Ismail slyly placed two boxes before Celia, one large and the other tiny.
“Open the bigger one first,” he instructed excitedly. She tore the pretty wrapping paper and unsealed the box to find the scarf she’d noticed in the Marla’s Ladies’ Wear window last week. She fingered the rich fabric.
“Ismail, you are so attentive. Look at this!” She wrapped the scarf around her neck, felt the silk against her skin.
“It’s looks good on you,” Fatima said, nodding.
“Not too flashy for me?”
“No, it’s perfect for you,” Fatima confirmed, “And look, it goes with your sweater.” Ismail smiled broadly and Celia reached over to kiss him. She also kissed Fatima’s cheek for good measure, and thanked her again for the dinner.
“One more.” Ismail pushed the small box toward Celia. She paused before she unwrapped it, letting its lightness rest in her palm. Although she didn’t know what mystery the box held, she knew enough to be nervous.
— * —
Ismail watched Celia lift the shiny key from the box. She frowned, holding it up and away from her, as though it was something unsavoury. The silver caught the light and shone in her eyes. He exchanged glances with Fatima, and rushed to explain.
“I just thought, since you and I are spending so much time together, that perhaps you’d like your own key. You know … to come and go as you like,” he said, his voice cracking a little.
“Oh! I thought that this meant something else … so … I was a little caught off guard.”
“Sorry?” he asked, confused.
“Oh, you thought he was asking you to move in,” Fatima said, interpreting for Ismail. He looked long at Fatima, and then finally understood her words.
“Well, er … we’ve never talked about it, but that would be nice, too,” he fumbled.
“I think I should leave you two alone for this conversation,” Fatima said, already standing. Ismail looked up helplessly at her.
“No, no,” Celia said, reaching over to touch Fatima’s forearm and pull her back down. “Stay. We haven’t cut the cake yet. Ismail, I think it’s too early for me to move in. And … I love the thought behind it. Maybe we can talk about your invitation later. Maybe in a few months?” she said with a tense smile.
“Oh, yes, yes. That’s what I really meant. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable … or pressure you to move in,” he stammered. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. Fatima watched with raised eyebrows.
“It’s all right, Ismail. It’s very nice. Really. I love having it. I just misunderstood. First, though …” Celia paused, her face losing its worry lines. He watched her as she eyed Fatima, and then him, and then Fatima again. Ismail rubbed his palms, itching with perspiration, against his trousers. She smiled, “First, don’t you think it’s time to ask Fatima to move in? You know, more long-term?” He’d repeatedly told Celia how much he enjoyed Fatima’s presence, but only mentioned the idea of her staying recently, and in passing. He flushed and stared at Celia. He was still getting used to her being constantly one step ahead of him.
Ismail and Fatima exchanged brief, nervous looks. Fatima looked away first and twisted her napkin in her hands while Ismail played with his dessert fork. He put the fork down and idly scratched the scar stretching across his sternum.
A long pause balanced in the air while Ismail considered his words. He wanted them to come out right.
— * —
Celia watched Ismail struggle, worrying that she had prompted a conversation that needed more time to develop, but to her, the earlier talk about the key seemed like fertile ground for it. She knew it was a seed in Ismail’s mind, a seed growing roots each day. But was it ready to sprout? She wasn’t sure.
His long fingers reached through the space between his shirt’s buttons, his fingernails reaching for the place she recognized as his vulnerability. He’d told her the story it, of the wound only partially healed. She’d asked him if she could have a look at it, and he’d succumbed, a dark look passing over his eyes while he laid flat on his back and she propped herself up on her elbow and hovered over him. He flinched a little when she ran her calloused thumb over its waxy rise and then she felt his muscles relax as she continued to stroke the scar. When he closed his eyes, she ran her lips over it.
He abruptly drew his hand away from his chest and, it seemed to her, willed himself to continue speaking. The seed had germinated.
— * —
“Yes, this is something I’ve been thinking about.” Ismail turned to Fatima and she finally looked up to meet his gaze. “Well, you see, it’s just that I like having you here. The house is rather big for just me. And you’re a good cook! Like tonight, this dinner you made for Celia. Just wonderful!” he blathered, realizing he was losing his train of thought. He paused to find it again, and explained that the arrangement might be a solution to her financial problems.
“You know, to take the pressure off you looking for a while … you could stay until the school year starts, or even after, until the end of the school year if you wanted and then we can see … and then you can decide what to do next.” He didn’t hear her over his own rambling, but saw that she mouthed the word “okay.”
“Yes?”
She nodded, her eyelashes darkening with her tears. She batted them away. “Um, that would be really cool. Really nice of you. I mean, just for a while. Maybe until the end of summer or something?” she said, dabbing her eyes with her napkin.
“Or until your parents support you again, or you win the lottery,” Ismail quipped, wanting her to stop crying.
“The latter might come first,” Fatima said, dourly.
Celia beamed and leaned over and hugged her. Then, for the first time since he’d known Fatima, Ismail did, too. He held her in a stiff embrace until she stopped crying.
“Maybe she should move out of the office, though, so that she can really spread out,” Celia whispered in his ear. He knew what she was intimating. It was time to open the door to Zubi’s room, clear it out, strip the wallpaper, and make space for Fatima. It was time to give Zubi’s room away.
— 39 —
Dust
Early the next morning, while Celia and Fatima slept, Ismail opened the nursery’s door. Sunshine streamed through the southeast-facing window, catching floating dust motes in their rays. Ismail once read that dust particles are mostly composed of skin cells, and that each person sloughs off an entire layer every day or two, abandoning millions and millions of microscopic flakes into the air. Humans regenerate and renew, abandoning pieces of themselves in the process.
He ran his fingertip over the wooden dresser, the way children do on dirty cars. He spelled out his baby’s full name — Z-U-B-E-I-D-A — across its surface, his finger becoming coated with grey dust. He looked at each of her three photographs, taken at various ages, lingering on the one of her at sixteen months old. She sat on his lap, his hands holding each of hers, while they smiled for the camera.
He cleaned off the photos with both hands and then rubbed his right against his left, both hands warming with the friction. He imagined Zubi’s skin meeting his one final time. One last touch.
But he knew that there was more than Zubeida there in that dusty room. Years ago, Rehana and he shed their skins, too, leaving behind previous versions of themselves. He always believed that Rehana had discarded their life together more easily than he ever could, shrugging it off like an old coat, and leaving it behind on the floor as she exited the house.
He stroked the top of the dresser with open hands, cleaning the dust away, revealing the dark wood beneath. He smeared the grime deep into his palms, over his knuckles, bathing his hands in it. Perhaps he wanted their skin — Rehana’s and his — to meet one last time, too.
Ismail wasn’t certain how long he stood in the nursery. By the time he lef
t, Celia and Fatima were already in the kitchen, their voices fluttering up through the floorboards. He went to the bathroom and held his hands under the tap, watching the water trickle off his fingers in dark grey streams. He went back to the nursery, glanced at it once more. Then, he heaved opened the window that hadn’t been unlatched in almost two decades, letting in the warm spring breeze.
— * —
Downstairs, Celia sat at the table while Fatima fiddled with the coffee maker. It was an ancient-looking thing, rarely used by Ismail, and it often malfunctioned. Fatima frowned, tapped the On button a few times, cursed under her breath, and finally, dark brown liquid began to flow. “Hah!” Fatima said, relishing her victory over the machine. Not for the first time, Celia thought Fatima looked at ease working in Ismail’s kitchen. She watched her dig through the cupboards and fridge, looking for ingredients to make pancakes.
“Yup, I’m going to have to make a trip to No Frills. What kind of man doesn’t have maple syrup in his house?” Fatima grumbled, and Celia smiled at the insult.
“But first I need some coffee,” Fatima declared, and poured them each a cup. It was good; only a few grounds had slipped past the filter that morning. Celia sipped her coffee and thought: Yes, she is a good girl. It was a confirmation, of sorts, a kind of answer to a question she’d been mulling over in her mind for some time.
Celia hadn’t expected to react so squeamishly when she saw the two kissing girls. Nothing about Fatima had bothered her before, so why then? And it was something she wasn’t even supposed to have seen, really.
She’d been in Ismail’s living room, waiting for him to finish a phone call with his brother. She listened as he stammered, then agreed, then made counter-arguments, caught up in defending himself against Nabil’s judgments. She opened the drapes to look outside and studied her daughter’s house across the street. The lights in her old bedroom-den were on, and she guessed that Antonio was up late, perhaps doing the hardware store’s books. Upstairs, the rooms were dark except for the flickering light of the television in the master bedroom. The living-room drapes were parted slightly and she thought she could see a figure of a woman in silhouette behind them. She stared at the figure a while longer, imagining a woman dressed in black, a shadowy mirror image of herself, gazing back at her. What did she see? What did her mourning-self think of this new version, this Celia with red hair, flashy clothes, and a middle-aged Indian boyfriend?
As she continued to look out on to the street, something moved in her peripheral vision. She leaned further out. That was when saw them, Fatima and her friend Sonia Gandhi — that was Ismail’s pet name for Sonia — slanting into one another on the porch. Fatima’s long fingers cupped Sonia’s face, her head bent in a long, ardent kiss. Sonia gripped Fatima’s forearms, her chin tipping to meet Fatima’s mouth. Hands moved across shoulders and backs, and flew beneath blouses. Celia backed up from the window, her face hot. She crossed her arms over her chest and listened for Ismail’s telephone voice in the other room, heard his first attempt to say goodbye, and his explanation to his brother that Celia would be waiting for him.
She scanned the street and hoped no one else was watching the kiss (which was still in progress). She knew some of the neighbours were already talking about her, enjoying the gossip of her relationship with Ismail. What would they say about two girls kissing on her boyfriend’s porch? She parted the curtains slightly and looked for the shadow behind the drapes at Lydia’s place. It still hadn’t moved. She looked more closely, saw the pointed edging of foliage; a new potted plant on the windowsill.
Celia heard the door open and the girls bounced their way up the stairs to Fatima’s room. Ismail joined her a moment later, complaining about Nabil and Nabila’s interference. They stepped out for a late night walk.
“I saw Fatima and Sonia kissing on the porch earlier. Are they dating now?” Celia asked.
“Fatima and Sonia? Sonia Gandhi?” Ismail looked shocked. Celia smiled and nodded.
“I thought they were just friends. Well … I guess that’s good for them. Sonia Gandhi seems like a very nice girl.”
“She does,” Celia admitted.
“You know, she gets all A’s and has a tuition scholarship? And she has a part-time job. Very responsible,” said Ismail.
“That’s good.”
“She even gets along with her parents, from what I can tell. She’ll be a good influence on Fatima.”
“You sound just like a parent yourself. Like a father evaluating an eligible bachelor. Only in this case it’s a bachelorette,” Celia teased.
“Hmmm,” he said, frowning. She realized she’d put him in a contemplative mood when all she’d intended was to be funny. It happened often between them, this moody misapprehension of her jokes, and she guessed it would take time before they’d truly understand one another well. There were other things she found strange about him; the bottles of Patak’s curries lined up in his cupboard, the way he guzzled back non-alcoholic beer when he seemed under stress, his love affair with the newspaper on Saturday mornings. She supposed he could compile his own list of the things he found incomprehensible about her, too. They walked on in silence, the image of the girls returning to Celia’s mind.
Fatima held a pen in her hand and seemed to be waiting for Celia to say something.
“Sorry, what?” Celia asked.
“I’m going to get maple syrup and pancake mix from the grocery store. You want me to pick up anything else?”
“Oh. No, thanks. I don’t need anything.” Celia watched as Fatima walked down the hallway, put on her shoes and grabbed her keys.
“You okay?” Fatima called out from the foyer, pausing. “You don’t look yourself.” Celia rose from the table and met her in the hallway. She pinched Fatima’s cheeks with both hands. They offered up little flesh between her fingers.
“Such a good girl, you are. A very good girl. I’m just fine.” Fatima looked self-conscious, and perhaps a little pleased. Celia let her go and Fatima turned the doorknob and then glanced back at Celia over her shoulder, her eyes still curious.
— 40 —
New Room
Ismail knew that it was best not to take short-cuts. He and Fatima removed everything from Zubi’s old room, until its four walls echoed their voices. Empty, it appeared so much smaller than when the old furniture occupied it. They turned their attention to the wallpaper, but its glue was steadfast, and so it needed to be soaked overnight. The next day, it grudgingly yielded, scraping off into yellowed, curled-up teddy bear piles. Pocked blue walls were exposed, a souvenir from a previous resident’s time.
When Ismail and Rehana first moved in, the walls were robin’s egg blue and he thought they could be left as they were, but Rehana was adamant that they use neutral colours. She was funny about that; although she refused to learn their baby’s sex in advance, she had a strong feeling it would be a girl. Still, she wouldn’t let Ismail paint the walls pink, just in case the baby was a boy. She chose wallpaper — what she judged to be a whimsical pattern of prancing bears. Ismail never thought the bears looked quite right; they wore top hats and their tiny T-shirts only reached partway down their stomachs, their fuzzy potbellies and bottoms indecently bared. In the end, he painted the trims wintergreen to match their T-shirts, which only drew attention to, and emphasized, their nakedness.
Fatima chose sunset-orange paint, three coats to completely conceal the blue, and the room glowed sunshine, even at dusk. She told Ismail that her bedroom walls in Mississauga were grey, a compromise between the charcoal she had originally wanted and the lilac her mother suggested. She preferred darkness during her adolescence, wanted a feeling of a cave. But, now she was over that, she said. Ismail told her he would have let her paint her walls black, or purple, or lime green, if that’s what she’d wanted, and she smiled at the sentiment.
The ceiling required some discussion, however. Fatima fanc
ied the puffy white clouds Ismail had stenciled on years ago, and wanted to keep them. Ismail disagreed, the one and only time he would exercise his veto power. Those clouds had been drawn for Zubi, a gift for her alone while he was an expectant father, overwhelmed with the responsibilities he’d soon be shouldering. Rehana took charge of purchasing all her clothing, toys, the latest gadgets, but the ceiling was something special he could create for his child, something peaceful for her to gaze at when she awoke alone in the mornings. Sometimes, Zubi used to point up at her bedroom-sky and Rehana or Ismail would enunciate “cloud” or “sky.” She’d attempt to repeat them, her mouth contorting itself into something that sounded like “cowed” or “sigh.” She tried and tried, but the words were much too difficult for a toddler to say.
Ismail rolled “Midnight Blue” latex on the ceiling. While the paint dried, Fatima searched for online constellation diagrams. He held the ladder and directed her while she pasted glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling. When night fell, they turned out the lights and stared up at the Big Dipper. Later she’d stick up more stars, forming Cassiopeia and Orion, too. She told him that she liked having the whole sky to herself. He hoped it gave her something peaceful to look at when she woke up alone in the middle of the night.
He donated the baby furniture, still in good condition, to Value Village. It was evening, just past closing time, so he left them by the cargo bay doors. Perhaps a young father would browse through the furniture section the next day, looking for a bargain, and claim the set. Would the new owner wonder about the donors, imagining a child grown up and graduating to a new twin bed? Would there be any essence of Zubi left behind on the mattress, a partial fingerprint on the side rails? Before he drove off, he took one last look at the crib. It was unlike him to do so, but he uttered a short prayer for the next child who would sleep within it. Please, let the little one be safe.
Fatima and Ismail hauled in the heavy hide-a-bed from his office, which Fatima had been sleeping on for weeks already. Her youthful spine didn’t seem to mind its lumpy contours and she insisted that he not buy her a new bed. Ismail thought it was because she’d been reading Marx and was against over-consumption of any kind. But really, it was because she was convinced that she could talk her mother into letting her have her things from her bedroom at home. Perhaps Fatima didn’t intend it this way, for she was just as stubborn as her parents, but the furniture negotiations served to put her in ongoing contact with her mother. Ismail encouraged it, for tense and difficult communication seemed better to him than none at all.
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