Khalid looked up; he must have caught something in Tarek’s expression because he said softly, “I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“I think you do know. You’re just scared,” Tarek said, trying to keep a satisfied smile from playing at the corners of his mouth. Really, if he had known Khalid and Farzana were so easy to manipulate, he would have exorcised his anger years ago. He continued, “If I were you, I wouldn’t delay even for a single moment. A girl like Ayesha—well, she won’t stay single for very long.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Khalid felt reinvigorated. He knew now what he had to do, and he went over the list in his mind: (1) Ayesha, (2) Zareena, (3) Amir. Heart, family, friend.
He took a small detour on his way to work. When he arrived at his office at eight, Amir was lying on the sofa, one arm thrown over his face, fast asleep.
Khalid didn’t know how he had missed the signs: Amir’s backpack was under his desk, stuffed with clothes; a bag of toiletries, which he had mistaken for a large pencil case, sat on a shelf; there was a towel on the back of his rolling chair; and he kept a toothbrush in his drawer.
Amir had been sleeping at work for weeks. Andy the Bouncer had helped him to connect the dots: His friend was homeless.
Khalid nudged Amir awake. “Here,” he said, passing him a plastic hotel key card.
“What’s this?” Amir asked, sitting up.
“Room 522. I paid for two weeks. It’s close to work and the subway. Just until you get back on your feet.”
Amir looked at the plastic card, the usual smirking smile gone. “I don’t need your pity. I’m fine, okay?” He held the key card with the tips of his fingers.
Khalid shifted, feeling awkward. This conversation had gone a little differently in his head. He tried a joke to lighten the mood. “How could someone like me pity you? You get all the ladies, and I can’t even decide on one.”
Amir smiled, but his eyes were wary. He examined the card: Sleeptime Inn. “Too cheap to spring for a Marriott?” He placed the room key on Khalid’s desk.
“I have a wedding to pay for,” Khalid said weakly.
Amir sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Look at the two of us. We’re pathetic, bro. I don’t know who’s sadder—you’re still a virgin, and I got no place to stay.” He paused, thinking, and his face brightened. “Actually, I think it’s you. Definitely more sad.”
Khalid looked at his feet. “I think you have a drinking problem, Amir. I looked it up and there is an AA meeting nearby. I think you should go.”
“Nah, man. Not really my scene. I just hit a rough patch. I’ll be all right.”
Khalid sighed and closed his eyes. “. . . I could go with you, if you want.”
Some of the old fire lit up Amir’s eyes. “K-Man at an AA meeting? This I gotta see!” He slapped him on the back and headed off to the bathroom with his toothbrush.
Time for item number 2: Zareena. His sister had warned him she would be busy for a few days, but it was strange that she hadn’t responded to his last, pleading email. He found her cell number in his contacts and dialed.
The phone rang twice before it connected and a singsongy voice chirped, “The number you are calling has been disconnected.” It repeated the message in Hindi, Telugu and Marathi while Khalid stared. Zareena would have told him if she had changed phone numbers. His fingers shaking, he quickly typed an email:
Salams. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Are you okay? I’m starting to worry. Please respond.
He pressed Send and tried to concentrate on the website for WomenFirst Design. Despite his earlier discomfort and irritation with the project, everything was going well. He had Sheila, of all people, to thank for this. She had wanted to humiliate him by taking him off e-commerce and network security work to focus on the lingerie website exclusively. Which meant that for the past few weeks, his sole job had been to brush up on his website design skills. The end result was a huge update from their existing platform. He hoped Vanessa and Lorraine would be pleased when he presented it to them next week.
Tomorrow was also the first day of the conference. Khalid had taken the day off to help with set-up and to coordinate the Singles Mixer in the evening. He wasn’t exactly sure what a Muslim Singles Mixer was—maybe all the parents mingled, with their children’s pictures and marriage resumés in hand? Regardless, he would be present at the mosque for the entire day. And so would Ayesha.
Khalid felt a current of excitement rush through him at the thought. He hoped he would be able to steal a moment to speak with her, now that he finally had something to say. If all went well, he would soon be standing before Allah and pledging his love and loyalty to the right woman.
Amir returned from the bathroom. He picked up the room key from Khalid’s desk and slipped it into his pocket. “What time is this meeting? I have a hot date with a Pilates instructor after work.”
THE nearest AA meeting was held in the basement of the Holy Ghost Baptist Church, a five-minute walk from Livetech. Amir was in a good mood as they walked, smiling and joking as he chatted with Khalid, but he stopped abruptly at the entrance.
“Listen, maybe you should go on without me,” he said.
Khalid took note of the semi-wild look in Amir’s eyes, the grimace masquerading as a smile. “Amir, I’m not an alcoholic.”
“The first step is admitting you have a problem.”
Khalid paused, unsure what to do. Then he grabbed Amir’s arm and pulled, hard. Amir planted his feet firmly on the ground, but after a second he went limp and allowed himself to be led, like a child, to the basement of the church. The meeting was already in session, a small group of about fifteen people who took no notice of the new members. The participants were sitting on metal folding chairs or standing at the back of the room while a young woman talked at the front.
“It wasn’t until I ran out of money to buy diapers for my three-month-old son that I knew I had hit bottom,” the woman said. She was a petite white woman, dressed in a pastel sweater set straight out of 1995, with matching slacks. A string of pearls hung from her neck, and she reached for them often as she spoke. “My husband and I weren’t really talking. He didn’t know how to tell me I had a problem, but I knew. I just didn’t know what to do about it.” There was sympathetic nodding from the crowd.
The moderator squeezed the woman’s shoulder and read from a book, going over the twelve steps. The group broke for coffee and biscuits, and the participants milled around; a few exchanged smiles with Khalid. Amir kept his eyes on the ground, arms tightly folded. He looked terrified.
An older woman with long greying hair approached Khalid. “Welcome, friend. My name is Joyce. First time?” Khalid nodded.
“I am here with my friend,” he said, pointing to Amir, who had his back to Khalid and refused to make eye contact.
“Taking the first step is incredibly brave,” she said to Khalid. “I know your religious tradition forbids alcohol, so good for you.”
Amir glanced over at Khalid, who looked confused. His usual smirk began to creep back onto his face and he put an arm around his friend. “I kept telling him the same thing. He isn’t going to get better without help.”
Joyce patted Khalid on the arm. “Do you drink because you’re angry at the United States and their foreign policy?”
“I am sorry, Joyce, you have made an error. I am not an alcoholic.”
“Alcoholism is a disease that convinces you that you do not have it,” Joyce said, smiling. “Your friend was right to convince you to come. We’re going to be sharing more stories soon, and I hope you’ll feel comfortable speaking to the group.”
Looking far more cheerful and at ease, Amir filled a Styrofoam cup with strong coffee, grabbed a jelly cookie and took a seat on one of the chairs arranged in a circle.
The moderator, a preppy-looking white man with blocky glasses and a careful comb-over, began with the non-denominational prayer and welcome. “AA is a fellowship of men and women who s
hare their experience, strength and hope with each other. Welcome new and returning friends. We recognize that alcoholism is a disease, and we ask for a higher power to help us deal with our addiction. Would anyone else like to share their struggle today?”
Amir lifted his hand. “My friend Khalid would,” he said.
A dozen eyes looked at Khalid, taking in his white robe, skullcap and unruly beard.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Khalid said.
“She’s called Cleopatra—the Queen of Denial!” an older black man said from across the circle, and everyone laughed.
Khalid sighed. If this was the role he had to play to help his friend, he would do it. He sat up straight. “My faith is strong, and it has carried me through many dark times. I love Allah, and when I pray I feel at peace. But for the past little while, some things have bothered me. My mother wants me to be the perfect, dutiful son, but I am afraid I have lived by her rules at the expense of my own desires. I thought I knew what I wanted from life. I thought I knew exactly how my life should be lived, but I was wrong.”
The group was silent, thoughtful, and Khalid continued.
“Then I met a girl, and I started to wonder—maybe there was another way.”
“Khalid, can you be more specific?” the moderator asked.
“My mother is very controlling,” Khalid said, and as the words left his mouth, he realized they were true, even if he had never acknowledged them before. “I used to think she knew what was best for me, but lately . . . Well, I had to reconsider everything when she forced me into an engagement with a stranger.”
“How awful,” Joyce said. “That’s barbaric!”
Khalid shook his head. “It’s not awful. It’s what I thought I wanted, but after I met Ayesha, I realized there were many paths to love and happiness, and they didn’t all involve arranged marriage. When I came to that realization, it made me wonder what else my mother was wrong about. Like my sister.”
The moderator looked puzzled. “When did you start to drink?”
“Throughout,” Amir interrupted, catching Khalid’s eye. “He’s been drunk pretty much every day for the last year. That’s why he’s so broke. His roommates kicked him out when he used his rent money for booze for the fourth time. He can’t go home to his dad, not after the last time he messed up. His friends are no help either, and he has a lot of pride. Maybe too much.”
Khalid nodded, holding Amir’s eye. “I’m only sorry I didn’t realize it earlier, so I could help . . . myself.”
Amir half-shrugged. “This is a good first step. Maybe now you won’t feel so lost and alone.”
“Wherever you go, there you are,” Joyce said, patting Khalid on the knee.
Khalid wasn’t sure what she meant, but he appreciated the support. The meeting wrapped up soon afterwards, and Amir and Khalid walked out together.
“That felt really good,” Khalid said. “Let me know if you want me to come with you again.”
Amir laughed and then stopped in front of the crosswalk to face Khalid. “I came to Canada from Afghanistan when I was fourteen,” he said. “When I close my eyes at night, I can still hear the bombs. My mother and my sisters are still there. We buried them a week before we left.” Amir’s arms were crossed tightly once more, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Sometimes I just want to drown out the bombs, you know?”
Khalid nodded, even though he didn’t know, not really. “My mosque is hosting a youth conference this weekend,” he said instead. “No alcohol, but there will be a Singles Mixer. Why don’t you come?”
Amir grinned at his friend. “You can’t turn it off, can you?”
KHALID waited until he returned home to call Zareena’s landline, the number she’d told him to call only in case of emergency. His bedroom door was locked, and his nervousness grew the longer the phone rang.
Finally, after the twentieth ring, someone picked up. “Haaaallow?” a man’s voice called into the receiver. Was this Iqram, Zareena’s husband? He sounded angry.
“Assalamu Alaikum. This is Khalid Mirza, Zareena’s brother. I’m calling from Canada. Can I please speak to my sister?”
There was a moment of silence as the message floated across the ocean. Then the man started to laugh, a choking, wheezing sound that chilled Khalid.
“Gone!” the man barked. He reverted to Urdu and said, “If you’re her brother, where have you been all these years? She’s never spoken about you, not once.”
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Khalid asked, his heart pounding. He’d known something was wrong. “Where did she go?”
“Ungrateful girl, lazy and selfish. You know she burned my breakfast every morning? On purpose too. You can have her back.”
“But, but . . . she’s not here,” Khalid said. “Please, sir. Where is my sister?”
The man cackled, his voice nasty and insinuating. “Are you really her brother? Maybe you’re her boyfriend, the one she’s always texting and emailing. I tell you, she’s gone. Long gone! Forget her!” The man slammed the receiver down, and Khalid frantically called back, but it was no use. The phone rang and rang, forty times, a hundred times, but no one picked up.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Ayesha entered the mosque at nine on Friday morning, she was surprised to see Farzana, not Tarek, ordering around the crew of volunteers who were setting up for the conference. Everyone was petrified of her booming voice, and they jumped to attention as she strode around, criticizing everything they did.
“Where is Tarek?” she asked.
Farzana didn’t look at her. “I am not his keeper. Brother Tarek informed me he was finishing up a delicate matter that required his attention. He requested I step in to ensure things progressed smoothly.”
You didn’t even want this conference to happen, Ayesha thought. What’s going on?
Khalid stood on the stage, untangling power cords for the microphone and projector. He looked distracted but waved when he saw her. She frowned and walked away.
By noon, the gym was set up with enough tables and chairs to accommodate over five hundred conference attendees. The registration table by the front doors was staffed by three frightened-looking members of the youth committee, and conference signs had been posted everywhere, zealously taped to concrete walls by Aliyah Aunty’s teenage children. Other volunteers had set up tables and assembled copies of the conference program.
Ayesha was inside the large outdoor tent that would host the Singles Mixer that night. Khalid found her counting out cutlery for dinner.
“Assalamu Alaikum,” he greeted her. “Can I help you with that?”
He looked tired, as if he had not slept well last night. She wondered if he was worried about something. Ayesha returned his salams, her tone wary. Clara had cautioned against jumping to conclusions, but she wasn’t sure what to think of Khalid, not after Tarek’s disclosure.
“I’m fine,” she said, and she turned away. “I’m sure your mother needs your help inside.”
Khalid spoke from behind her. “If you have some time later tonight, I would like to speak to you regarding a personal matter.”
“We have nothing more to say to each other,” Ayesha said, dumping a pile of forks on a table with a clatter.
Khalid walked around the table to face her. “What if I bring you some kofta and paratha, will you talk to me then?”
Ayesha looked up. He had a half smile on his face. A curl had come loose from his white cap, and his hands were folded in front of him, as if in prayer. He met her gaze and then leaned forward. “Please,” he said softly. “Ayesha, I can’t stand this. I miss you.”
Hafsa came bounding up to them, and Ayesha jumped away, her heart thumping. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice breathy.
“I’m here to help, obviously.” Hafsa looked from Khalid to Ayesha, clearly annoyed. She turned to Khalid. “Why don’t you show me where the decorations are, sweetness?” she cooed. “I’ll probably need some help with that heavy banner
your mother ordered. You’re so strong—would you mind?”
Khalid gave Ayesha one last lingering look before following Hafsa inside the mosque.
The imam trotted up to Ayesha, his face wreathed in smiles. “Thank you for all your hard work, Sister Ayesha. Your website and posts have accomplished their goal. The conference is a success!”
Ayesha smiled, caught up with the imam’s enthusiasm. “I’m so happy things worked out. Where is Brother Tarek? I thought he would be here directing the set-up.”
Imam Abdul Bari cleared his throat. “He did not show up this morning. He left a voice message saying that he would be present this afternoon, that he had put Sister Farzana in charge while he attended to some personal business.”
“When will Sheikh Rafeek arrive?” Ayesha asked.
A look of panic crossed the imam’s face.
“Let me guess. Tarek promised to take care of that.” Ayesha sighed. “I’ll pick him up from the airport. Don’t worry, Sister Farzana has everything under control here.”
The imam smiled. “She is a force to be reckoned with.”
“Like a Category 4 hurricane,” Ayesha agreed.
“Make sure you are back in time for your poetry recitation!” the imam called out to her, but Ayesha didn’t hear him as she hurried to the parking lot.
“Ayesha!” a voice called out, and she spotted Masood. She wasn’t in the mood for another ridiculous conversation and ducked behind her car, but it was too late. He was already striding toward her.
“You never texted me back.” Masood was wearing a short-sleeved black button-down shirt and khakis, his hair slicked back. On his shirt was the logo for his company, Better Life Wholistic.
Ayesha stood up and pasted a smile on her face, resigned to a few minutes of catch-up chat. “I was busy with work. Nice to see you again, Masood,” she said.
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