I'm With Anxious

by Suzanne Brown

  Half the men are wearing long, cream robes while the other half are donning crisp, dark suits. The women add striking splashes of color to the dark night. I see kaftans in rich crimson, deep purple, pale peach, dark pink, and even deep blue like mine. A few women are wearing colorful headscarves, but most have their hair flowing free.

  Auntie greets me. “Aicha, you look stunning!” She hands me a glass of milk. “For love,” she explains. Then she hands me a date, and winks. “And for fertility.”

  I know this is typical to give wedding guests, but hearing my aunt say “fertility” makes me blush. I hope she doesn’t expand on what she means, and luckily, the band begins playing and saves me.

  “Your sister is arriving!” Auntie announces. She grabs my hand and tugs me to the front of the mob that’s suddenly crowded near the dance floor. Mum floats out of the mob to stand beside me.

  She smiles warmly. “You look beautiful, my darling.”

  My body hums with happy.

  The door opens, and Malika’s soon-to-be husband, Youssef, leads the lavish procession onto the roof. He’s dressed elegantly in a dark suit, his black hair short and cropped, and his grin huge. Behind him, four men are holding up a throne called an amaria. Each man is dressed in a long, avocado-colored robe trimmed in gold, and wearing a red fez on their head. The amaria is elaborately adorned with gold and pearls, and has four white pillars holding up a thin roof.

  My beautiful sister is sitting on a pillow under the roof. Her silk kaftan is the palest pink and finely beaded with gold and silver. Her dark hair is flowing down from a golden tiara, and she’s waving to everyone and grinning with such elation that her eyes are nearly closed. All the guests clap and cheer as the procession makes its way across the rooftop, and I make certain I’m whooping the loudest.

  The men set the amaria down. Youssef extends his hand, helps Malika up from her perch on the pillow, and leads her to sit on a purple velvet couch. This is the meet-and-greet part of the wedding where the guests can congratulate the bride-and-groom. Mum and I hurry over so we can greet them first. Youssef is holding Malika’s hand tight, and they are both grinning like crazy.

  I lean over to give her Malika hug. “You look so happy and so beautiful,” I burble. I don’t know why but I feel tears in my eyes, and I don’t want them. I shake them off and laugh. “Tell me that ride was as fun as it looked?”

  Malika only has time to nod before Mum gently pulls me to stand beside her as the mob arrives. The guests greet the bride-and-groom, and we greet the guests. It’s a whirlwind of talking, and laughing, and flashes of light that goes on and on, but I love every second of being surrounded with so much love and joy.

  When Malika leaves to change outfits, Mum motions to the dance floor. “Go have some fun, Aicha.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. I want to make sure everyone is happy tonight, and that includes Mum.

  She nods. “Yes, I’m absolutely sure. I need to check on the dinner preparations.”

  “Do you need my help?” I ask, secretly hoping she says no. Dancing sounds way more fun.

  She shakes her head, kisses me on the cheek, and smiles. “No, thank you. I’m fine. You deserve to be happy tonight, too.”

  I like the sound of that so I make my way over to the dance floor, feel the music and just let go. Almost immediately a group of my cousins join me, and soon we’re all jumping around like lunatics together. Crazy, dancing lunatics! And I don’t care one bit what I look like. Cause I’m happy.

  The music slows and couples start to pair up. After the Nils fiasco in Iceland, I’m not feeling particularly romantic, so I excuse myself from the group and find Mum standing by the door.

  “Perfect timing,” Mum says. Her red lips spread into a huge grin as she nods to the stairway. “There’s the beautiful bride now.”

  Malika walks onto the rooftop wearing a violet kaftan embroidered with bright silver swirls. Her hair is twirled into a low bun at the nape of her neck.

  I clap my hands together. “I take back what I said earlier. Now you are even more beautiful!”

  Malika laughs. “Spoken by the best sister ever.”

  I’m about to give her a hug, but her face lights up at something over my shoulder. I turn to see what she loves more than her sister and am not really surprised to see Youssef rushing to her. He caresses her cheek and whispers something in Malika’s ear that makes her blush and grin even wider. A memory of Lottie’s Dillon pops into my mind so fast that I can’t stop it.

  They were ice-skating on Conifer Lake around Thanksgiving. The sky had turned dark, threatening a snowstorm, so most people had gone home and Lottie and Dillon had the lake all to themselves. They skated hand in hand, around and around, in a peaceful rhythm that Lottie never wanted to end. But then Lottie hit an uneven chunk of ice, completely lost her balance and pulled Dillon down with her. They both laughed so hard. Then as big, fat, fluffy flakes floated down all around them, Dillon leaned close, caressed her cheek and whispered, “I love you, Lottie.” It was the first time he ever said it, with the snow falling gently around them, cocooning them in a moment of warmth.

  They had only been dating a month. But they both knew.

  Or she thought they did.

  My heart races, and my palms grow clammy. That memory should make me happy, but it doesn’t. That moment was happy for Lottie. For me. But it was followed by terrible pain when Dillon fell in love with someone else. I was right to leave Lottie behind. To leave George in Texas. Love can be joyous, but it’s also so very painful, and I just don’t understand how joy and pain can co-exist. It would be like mixing cheesy puffs and strawberry milk. It may seem like a good combination at first, but it’s bound to make you sick.

  As Lottie knows.

  I feel Mum’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” Her eyes are concerned. “You suddenly look so pale.”

  Everyone around us is singing and laughing, and I want to be happy with them so I shove that memory down deep, and force a smile. “Yes, I’m great. I’m even better than great. I’m so great.”

  Mum frowns. “I think you need something to eat.” She grabs my hand and leads me over to the table where Malika and Youssef are already seated and feeding each other pastillas.

  Mum sits next to Malika and pulls me to sit next to her. She places a pastilla on my plate. “Eat,” she orders.

  The pastilla smells like cinnamon and makes my mouth water. Maybe I am hungry. I bite into the flaky pastry and moan with happiness. It’s hot, and the filling tastes like chicken mixed with almond. This will definitely make me feel better.

  Lottie’s mama used to say she got angry when she was hungry. Hangry she called it. She always gave Lottie a snack and a hug whenever she was hangry. She was always there for Lottie.

  No! Stop thinking about that. That’s behind us. Think of something funny.

  Hangry. That’s a funny word. Macadamia. That’s another funny word. Flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. Blubber. Brouhaha. Doozy. Kerfuffle. Flatulence. Fart. Fart. Fart.

  I giggle.

  “Feeling better?” Mum asks with a smile.

  I nod and take another pastille.

  We spend the next hour feasting. We have steaming couscous mixed with delicate lamb and caramelized onions, an aromatic tagine of tender beef and sweet apricots, and a jumble of brightly colored fruits. I eat so much that my belly poofs out like a happy Buddha.

  Malika leaves to change again so I head back out onto the dance floor. I focus only on the happiness surrounding me. The bright music. The cheery faces. The lively singing. I shut my mind to anything negative. It’s after midnight, but I don’t feel tired. I feel energized, and happy, and alive.

  Malika and Youssef reappear together this time. They are each seated on their own cushioned platform carried by four men. Youssef has changed into a white, silk jabador- it looks like a fancy, floor-length hoodie. Malika is finally wearing the traditional labssa fassia. Her dress is a striking gold and forest green, and her golden headdress
makes her look like a female King Tut.

  Everyone sings and cheers as Malika and Youssef are paraded around the rooftop. They lead everyone in more dancing, and before I realize it another few hours have passed and Malika leaves for her last outfit change.

  I finally feel tired. I find a seat by the stairwell door and just look around me. It’s 4 AM, and all of the guests are still here, dancing and laughing and happily enjoying every second of this celebratory moment.

  Mum plops into a chair next to me. Tiny lines have formed at the edges of her eyes, and her hair is a bit ruffled. She looks tired, but her red lips are grinning, and her eyes are still full of joy. “Are you having a good time?”

  I nod. “An amazing time. This really is the best wedding ever.”

  She smiles. “I hope so. I just want Malika to be happy.” She pauses. “That is what we always wanted.”

  I watch sadness cross her face, and know that when she said “we” she was talking about her husband. I start to panic.

  “The way Youssef looks at Malika is the way your father used to look at me,” she murmurs. Her smile is still bright, but her eyes glisten with tears. “I still love him, you know. After all these years, I still love him with all my heart.”

  I watch a few tears escape her perfectly lined eyes and I just can’t understand what’s happening. Here it is again. Love is supposed to be fun and happy and warm butterflies in your stomach. Not tears and sadness. I didn’t like feeling that way with George, and Lottie sure as heck didn’t like feeling that way when Dillon moved on to someone new. Is love really worth this sadness? This pain? I just don’t know. Bittersweet is meant for chocolate, not for love.

  Mum squeezes my hand and gives me a soft smile. “And one day we will do it all for you, my darling.”

  Um, that would be a big fat, no thanks. Don’t get me wrong. The wedding part has been super fun, but I don’t think I want any part of this sad/happy roller coaster called love. I’m meant to be happy. That is what I’ve chosen.

  “Is this Malika’s last outfit for tonight?” I ask.

  Mum wipes her tears, and nods. Her lips spread into a grand smile, wrinkles deepening the creases around her eyes that again fill with tears. “And there she is.”

  Malika and Youssef walk hand-in-hand onto the rooftop. Malika truly is glowing with happiness and love and life. Her white, silk kaftan is bejeweled with luminescent pearls and shimmering, silver beads. Her dark hair is loose and flowing. She looks just like an angel.

  Mum hurries over to greet them, but I stay seated and just watch.

  Youssef, still in his dark suit, leads my beautiful sister out to the dance floor. Right now they both look beyond happy. I truly hope this feeling lasts forever for them… but who knows what the future may hold.

  It’s funny. Even though I’m only borrowing Aicha’s body, I feel like the Lottie part of me has really come to love Malika like a sister. Unconditionally. Without wanting anything in return. I smile. It feels nice.

  And Mum really loves Aicha, despite her flaws. Just like Lottie’s mama. She probably would have forgiven me for everything I did. If I gave her the chance.

  But I don’t think I’ll have that chance.

  Well, this wedding has been a blast. Malika’s happy. Mum’s happy. And I’m really happy for all of them. But I’ve stayed too long and gotten too attached.

  It’s time for me to move on.

  Yo, Soul! Wake up, big dude. It’s time to say goodbye. I learned a lot. Really. I’ll concede that real love may be worth the occasional pain for some people, but I’ll pass for now. I still think happy all-the-time is the way to go. So, how about we continue this amazing partnership and head somewhere else happy? Comprendo, amigo?

  I close my eyes, and smile.

  CHAPTER 31

  I choose to be me

  I know I’ve jumped bodies again because now I’m so awesome at this.

  Ha! Just kidding, Soul.

  I know because the wedding music suddenly mutated into beeping horns; and exhaust and road tar assault my nose. I barely register any nausea this time, but my heart is racing and I do feel really sweaty.

  I open my eyes.

  Whooosh! BEEP!

  I’m straddling my bicycle on the side of the road as cars and trucks whiz by me. I’m wearing tennis shoes and a long-sleeved, printed dress over jeans. I peek into the little bike mirror perched on my handlebar and see that I’m sporting wide black sunglasses and a bright blue headscarf over my deep black hair. Something clicks, and I know immediately who I am.

  I really am getting the hang of this soul wandering thing!

  I’m a fifteen-year-old girl named Zahra, and I’m part of one of the very first girls bike clubs in Kabul, Afghanistan.

  Cool! How kickazz am I? Especially rockin’ these awesome shades.

  I pedal out into the road. A car honks at me, and a man inside yells at me in Dari, “You should not be riding!” But I don’t care. I just pedal faster.

  I know I risk my life every time I ride. Women are no longer banned from riding bikes, but many people still think it’s immoral, and I’m going to change this taboo.

  Besides, I love the freedom I feel when I ride. It gives strength to my voice. I feel strong and free and independent. Plus, I can now get to school and the market so much faster and safer.

  I reach the market, and stop in front of my favorite stall that sells the best bolani. It also happens to be run by my brother, Hamid.

  He wipes his hands on his shalwar kameez and grins at me. “Looking good, Zahra,” he says with a sparkle in his walnut eyes. “I just know you’ll make the Olympics one day.”

  My brother is my biggest fan. I smile. “Thanks.”

  Hamid is older than me, and always tells me that times are changing and women can do anything. In fact, he taught me to ride. He studies at the university when he’s not selling bolani. We live in a four-room house on the outskirts of Kabul with our parents, our uncle and his wife, our five cousins, our younger brother, and our four sisters.

  Wow! Fourteen of us live in a four-room house?

  I also used to have a twin brother, but he died recently in a bombing.

  I really am tuning into this body fast! Yay me!

  Wait a minute.

  My twin brother died in a bombing? I was here in Kabul just a few days ago as a boy. I was buried in rubble after a bombing, and then shot. Was I here as my twin brother? And now I’m back as his twin sister?

  Okay, Soul. What’s up with coming back here? What do you have up your sleeve, you sly fox?

  Hamid hands me a bolani. I bite into the triangle-shaped, soft flatbread and savor the rich pumpkin and leeks that are in it today.

  Hamid waves to someone behind me. “Tariq!” he yells.

  I turn and see a guy about the same age as my brother. He approaches us, embraces my brother, and they kiss each other on both cheeks. I know this is not because they are lovers, but because they are friends and this is a common greeting here. But either way I don’t mind.

  Whoa, baby. Look at me. I have come a long way.

  “What did you think of Professor Habibullah’s lecture today?” Hamid asks, his eyes wide.

  Tariq gestures excitedly. “That was by far the best he’s given all year.”

  “And who knew crap could be so interesting?” Hamid laughs.

  “Why is crap interesting?” I mumble as I chew.

  Hamid explains. “You know those concrete ditches on the side of the road that hold all the poop and stuff?”

  I nod. Ick. And double ick. They’re worse than an overflowing port-a-potty. Although they do motivate me ride faster.

  My brother’s face is alive with hope. “Professor thinks our class can help build a sanitation system to replace them!”

  “Crap will be a thing of the past!” Tariq jokes.

  “It sure will make everything smell better,” Hamid adds. He smiles at me. “And then maybe Zahra’s class will solve our water problem.”


  His friend looks at me. “You are planning to go to university?”

  I nod. “I hope so. I want to study engineering.” I grin. “After I win the Olympics, of course.”

  Tariq grins back at me, his excitement palpable. “That is wonderful news!”

  The two friends return to their discussion about the lecture. I snatch another bolani, and take a moment to look around. I realize I’m back in the same market that was bombed less than a week ago. That day I was smothered by smoke and fire. I faced dead bodies and grim faces. And I gulped in a crapload of fear and pain. The ghosts of that bombing are not only in my memory, but also still visible near the bombing site. Armed police officers cradling their massive machine guns guard the crumbing building that buried me. The tower of rubble and burned stalls are now surrounded by razor wire and scorched dirt.

  But as I look around, I notice that the market is back to business as usual. Here in Kabul, the living thrive. We mourn and move on. That day the explosion happened, I grieved my twin’s death when I went out for a ride.

  I watch a vendor carefully arrange plump, purple eggplants, juicy, red grapes, and crisp, green apples in piles taller than me. In the next stall, another vendor is selling spices. Yellow cumin, green cardamom, brown coriander, and red cloves spill out of their burlap sacks and create a rainbow of color.

  There’s no wailing or crying today, only the bustling voices of vitality. The living are still here today, and it doesn’t matter that they are surrounded by memories of death. They are choosing to move on, and to live.

  I spy a young boy’s smile as he kicks a handmade soccer ball into an imaginary goal. I study the grim look of determination in the policeman’s jaw as he protects what he loves. I watch the faces of my brother and his friend light up as they plan the future.

  And I get it.

  Well done, Soul. Well done. I still definitely prefer happiness, but I get what you’re trying to show me.

  This is life. Joy and pain living together. Sometimes in harmony, and sometimes not. But they make it work. Just like here in this market, and in this country. There is the constant pain of war, of a country trying to find peace among numerous tribes and ethnic groups with different cultures and languages. But then there is the joy of fresh fruits and vegetables, of loving families and special friends, of feeling the wind in my face when I ride, and of knowing that we will rebuild.