“What about the table in the basement, Ismail?” Fatima asked.
“Yes, I was thinking the same thing. It needs sanding and refinishing, though.”
“My brother just replaced his couch, but I don’t think they’ve gotten rid of the old one yet. I can ask him,” Antonio offered.
“Good idea,” Lydia agreed.
“I don’t need a kitchen table. I have a galley kitchen!” Celia blurted. “And look, this is a junior one-bedroom. There really isn’t a living room, just a wide hallway! I don’t want to fill it up with things that will just be in my way!” She shook as she said all this, her anger seeping out of her in tiny tremors.
“But Mãe, you need furniture. Where are you going to sit?” Lydia countered, gesturing to the empty space. Arguing with her mother had become a reflex.
“Yes, Celia. Your place is very empty right now,” Ismail reasoned.
“Celia’s right. She should unpack and then decide what she wants,” Fatima said, backing toward the door. Celia thought it curious that the girl who knew her for the shortest amount of time often listened to her best.
“Well, you just let us know if you change your mind, and I’ll call my brother,” Antonio said, following Fatima to the door.
“Want me to stay and help unpack, Mãe?”
“There isn’t much to do. I’ll be fine.” They said their goodbyes, and left, but Ismail kept one foot in the door.
“I can stay and help, you know. I have time today.” She would have preferred him to leave, anxious to have her apartment to herself. But she knew that her time alone was coming and sensed the need behind his offer. She could wait a little longer.
“Yeah, sure, why not?” she said, and he rushed to open boxes.
— 42 —
Movement
Ismail saw Daphne again, one month later. He was on Queen Street, out for a stroll during his thirty-minute lunch hour, and there she was, across the street, standing outside the Eaton Centre. She wore a bright green sundress, much like the one she wore to the bar the day she wooed him into taking the writing class. She hadn’t yet spied him, and he debated about whether to call out to her. As he approached the crosswalk, she looked up, and she waved him over.
It wasn’t as Ismail expected it might be. It was the sort of conversation one might have at a class reunion with someone once very familiar. You might reminisce about the grouchy Tenth Standard teacher, or recall the funny story about when Dilip Mukherjee kissed Shanu Gupta and was sent to the office for discipline. With this person, there may be a sense of shared experience, and perhaps a deep fondness, but after a few good laughs, and the hot veg and non-veg buffet, it would be quite alright to say good night, and perhaps to not meet again for another ten years.
And so it was with Ismail and Daphne. When they embraced, he felt her bony spine through the thin fabric of her dress, and smelled the lavender in her hair. They updated one another about their achievements and successes: she and her girlfriend planned to marry that winter and one of her poems would soon be published in a local literary magazine. Ismail told her about dating Celia, finishing James’s creative writing class and meeting a new friend there. After the news, there was a brief, awkward pause. She said it had been nice to run into him again and he agreed that it had. And then, amidst the lunchtime shopping crowd, they parted company, pleased to have seen an old friend, but not yearning to meet again soon.
— * —
The autumn brought more change. Shelina and Hassan still wanted Fatima to come home and “straighten out,” but they didn’t harp on this each and every time they spoke. She visited them over the summer, secretly gathering information for the story she’d tried to write in James Busbridge’s class. These interviews opened up conversations the Khans had needed to have for a long time.
Her parents reinstated limited financial support, agreeing to pay for Fatima’s tuition and books. After she deposited their money, she switched her major to English and Creative Writing, realizing that writing wasn’t going to be just a hobby for her. She didn’t tell her parents about her academic program change until mid-September, when they couldn’t rescind their tuition payment. She’d expected renewed conflict, but surprisingly, they only kicked up a relatively minor fuss, perhaps wearied from the spring’s tensions. However, there were phone calls in which they lectured and scolded her for making a decision that wouldn’t “pay the rent.” In an ironic turn of events, Shelina even tried to enlist Ismail’s help in counselling her daughter toward a more practical vocation.
“She seems to listen to you. I don’t approve of it, but it’s the reality,” Shelina admitted. And then, she added, “I hope it wasn’t you who influenced her in this silly decision.”
He did have a talk with Fatima about her studies, and listened to her in a way probably impossible for a worried parent. She showed him the completed short story inspired by her parents, and he thought it was good. Only it wasn’t what he expected at all, a recounting of their immigrant experiences, or a tale of identity and angst. Rather it was about a set of fictional parents afraid to tell their teenage son that they were divorcing. In the story, they avoided the truth and the son discovered it through a family friend and felt betrayed.
“Do you think that was the crux of the matter for your parents? Not that you’re gay, but that they found out the way they did?”
“Well, the queer part wasn’t easy. And they’re still weird about that. But yeah. I think it was a betrayal for them not to know me. The betrayal of me growing up and having my own secrets, my own life.”
“You’ve got to get it published,” he said excitedly. She shrugged.
“What about your story?” She took the pages from him, and folded them. Ismail knew she wasn’t one to allow a compliment to linger long before turning the focus elsewhere. “Remember? You were going to write about your daughter? Do you still want to write about that?”
It was a topic they hadn’t discussed since that day after she’d Googled him and discovered his past, and his reaction was different now. His breath didn’t escape before he could catch it, his pores didn’t flood open in fear and he didn’t have an urge to rush out to the Merry Pint. Instead, he noticed a familiar melancholy waft through the room and settle on his shoulders. He lifted them, tested their strength, and let them drop again, realizing they were strong enough to hold what was landing there.
“Perhaps I’ll write it one day. But it doesn’t feel pressing,” he said.
— * —
It was the second anniversary of José’s passing. Earlier that day, Celia had been to Lydia’s house. The late autumn day was brisk, but the sun was bright, so they took Marco out for a walk to the park. They spoke about work, the new car Lydia and Antonio had purchased, and their holiday plans. While Marco ran in concentric circles around the jungle gym, the women stood quietly, the silences between them still awkward.
“You know Mãe …” Lydia ventured, “I think Ismail is OK. I think he’s nice.”
“You do?”
“I think it was just the timing of things that got me so upset. I thought you were ending your mourning just to be with him and forgetting all about …” she sniffed, not able to finish her sentence.
“You know I won’t ever stop mourning, I won’t ever forget.” Celia felt her own eyes moisten as her daughter began to cry. “But listen, it’s good. Life is … it’s good. Sometimes, I even feel happy. I have whole days now when I don’t feel sad,” she said, squeezing Lydia’s hand.
“I know, I know. I don’t know why I’m so emotional,” she said wiping her eyes, “I’ve been like this for days now.” Celia put her arm around her daughter’s waist, sensing the answer.
“Are you late?”
“Late?”
“Late with your menstrução?” Celia clarified.
“How’d you know? It’s just been
two weeks, so we weren’t going to say anything until a couple more weeks passed.” This made more tears leak from Lydia’s eyes.
Celia laughed, and held her weeping daughter.
Later at home, she stood in her galley kitchen and undid the tape on a white bakery box. Inside was a slice of lemon meringue pie, her mother’s favourite, and beside it, a piece of chocolate cream cake. She lifted both onto a single plate, and inserted a candle into each.
She lit a match, her hand trembling, and looked around her quiet apartment, searching the corners for ghostly company. There was none, and she didn’t mind. The wicks became flame.
She closed her eyes, and made a wish.
— * —
That October, Fatima brought home a Polaroid camera she found at a yard sale. Wanting to test it out, she made everyone pose for her, in various groupings.
“I’ve got lots of film, come on you guys!” she instructed. “Wait, first the two of you,” she said, pointing to Ashton and Sonia. Then she waved in Celia and Ismail.
While Ismail crowded in with the others, he tried to calculate how many photos she’d have to take if she shot every possible combination. He mentally listed:
Ismail and Celia
Ismail and Fatima
Fatima and Sonia Gandhi
Sonia Gandhi and Ashton …
And then, side-tracked by the commotion, he gave up his calculations.
At the end of the photo shoot, he took a picture of Fatima and Celia. Fatima pulled out the snapshot, blew on it, the image gradually forming, filling the white space. She pressed the photo into his palm with a shy smile. He took it to work, and tacked it up on his cubicle wall.
His worries about Celia moving out on her own turned out to be unfounded. She seemed happier, and they continued seeing one another as often as before. Sonia Gandhi, too, was a constant visitor at 82 Lochrie, as the girls continued to date that autumn.
Ismail reflected on how, just a year earlier, his house had been an empty shell. Now, it overflowed with noise and women. They filled the silence with their voices, crowded the bathroom counter with feminine beauty products, ate all the food in his fridge.
Sometimes, the old memories were there too, extra guests in an already full house. He’d shut his eyes and follow their whispers, hear their sad regrets, visiting with Zubi and Rehana and remembering times he’d rather forget. Like quicksand, the memories would pull him deep into his past, his body sinking, his head about to go under. Then, from down the hall, he’d hear an odd ringtone and be distracted by a young woman talking too loudly on her cellphone. He’d eavesdrop on her chatter, vicariously entering the world of a twenty-year-old. He’d barely understand most of what she’d be talking about, but nevertheless, her voice would rescue him from the mud.
When he’d open his eyes again, he might see before him a woman with flowers in her eyes. They’d walk outside, hands entwined, noticing drapes fluttering, or lying still. They might survey the little houses and shops of Little Portugal, taking in the overgrown autumn gardens, the stately churches whose bells called out each and every Sunday, without fail. They’d stroll past three generations of women and girls walking home together with their groceries. They’d greet house-proud older men, hoses in hand, washing their front walks.
Just like the changes they’d witnessed from within 82 Lochrie, Ismail and Celia would know that everything outside and around them was in motion, too. With each moment, something was changing, stretching, growing. Lives were beginning, and others were ending. The movement might be minute, perhaps imperceptible to the naked eye, but certainly, definitely, real.
Glossary
Agonias: A culturally specific condition (experienced by some Azorean immigrants) that includes emotional, spiritual, and physical symptoms.
Arroz doce: Portuguese rice pudding.
Badam halwa: A South Asian dessert made of almonds and clarified butter.
Bhai: Brother. Often used to show respect for an older brother.
Biryani: A South Asian dish made with rice, meat, vegetables, and spices.
Bom dia: Good day.
Burfi: A South Asian sweet made with condensed milk, sugar, and other ingredients.
Chalo: Come on! Let’s go!
Daal: Curried lentils.
Desi: South Asian.
Dupatta: A South Asian scarf, often worn over the head or around the shoulders.
Frango no púcara: A Portuguese chicken dish made with vegetables, ham, wine, port, and spices.
Gandu: An Indian curse word to describe someone who is idiotic.
Hijabi: A woman who wears a hijab, a traditional Muslim head covering.
Kachumbar: South Asian salad made with onions, tomatoes, cucumber, and chilies.
Kakaji: Father’s brother. The ji connotes respect.
Kameez: A South Asian long tunic-type shirt.
Kofta: South Asian dish with meatballs or vegetarian balls.
Lassi: A South Asian yogourt-based drink.
Leitão assado: A Portuguese roast suckling pig dish.
Maasi: An auntie, and sometimes specifically a mother’s sister. Also spelled Massi.
Mãe: Mother.
Masjid: Mosque.
Menstrução: Menstruation.
Muitas felicidades: Best wishes.
Pai: Father.
Pastéis de nata: Plural from of pastel de nata, a Portuguese egg tart pastry.
Raita: A salad made with yogourt and cucumbers.
Shalvaar: Loose, pajama-like trousers.
Shrikhand: A creamy South Asian dessert made with yogurt, sugar, nuts, and spices.
Sabão: Soap.
Vovó: Grandma.
Acknowledgements
There were many people who helped me to develop this story.
Thanks to all those who read early versions and offered valuable feedback: Nuzhat Abbas, Saira Zubeiri, Teenah Edan, Emily Kingvisser, Sobia Ahmed, Susan Nosov, Rob Ferreira, Anjula Gogia, and Shauna Singh Baldwin.
For insights on matters botanical, municipal, and anatomical, I thank Hershel Russell, Mike Mulqueen, and Fariya Doctor.
For help with Portuguese-Canadian references, I thank Rob Ferreira, Marcelo Caetano, Clarinda Brandão, and Katia Gouveia. Dr. Susan James’s work on agonias provided inspiration for Celia’s emotional experiences.
Coleman Barks’s translation of Jelaluddin Rumi’s poem, “The Guest House,” was often on my mind when I wrote the passages relating to Ismail’s memories.
This novel is a work of fiction, and not about any particular case of what’s often referred to as “Hot Car Death.” My heart goes out to those who have suffered this experience.
I’d like to acknowledge the support I received from the Toronto Arts Council and the Ontario Arts Council, who provided funding which bought me more writing time.
Thanks to Beverley Slopen, my dedicated agent.
To all the fabulous staff at Dundurn, a big thank you for all your hard work. Special thanks to literary midwives Shannon Whibbs and Margaret Bryant.
I am grateful to all my family and friends who encourage and love me. There are too many of you to mention here.
As always, an immense debt of gratitude to my partner, Judith Nicholson.
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