyes, which watch me with curiosity now.

  “My son Usman was not able to make it to the wedding,” Nasim says. She sits down across from me. “But you’ll meet him when he comes at the end of the month for his break.”

  I fix my gaze on the table linens. My foggy state is wearing off bit by bit, and I am sad to see it go.

  “Naila, you’re not eating anything.” Nasim reaches over and takes my empty white plate. She places a freshly tossed puri and a spoon of cholay and brown halva on it. I tug the warm bread with my fingers and swirl the food on my plate.

  “Some relatives are coming by today to meet you,” she says. “Choose any outfit from the ones we’ve given you. Our servant can iron it for you if needed.” I feel her watching me, waiting for a response, but I keep looking down at the steaming food on my plate.

  “Or,” Nasim rushes on, “Feiza and Saba can help you pick out an outfit and matching jewelry. I’m sure you’re overwhelmed. The wedding happened much sooner than we all thought it would.”

  “We are very happy you are a part of our family now.”

  I look up at these words. It’s Amin. He’s watching me with a small smile on his lips.

  Saif.

  His image comes unbidden to my mind, seizing me with such suddenness, I’m afraid I might be sick. I look away and swallow. I press a hand to my side, but of course, my purse is gone.

  He must be calling. Texting. He must be worried beyond belief. He has no idea what happened.

  * * *

  “What about this one?” Feiza lifts a pink outfit with gold sequins. “Nasim picked this one out herself—she thought it suited your complexion. You are very fair, so much fairer than me.” She blushes at this and looks down.

  I sit down on the bed. Her daughter toddles up to me. She tugs my kamiz and babbles incoherently.

  “Zaina likes you.” Feiza smiles. “She never goes to anyone like that.”

  Zaina climbs into my lap. I smile, and somehow the act of moving my lips upward makes my stomach hurt. A tear slips down my cheek.

  “Oh, I know. I know it’s hard.” She comes up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I got married three years ago, and I still miss my parents so much. But you’ll see them again. I know Nasim was saying you could go back to see them in two weeks, before they leave to return to America.”

  My throat constricts at her words. Return to America.

  “It’s going to be okay. I know what you’re going through.” She sits next to me on the bed and pats my hand.

  How can you possibly know, I want to ask, when I myself can’t make sense of any of this?

  * * *

  “Don’t you look nice,” his mother says when I exit the bedroom. “See? This is how a bride should look. Come, let me show you around your new home.”

  “I can come too.” Amin makes his way toward us.

  “Nonsense.” Nasim bats a hand at him. “This is my one-on-one time with our new bride.”

  I trail behind her as she leads the way. “My husband, may he rest in peace, put a lot of care into making this a special house. Everything is up-to-date and modern. It cost a lot of money, but you can see that it looks like houses you have in America.” Nasim opens the dark wooden cabinets of the kitchen, showing me plates, sugar, and spices.

  We walk down a hallway painted eggshell white with black-framed family portraits arranged at even intervals. Nasim points out each room, opening them to reveal perfectly made beds and watercolors framed on the walls.

  “We gave you the largest room,” she says. I look at her expectant smile but say nothing. “It used to be my room. I had the servants move all my things to the room next door just a few days before the wedding. I wanted you to have the bigger room with the only private bathroom in the house. I thought it would help you feel more at ease.”

  I stare at her. What does she want me to say? Do wardens expect gratitude from inmates for the luxuriousness of their cage?

  We walk through the family room and living room, each with leather couches and oak coffee tables. Nasim opens two large French doors, leading to an expansive verandah. She points to the wicker furniture and shade trees. “Those trees were pricey, but Amin’s father spared no expense.”

  We walk up to the second floor. “I’m sure it’s nothing like what you had back home.” She studies my face. “But we have everything we need. The right attitude can make anything good.”

  As I look out from the balcony, I feel light-headed. The fields behind their house stretch beyond the point of perception, a large expanse of green and brown. Closer to the house, a few goats graze next to a round brick well with a small steeple.

  “That well is dry.” Nasim nods toward the well. “We have running water in the house, of course. But for mopping or other such things, we use the hand pump.” She points to a metal cylinder in the distance. “We have servants for that. You should still learn how to use it, though. Maybe Saba can show you one day when you’re not a new bride anymore.”

  I swallow, turning away from Nasim’s gaze, as the curve of her smile disappears.

  Chapter 33

  I’ve been here two days. A week and a half to go until I visit my parents.

  I step into the bedroom. I don’t need a calendar to know that the university orientation has come and gone. I wonder what Carla thought when I never showed up. What did Saif tell her? I draw a sharp intake of breath. No. I shake my head. I can’t think about him. I can’t. />
  Just then, the bedroom door opens. It’s Amin.

  Now that I’m clear-headed, I see him as if for the first time. He’s wearing his work clothes, gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a navy blue tie. He’s at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and curly hair. His eyes, with which he looks at me now, are a light shade of brown. In another world, I might even have thought he was handsome.

  Since the first night, when he slept on the couch, an uneasy routine has formed. Each night he enters the bedroom. He studies my tense expression. And each night he carefully folds his clothing, places his wallet on the dresser, and throws a pillow on the sofa. I lie in bed, eyes closed but my mind awake, my heart in my throat, wondering what will happen next. So far, nothing has.

  This can’t last forever, but I don’t need it to. I will visit my parents soon. Once I’m at my uncle’s house, I’ll figure out what to do. I’ll talk to Selma. I’ll talk to Imran. No matter what, I’m not coming back.

  I watch him step into the bathroom. I hear water running. I need to act fast. My only goal is to pretend to be asleep before he steps out of the bathroom. I pull out my earrings and place them on the dresser and slip out of my shoes. I do not hear the bathroom door open. I do not see him step outside. I do not hear him move close to me until he is right behind me.

  “Are you okay?”

  I turn around and gasp. I take a step back.

  Amin’s face colors. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just was wondering if you’re all right.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t seem okay.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “You just seem so sad.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I know the marriage is new and we don’t know each other yet, but you’re my wife, and you won’t even look me in the face.”

  Marriage. Wife. This man, with whom I’ve exchanged no more than two sentences since the day I arrived in this home, dares to call himself my husband? Tears spring fresh to the surface despite my efforts to breathe deeply.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He walks up to the nightstand and pulls a tissue. He hands it to me. “I can’t believe I made you cry.”

  We stand in silence for a long minute.

  “Florida!” he finally exclaims. I look up at him through my tears.

  “Florida?”

  “Yes, you’re from Florida, right?”

  “Yes,” I say warily.

  “What’s it like there?”

  I stare at him. First a lecture on being his wife, and now he wants to know about Florida? He walks over to the sofa and sits down.

  “They have beaches, right?”

  I sit down at the edge of the bed. Small talk. Space, in exchange for conversation.

  “Yes.” I nod. “There are many beaches.”

  “Were there any where you lived?” He leans back, his hands in his lap.

  “There was one just five miles from our house,” I finally reply.

  “Did you go often?”

  That night, I lie in bed, replaying our conversation. I described to him the sandy beaches of Singer Island and the way the ocean gently lapped onto the beach as seagulls flew overhead. I shook my head in disbelief when he told me he had never seen an ocean in his life. What did this conversation signify? I wonder as I drift to sleep. It doesn’t mean what he might want it to mean, but maybe if I go along with this, these simple requests for conversation, he will spare me just a little while longer.

  Chapter 34

  My sister is coming in a few hours,” Nasim says over lunch the next day. “Can you put something decent on before she arrives? There are at least ten outfits pressed and hanging in your closet. It shouldn’t be too difficult to pick one.” She stops and regards Feiza. “I remember when you first arrived, every day a new outfit and a new gold set. A proper bride.”

  Feiza fidgets in her chair and casts a glance in my direction. I feel Nasim’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look back at her.

  “She just has a good attitude,” Saba says. “Usman is away more than he is home, thanks to the military always stationing him as far away as they can, but have you ever seen her complain? She has a good temperament. Not everyone is gifted with that.”

  The chair scrapes as I abruptly get up and make my way to the bedroom and shut the door. I lean against it and take a deep breath.

  “Who would have known what a spell she would cast over my brother?” I freeze at the voice bouncing off the tiles. “I told you this match was a mistake, didn’t I?”

  “Saba.” Nasim’s voice hardens. “This marriage just may be the best decision I ever made for this family. How else do you think you’re getting to America? Your engagement broke three years ago. God knows there isn’t any hope for you to marry here. What other chance will you get to start your life over again? I suggest you keep your opinions on my decisions to yourself.”

  I press my hands to my forehead. I’m their ticket to America.

  “She’s stubborn, but she’ll adjust. It’s just the other thing. Feiza, stop looking at me like that—we’re all women here. I need you to talk to her.”

  “Ami,” I hear Feiza protest, “how can you be sure?”

  “I saw with my own eyes. Don’t look at me that way! I never meant to spy on them,” Nasim snaps. “I just wanted to bring them some breakfast, so I used the spare key to unlock the door and let myself in, and there they are, my son asleep on the old sofa and the new bride sleeping on the bed. I check every day—same thing.”

  “Why don’t you say anything?” asks Saba.

  “How can I? I can’t bring it up to my son, but something has to be done.”

  I sink to the floor. A strange emotion passes over me, one I haven’t felt in weeks. Not since my chacha snatched me from the bus. But now? Now it feels like pinpricks in my chest. Something has snapped. For the first time in a long time, I am angry.

  The doorbell chimes in the distance. I hear laughter. Conversation fills the house. I tie my hair back and turn to the mirror to look at myself in the drab gray outfit before stepping out. Everyone is sitting around a broad-shouldered woman in a green salwar kamiz.

  “Ah, the new bride!” she exclaims upon seeing me. She runs her eyes from my head down to my bare feet. Her eyes grow large and then a slow smirk spreads across her face.

  “Good choice, Nasim,” she tells her sister.

  I watch Nasim’s face pale as she takes in my cotton salwar kamiz, my unkempt hair, my face devoid of makeup.

  I walk back to the bedroom. The door rattles when I slam it shut. This changes nothing, but maybe it sends a message, however small.

  * * *

  “Are you awake?” Amin asks the next morning.

  I sit up in the darkened room. He slips on his shoes and ties his black laces.

  “I’d rather be home. I hope you know that.” He rests his elbows on his knees. “I haven’t had a chance to spend much time with you, but hopefully I can make up for that soon.” He smiles at me. I try my best to smile back.

  Once he’s gone, I lie back in bed and close my eyes. A few moments later, I hear the sound of his car as it pulls out of the driveway. Sometimes, in the quiet moments of the morning after Amin is long gone, I stare out the dark curtained window from where I lie in the bed, pretending the sky behind it rises over my own home, over my own bed. Sometimes I can almost believe for a few moments that I imagined all of this and that I am safe from any danger at all.

  My thoughts drift to Selma. And then—Saif. I take a deep breath. I can’t go there. I just can’t. Not yet.

  Just then, the bedroom door swings open.

  It’s Nasim. She storms up to the window and yanks the curtains apart. Harsh daylight streams into the room, invading every corner and crevice.

  I struggle to adjust my eyes against the glaring brightnes
s when I realize she is standing over me.

  “It is ten o’clock. Everyone in this house gets up well before eight o’clock. What makes you think you are any different? We’ve played nice with you long enough. You are not a little princess sitting upon your throne. You are not better than us just because you are from America. And you do not get to insult me in front of my sister. It’s clear no one taught you how to be a wife. Your husband may have patience for you. Maybe he doesn’t understand what he needs to do. But don’t worry. I will teach you.” She yanks off my sheets. “Get up. You’re going to learn how a proper day is supposed to be.”

  A strange sense of calm fills me. I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I’ve been expecting her veneer to crack. I’ve been waiting for this moment. How kind could anyone be who participated in my forced marriage? Purchasing me like a piece of fabric at the store?

  I stand in front of the sink and lift my white toothbrush. “What are you waiting for?” Nasim snaps. “Put the toothpaste on the toothbrush and brush your teeth.”

  I stare at the toothpaste. I want to fling it at her. I want to ask her to try to make me do anything, but what if she won’t let me return to see my parents? Then I’ll never escape. I swallow and lift the toothbrush, pressing it against my teeth.

  “Now.” Nasim folds her arms. “You will go to the closet and pick an outfit to wear. A proper outfit, not one of those wrinkled things you can’t seem to get enough of. Once you’re ready, come outside. I will show you some chores you will be responsible for.” She places a hand on her hip and turns to me. “It would be nice if you wore something we gave you. We spent a good deal of money on your clothes.”

  Was it half as much as you spent on purchasing me? I think.

  The servants hover near the kitchen, watching us with amused expressions. Nasim leads me to the outdoor courtyard and instructs me to hang the hand-washed damp clothing in the open air to dry. They stifle laughter later that afternoon when they watch me knead dough and dust frames.