by Farah Cook
‘Afrah, who lies buried next to your husband?’
‘She is presumed dead,’ my face twitches, ‘but I still dream about her.’
The incident plays on a loop in my head. I left without telling anyone. I had to get away. The fire took everything away from me and there was nothing left for me to stay behind. I only had scraps of memories, that had survived in the shed. Photographs, original birth certificates, news clippings and old tapes. The silver box containing broken seashells. And then there’s her diary. A trail to the past. I kept it all in the box.
A fresh start was what I needed for myself and for Amira. So I ran away.
‘Who do you still dream about, Afrah?’
I turn around and wipe away the tears welling in my eyes. Zahra stands in front of me, her face awash with sympathy. ‘I am to blame. I did something unforgivable.’
‘What did you do?’ There’s no judgement in her voice. She draws close with a sympathetic look in her eyes. ‘Afrah? Don’t be afraid. You can tell me.’
I release the tension from my mind. ‘There was a fire, a terrible fire with flames everywhere. Our house burned down. It was my fault. My husband didn’t survive. Only Amira and I made it out alive. She was with us in the house. It was front-page news. Her picture was everywhere. She had disappeared after the fire. We looked for her everywhere for weeks. The police, the search parties. There was no trace of her. Everyone presumed she was dead. I never got over it.’
‘Who is presumed dead, Afrah?’ says Zahra. ‘Please tell me, was it the girl who had a bad influence on your daughter?’
I shake my head.
‘Then who was it?’
‘She destroyed my old cassettes with my favourite music on it that was precious to me. Showed no shame. No guilt. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I struck her so hard she had a nosebleed. I regret what I did.’ I place my hands in my lap and look up at Zahra. ‘I used to call her something else. I had this name for her. Meri—’
‘Meri what?’ Zahra takes my hand and holds it in hers.
The name slips from my tongue. I haven’t said her name out since that fateful day.
‘Afrah,’ says Zahra. ‘Sometimes it helps to talk about things.’
‘I never told Amira about it because she would ask questions.’
‘What don’t you want Amira to know, Afrah?’
‘That I had another daughter, Mona. She was only fourteen years old. She was in the house when it caught fire and has been missing ever since. It was front-page news.’
I can hear someone running down the hallway, away from my room. Someone who was listening in. Someone else who now knows my secret.
PART THREE
Confessions
Chapter 27
Sunday, 10th August 1986
Dear Diary,
I’m so angry with Mum for lots of reasons. But mainly for what she did. She took the piercing out while I was asleep. The hole sealed overnight. She denied it and said in her mocking voice, I don’t know what you are talking about. And it just made me even more angry. It’s my nose, why does she get to decide what I do with it?
Mum said I was a role model to my younger sister. I squirmed. The little brat does my head in. I wish she would stop coming to my room, nagging me all the time. She always, always leaves a mess, so I told her I’d bury her bed with spiders while she was asleep if she ever set foot in my room again. Her eyes doubled. I hope she stays away.
Dad took me out – we went for ice cream and a drive along the beach. I was so happy I could spend time with him. He’s been so busy tutoring privately on the weekends and in the evenings. I’ve not seen him like in forever. He asked me what was going on between the two us? As in Mum and me. He looked frustrated and said we used to be so close. And I told him she doesn’t care about me. All Mum cares about is herself. Dad just put a hand on my shoulder. He smiled like he didn’t believe me. I told him it’s true. Told him Mum hates me! She also hates that I hang out with the Pashtun family and says Naima has a bad influence on me.
Dad said Mum doesn’t hate me. She’s just a little stubborn sometimes. But why can’t she be more like Dad? I hate that she is so stubborn. Why does she always have to ruin everything? I told dad that I wish she would be normal. Dad smiled again and told me not to be so hard on her. He gave me a warm look and said that deep inside Mum loves me.
Dad talked nonsense. What does it mean to love ‘deep inside’? Mum just keeps the love I deserve locked away. What’s the point in that? I told Dad. It’s the same thing as not loving me. Dad pushed Mum’s tape into the cassette player. A silly song spat out an annoying melody: It’s a sunny Sunday. A fun day.
Mum likes listening to Hindi and Qawwali songs and often hums along to ones like this. I told Dad I don’t like listening to Mum’s cassettes. I wanted him to play something else. Jennifer Rush, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson. Anything else but Mum’s cassettes.
I also told him I don’t understand why she listens to it. He said it connects her to her culture. She grew up in Pakistan and holds different views. She is traditional. Whatever that means. If she is that traditional why doesn’t she go back I said. Dad laughed and said tradition is also to be close to your family. He said when he and Mum get old they want me to be there to care for them. I stared out the window, ignored what Dad went on about. I never want to care for Mum. She never cares about me.
After we came home from the drive along the beach, I went to Mum’s bedroom and reeled the tapes of all her favourite cassettes and put them in the brat’s room. I left them on the floor. Later, I saw Mum chucking them in the bin, and when she wasn’t looking, I took them out. I waited for her to say something. But she never said anything. She protected the brat. She always protects her. I wish she would go away. I wish she’d never been born. We were fine, before she arrived. The day she was born, Mum changed. She stopped loving me.
Mum put on the radio and listened to English and American songs. Finally, I asked her, What happened to all your favourite cassettes? Mum didn’t say anything. That’s when I told her it was me. I destroyed them. I threw the broken cassettes at her feet. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hurt her back.
That was when Mum lost it. She went nuts and slapped me so hard I had a nosebleed. Even Dad told her she was overacting. She dragged me up and slammed the door to my room. Mum said I had been a very, very silly ladki. Dad came upstairs later and said I should make up with Mum. I used my rule. I lied: ‘Okay daddy. I’ll be the daughter she wants me to. I’ll be a good girl.’
But I wasn’t.
Last night, a black spider with thick legs scurried across the wall. I didn’t even shiver when I saw it. I knew exactly what to do. It was twitching irritably as I pinched it by its hairy leg. I opened the door to her bedroom and put it on Amira’s little face, numb with sleep. ‘Sweet dreams, little brat.’ I nudged it with my finger. The spider didn’t move. Next time, I’ll need more. I’ll get a bunch of them. I nudged it again before it scuttled down her perfect little Kashmiri nose. Her hand wiped like a windscreen all over her face. She scratched her nose and felt the itch. She opened her eyes and screamed. Mum came running out. I was already in my room watching them through the opening. She held Amira close to her heart, her little eyes wet with tears.
I wish she’d hold me like that when I cried.
I wish Mum would love me the way she used to.
Chapter 28
AMIRA
Saturday, 21 December 2019
Diya has offered to help me search for flats online. She scrolls through property sites with me, putting in my search criteria.
‘If you could sell for asking price, chances are you’ll get a good one-bed in town.’ Diya is savvy and knows the market and neighbourhoods in and around Inverness well. She sold Nisha’s house in a bidding war and spent months searching for her dream home, a beautiful house in the Highlands overlooking Loch Ness. She calls it her ‘settlement reward’ after getting divorced from Jim.
/> ‘What about a studio?’ I bite my lower lip. I don’t tell Diya it is likely the fire incident will knock down the asking price. A studio is not ideal. I wanted Shafi to have his own room when he stays with me. But he can always sleep on a sofa bed.
A flicker of doubt appears in her eyes. ‘You plan on staying single?’
‘For now I am.’ I don’t care to think about marriage, or family. I want to study something creative instead. Design, fashion or, perhaps, art.
‘What’s the mortgage on a studio like?’ I ask.
‘Depends on the location. How central do you need to be? Don’t tell me you want to stalk your ex living right next to him.’
‘You know me better than that. I respect Haroon.’
‘He cheated on you with the woman he worked with and left you while your mum suffered from dementia. How can you still be talking to that bastard?’
‘He also helped me a lot,’ I say, in his defence. ‘When Mum was diagnosed, it took a hard toll on our marriage. I don’t blame him for leaving.’ Mum stopped recognising Haroon. She would push him out of the house and shout, Stay away from my daughter. He felt rejected and hurt. His masculinity and ego shaken. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t recognise him anymore. Just like she can’t recognise Shafi or the man in the frame as her husband.
‘Don’t tell me you are accountable for his screwing another woman.’
‘It’s not like that – you wouldn’t understand. Haroon cheating was a result of what went on in our marriage. But I have forgiven him. He’s done enough to redeem himself.’
‘Like what?’ Diya tilts her head.
‘Arranged for Mum to see specialists, made several appointments with the memory loss clinic. Appointments I missed. He even recommended Ravenswood Lodge. What ex-husband does that? He checked in on Mum to make sure she’s settled.’
‘Has she?’
‘Haroon said she had. And she seems happy whenever I visit. Why do you ask?’ I don’t mention Mum losing her things. She is forgetful and it’s nothing to be worried about.
‘The place gives me shivers. Ranveer suggested Ma be there, I agreed, and pay my share every month.’
‘You don’t want her to be there?’ I ask. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, it’s just not that cheap to keep her in a first-class private facility. Yes, they care for the elderly and for people with physical disabilities, including Alzheimer’s – and so on, but to be honest—’ she hesitates to go on.
‘But what?’
‘Ma’s memory is fine. Sometimes she forgets faces and places and disappears into a void. It takes her a while to return to normality. The doctors said it’s the effect of her stroke and I shouldn’t worry.’
‘But you do, don’t you?’ I think of how much I worry about Mum.
She nods. ‘Ma is old and vulnerable. She is unable to recall whatever goes on in the timeframe she blacks out. And that really worries me. In the freefall of her moment of blankness anything could happen, and she wouldn’t be able to remember. I took her jewellery. I don’t fully trust the people working at the care home. What do you think of it?’
I don’t tell Diya I packed all of Mum’s jewellery. I shouldn’t have. Mum said her things were missing.
‘I don’t like the idea of Mum being in a care home. The location is rural, and it takes a while to drive out there via those winding dark roads, lurking with deer and other creatures. And that old Victorian manor – you’re right. The place also gives me the shivers. But I had no say. Mum was granted a place by the council. They have carers and nurses to look after patients around the clock; a community of their own. Like you said, it’s a first-class care home. I wouldn’t be able to afford to keep Mum there. I don’t expect to pay frequent visits. I’ll be going out there once a week when she’s settled, to see how she’s doing. I really am in no position to make any complaints.’
‘Expect complaints if you swing by once a week to visit her. Ma complains all the time that I never visit. You know what it’s like. I somehow can’t get over Ravenswood’s dark history. I started looking into it. Believe me, some spooky things went on in that house.’
‘Like what?’
‘The killings. They used to burn witches out there. Ma has trouble sleeping. She said she saw a woman in white with a veiled face wandering around the halls at night holding a candle. She was sure it wasn’t a patient or carer. I mean, who would do that? Disturbing, don’t you think?’ Diya shakes her shoulders.
‘What are you saying? That the house is haunted?’
She shrugs. ‘An article was featured in the papers about the care home. One of their patients died in her sleeps. Alice Clark. I find that bizarre. What’s also bizarre is that they have installed no security cameras in or outside the care home. A “very traditional place”, or so they say. Who knows what goes on when no one is watching.’
Alice Clark . . . I remember Haroon telling me when I met him at the café that Mum got her room. It’s what made it possible for her to get a space at Ravenswood Lodge.
‘Why should they, when it’s such a small facility? They trust their staff. Haroon tells me Mum’s been lucky. She has a Pakistani carer looking after her, a friend of his family. That’s one of a few reasons I’ve kept off from contacting her too much. She’s bonded with her.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Ma is happy with Margaret, it’s just—’
‘You are giving me reason to worry! Should I?’ I raise my brows.
‘No,’ she smiles. ‘Of course not. When are you visiting your mum again?’
‘Tomorrow – time doesn’t work in the same way for her as it does for me.’ I pull out my phone to see if Ravenswood Lodge sent an email back confirming my visit. Nothing.
‘Well, you’ll see she’s doing fine. If anything, it helps make the guilt go away.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I stopped visiting her. Ma would call me every freakin’ day. She mainly calls to complain. Ma never accepts me for who I am. I wish she’d look at me and say, Diya, you are enough. I love you as you are. But no, instead she stalks me on Instagram and posts bad comments on every one of my posts.’
‘Really?’ I raise my brows. I can’t imagine Nisha would do such a thing.
Diya nods. ‘My friend’s mother, a widow, decided to move back to India and live in an ashram. Ranveer didn’t like the idea when I made the suggestion. He’s always been her favourite. “Ma needs care,” he said. “The best she can get. We owe it to her.” How did your mum take the news when you broke it to her?’
‘Mum wasn’t keen when I first told her. You know how it is in our culture. We look after our parents when they are old. We do not abandon them. Guilt is one thing. Another one is blame or even shame. Mum started saying, “I am not pagal.” She believed I was sending her to the care home because she had become a burden. As I was about to leave she kept saying, ‘“Don’t leave me! Mimi, I will never forgive you if you leave me.”’
‘Gosh Mira, I’m so sorry you had to experience that. How did you cope?’
‘I had to keep telling myself, you gotta be cruel to be kind, and then I left.’
‘No wonder you feel guilty,’ says Diya. ‘I’ve had Ma push the emotional switch. It doesn’t matter what I do, she’s always disappointed. And then it is always my Ranveer this and my Ranveer that. You’re lucky you never had to experience any sibling rivalry.’
‘I always wanted to have a sister or a brother. Someone I could talk to.’
‘Be happy you didn’t. It took a lot of therapy and self-help books to accept who I am,’ says Diya. ‘Now I tell myself I am not a failure. I am good enough no matter what.’
We both laugh; who would have thought we would be sitting and sharing the effects our cultural upbringing has had on us? Diya’s words evoke my feelings that I’ve kept suppressed for all the years I cared for Mum. I love her and I loathe her for the same reasons Diya lined up.
A message pops up on the laptop screen from Meena.
>
Thelonelymouse: Hey love, you online?
Diya looks at me suspiciously. ‘You seeing someone called Thelonelymouse and haven’t told me?’
‘It’s not what you think! She is a friend of mine who works as carer.’
‘And so is Bob,’ Diya folds her arms over her chest. ‘“We’re friends” he said.’
‘You need to stop dating Americans.’
‘I’ll date any Dick and Harry. For I shall never marry again.’ We both laugh.
I check my phone again.
Thelonelymouse is typing.
Thelonelymouse: I have a favour to ask. Could we meet somewhere and talk? It’s sort of urgent. I really need you, Amira.
‘What does your friend want?’
‘Nothing,’ I snap shut the laptop and smile. ‘So, what flats have you arranged to show me this afternoon?’
Diya pulls out her phone and swipes through a list of homes. She has been busy.
It’s late at night when I unlock the front door and hit the light switch. I hang my bag on the hook. I am exhausted after the flat viewings. I saw five cold and clinical little cells that I couldn’t imagine living in. I want something warm, homey. I guess I have to keep looking.
I go into the kitchen and pour cat food into Mano’s bowl and switch on my laptop again. There’s a message being typed from Meena. I pull up a chair and take a seat.
Thelonelymouse: Amira, hey love, you online?
She must have been waiting for me since her last message.
Nursemira: Are you OK? Sorry I was busy, couldn’t speak before.
Thelonelymouse: I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, but I really need your help.
Nursemira: Has something happened? You can tell me.
Thelonelymouse: I’m struggling. You know the family I am living with, I don’t think I can stay with them anymore. I mean, I adore the little boy I’m looking after, but something has happened and I think I have to leave. I am so afraid. Thought maybe we could meet in person – we’ve been meaning to anyway. You’ve been such a good friend to me.