Once Upon an Eid

by S. K. Ali

  At the thrift store, Makayla’s mom found a plain white dress that fit Makayla perfectly. It wasn’t fancy, but it was okay. Her mom even found a white dress for herself and a nice white shirt for Bilal. Dressing alike was something Makayla had loved about Christmas. It was something they’d done each year for their Christmas cards. Maybe Eid wouldn’t be so bad after all. Makayla and her mom happily chatted as they left the thrift store while Bilal walked ahead of them, munching on a pretzel.

  “Makayla! Girl, is that you?” It was Amira. She and a few other girls from the mosque were walking up the sidewalk with white trash bags.

  Makayla had never seen them outside of the masjid. Why today? Why here? Why now? Makayla’s lungs felt too big to fill up with the air she desperately needed. The bag with the plates and bowls slipped out of her hand. CRASH!

  “MAKAYLA JACKSON, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!” Makayla’s mom hurried to pick up the bag off the sidewalk.

  “You here for sadaqa, too?” Amira didn’t wait for an answer. “Our parents make us give away some of our stuff to the needy each year as part of our sadaqa. I guess that’s cool because it’s charity. But it’s kind of weird thinking I might see someone walking around in one of my old outfits.”

  Makayla couldn’t speak. She looked at the girls. She looked at Bilal. Makayla’s pleading eyes met her mother’s.

  Mrs. Jackson sighed. “Makayla, why don’t you and your brother relax in the car for a few? I might be a while in the fabric store.” She dug the keys out of her purse and passed them to her daughter.

  “Thanks, Mom.” Makayla grabbed her little brother’s hand and ran to the car.

  “See you tonight at the masjid for Laylatul Jaa’izah!” Amira yelled after Makayla.

  Makayla gave Amira a quick wave and a mumbled salaam without looking back. She and Bilal sat in the car for some time before their mother came out.

  Mrs. Jackson didn’t glance in Makayla’s direction as she got into the car. “I raised you better than that,” she said. It was that quiet, hurt tone that Makayla couldn’t stand. She hated when her mother was disappointed in her. The ride home was extra long and extra quiet.

  It may have been her first Laylatul Jaa’izah, but Makayla was sure it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. The gymnasium was packed with games, food, and fun. Everyone there was having a great time. She, on the other hand, was only having a time, replaying the afternoon’s events over and over in her head. She looked down at her hands and arms. The henna she’d gotten was beautiful, but you could barely see it against her skin. More than anything, Makayla was starting to wish for Ramadan to come back or for Eid to hurry up and leave.

  In fact, she wished things could go back to the way they were before they’d converted. Everything about her new life made her feel out of place.

  Finally, they left the masjid, and Makayla climbed the familiar set of stairs that led to her family’s apartment. She trailed behind her father, who was carrying an already-sleeping Bilal in his arms. Her mother had left the masjid early, saying she had a few last-minute things to do at home before Eid the next morning. The apartment was nearly dark. The tiny light on the sewing machine cast a small glow on her mother’s garment bag. It was stretched across the sofa with bits of purple thread scattered about. Makayla ran her fingers across the bag, picturing her mother wearing the white dress that was inside. She wondered what purple “creative fixes” (as her mom called them) her mom had made to it. Maybe a fancy embellishment? She thought about her own white dress from the thrift store and frowned.

  Tomorrow her friends at the masjid would know the truth. Her family didn’t have a lot. They didn’t have a fancy car. They sometimes ate beans and rice several times a week. Most of their clothes had patches or creative fixes sewn onto them. Unless the night before Eid was something like the night before Christmas in so many stories she’d heard growing up, Makayla was sure there wasn’t going to be any miracle that would get her the dress she wanted.

  There was no getting around it. But how could she face her friends? How could she face Amira? Well . . . maybe her family could find another mosque to go to. Makayla made a mental note to look up more mosques tomorrow. She crawled into bed. It had been a long day, and she was far past ready for it to be over.

  The next morning, her mother wasn’t cooking breakfast, which was strange because she cooked breakfast every morning.

  “No breakfast this morning,” Makayla’s mom said in answer to her puzzled look. “They’re serving refreshments after the Eid prayer. Hurry and get dressed!”

  Makayla was in no rush to go to the masjid, but she knew better than to make her mom late for anything. She quickly showered and made wudu. But she couldn’t find her dress anywhere.

  “Mom, where’s my dress?” Makayla called from her room.

  “Look in the back of your closet.”

  All Makayla saw in the back of her closet was her mom’s garment bag.

  “Why’s your bag in my closet?” Makayla yelled.

  “Just open it.”

  Makayla turned to see her mom standing in the doorway. She laid the bag across her bed and carefully unzipped it. It was her white dress inside, but it wasn’t. Makayla ran her fingers along the purple embroidery and fluffed the layers of silver tulle her mom had added. With the creative fixes, it rivaled the fancy dress from the website. It was bigger, bolder, and more than Makayla thought she deserved.

  “Eid Mubarak, Makayla.” Mrs. Jackson held out a matching hijab that sparkled in the bedroom’s light.

  Teary-eyed, Makayla ran to give her mother a hug. “Happy Eid, Mom.”

  “What’s with all the tears?” Mrs. Jackson chuckled.

  “It’s just so . . . and I acted so . . . and you did all this . . .” Makayla sobbed.

  Mrs. Jackson wiped Makayla’s eyes. “It’s hard to see the beauty in things when you can’t see past your insecurities.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Makayla said, barely above a whisper.

  “Don’t be sorry. Be confident.” Mrs. Jackson picked her daughter’s head up. “Now, let’s hurry before we’re late.”

  The Eid prayer was nothing like Makayla had imagined. It was prayer, but more fun. It was almost like a party. Everyone was in a good mood. There was tons of food. Everyone just seemed happy being together. Makayla stayed by her mother’s side, happy to be sharing this new experience with her.

  “There you are!” Amira grabbed Makayla by the shoulders and gave her three air-kisses. “You look great, but that’s not the dress from the picture.”

  “You’re right,” said Makayla. “My mom made this for me.” Makayla smiled at her mom and then proudly spun around in her dress.

  “You look like a princess,” said Amira. “Hey, Mrs. Jackson, think you could make me a dress next year?”

  “Well, I usually only sew for family. But I guess I can consider it sadaqa.”

  “B-but I don’t need charity.” Amira’s face turned red. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What can I say?” said Makayla. “Charity beats logic.” Makayla doubled over laughing at her own joke.

  “What does that even mean?” Amira shook her head and smiled. “You’re so extra.”

  Mrs. Jackson and Amira talked fashion and the art of creative fixes while Makayla proudly showed her dress to the other girls. And that’s how Makayla would always remember her first Eid—patched together, yet imperfectly perfect.

  When It happened, I lost my sense of

  taste. I swear. I don’t know how. But

  it was as if each bud was switched off,

  the way my abah switches off the lights in his store

  at the end of the day—

  one by one by one by one—

  and with each flick of a switch, I lost another flavor:

  Flick—sweet.

  Flick—sour.

  Flick—salty.

  And on and on until nothing was left but a

  darkness that weighed down my tongue and<
br />
  made the food stick in my throat like

  glue.

  I didn’t tell. Well, you can’t, can you? Not

  when you have a little brother to take care of and

  your father’s eyes grow squinty and worried, the lines

  around the edges deepening when he stares at you

  pushing food around your plate as if

  that fools anybody.

  You just can’t talk about these things.

  And especially not when you’re twelve whole years old,

  not when you’re practically teenaged, which

  is practically grown up, not even when

  your father asks How’s your food?

  and you have to look him straight in the eye

  as you say Good, not knowing anymore

  whether it’s

  the food choking you

  or the

  lie.

  Lontong is what we have on Eid morning every year, the men

  returning from the mosque to steaming bowls

  filled with kuah lodeh, the thick yellow gravy laden with

  fresh vegetables and prawns, poured over

  firm slices of nasi impit, rice packed tight, compacted

  so it makes firm cakes that you can cut

  into clean cubes or slices, then topped with lashings of fiery

  sambal that stain the gravy a delicious, wicked red.

  It’s a tricky beast, lontong is. There are so many parts to it—

  the rich and the creamy and the salty and sweet and spicy,

  the crunch of deep-fried tempeh and the silky slipperiness of tofu,

  and I have to make them all.

  Somehow.

  When It happened, Aiman began to have

  waking nightmares, shrieking when

  we had to get into the car

  (and we always had to get into the car—

  watching the Kuala Lumpur skyline spool past

  in high-speed technicolor—

  for school and sports and

  for Quran reading classes and

  to slowly sweat to death at the weddings

  of people we didn’t know but were apparently

  related to somehow, and to buy groceries,

  and most of all to see Mama, pale and white

  in a narrow hospital bed, smiling but

  there and not here with us),

  kicking at the hands that held him,

  no matter how loving, wailing as though his

  car seat were a monster waiting to swallow him whole.

  I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t I WON’T,

  so loud that his voice became scratchy

  and Abah ducked his head, as if he could hide from

  the prying eyes of our neighbors.

  (No one can. I swear. They’re equipped with sharp

  gazes and sharper tongues, and nothing

  cuts quite like the jabs that

  fall from the lips of a

  well-meaning Malay aunty.)

  It’s okay if you can’t manage, Alia,

  Abah had said that morning before he left for work,

  smoothing damp hair back from my sweaty forehead.

  We can buy some. Or we can do without. Either way,

  we can make do. You know that, don’t you?

  But lontong is Eid.

  And lontong is home,

  and lontong is Mama,

  even if Mama can’t be here.

  So lontong is what I’ll make,

  and lontong is what we’ll have.

  When It happened, my abah’s eyes opened.

  It was as if It had recentered his universe, as if

  It shone bright spotlights on us:

  AIMAN and ALIA, our names ringed

  in colored lights above our heads,

  reminding him that we exist.

  He spends less time at the store, makes time

  to pick us up from school, be home with us,

  listens to our stories and eats with us at meals,

  all of us carefully averting our eyes from the empty seat at the table,

  and he says things Malay fathers don’t always say, things like

  Tell me what you think, and

  Let’s do it together, and

  I love you.

  And when he holds us, it’s as if he’s trying to

  protect us from all the darkness in the world.

  (The hugs are nice, but honestly,

  nothing prepares you for the nightmares, or

  the hole that’s left when something that

  was always there, constant, unwavering,

  is suddenly no longer there.)

  This isn’t forever, the smiling lady in the white coat had said,

  her lipstick creeping from her lips to her teeth in watery pink lines.

  She’ll be back before you know it; you probably

  won’t even have time to miss her!

  And we’d laughed politely, as if it was funny, as if

  this wasn’t the silliest thing you could possibly say to

  two children staring at the pale face of their mother, eyes

  closed, skin leached of color by the harsh hospital lights,

  hooked to machines that beeped like they did in the worst

  medical dramas, where they yell CODE BLUE a lot and

  there’s blood everywhere and

  there’s always someone crying.

  Always.

  (I’m not supposed to watch those shows—

  there’s blood and violence

  and kissing even, sometimes—

  so don’t tell my abah, okay?

  Okay.)

  Pity it had to happen just before Raya, though,

  I’d heard her say to a blue-garbed nurse,

  her voice quiet, her expression pitying.

  Those poor kids.

  And I’d burned with sudden rage.

  I don’t need your pity stares, fancy doctor lady,

  or your fake concern, or the

  jokes that fall flatter than my friend Rahel

  that time she face-planted off her bicycle

  trying to do wheelies in our driveway.

  I’ll take this Eid, and I’ll make it good,

  even if I have to do it myself,

  even if the memory of It sometimes hits me

  straight in the ribs and renders me breathless,

  even if my tongue stays dark as midnight

  without a moon.

  I think about all of these things the night before Eid,

  the blade of my knife slicing easily through firm white tofu flesh,

  wondering at the way It

  darkened my tongue until it was numb

  and loosened Aiman’s until he could scream his fear

  and softened Abah’s until he could speak his love.

  I wash and chop and slice and dice as the TV blares out

  animated videos: baby sharks and hero pups,

  holding Aiman captive under their spell,

  and most of all I try to keep myself from thinking about It.

  Dried chilies, soaked in hot water so they part easily under my blade,

  yielding those stinging, biting seeds.

  (You have to get all of those out, Mama had said, teasing out

  the more stubborn ones carefully with the tip of her knife.

  Otherwise nobody will remember how the gravy tasted,

  only how it burned their lips and their tongues.)

  Shallots and garlic, quickly stripped of their skins.

  Candlenuts, round and hard; lemongrass, but only the white bits;

  shrimp paste, toasted so that the smell fills the entire

  house and makes Aiman cough (Stop it, kakak!).

  An inch of the fresh turmeric and a handful of dried shrimp—

  no, that’s too much, a little less than that.

  Ginger and galangal, and woe betide you in

  Mama’s kitchen if you ever
assumed they were

  the same thing and tried to replace one with the other.

  I run a finger over the knuckles of my right hand, smiling at

  the ghost of a hard rap from a wooden spoon

  and Mama’s voice, half laugh, half scold:

  The taste is different, Alia!

  As I’m grinding the spice paste, my

  eyes watering from onion sweat, my nose

  tingling from the sting of the chilies, Aiman wanders in,

  holding a stuffed puppy in his hands, all brown fur and

  bright pink clothes.

  (That’s not a boy toy, a big kid had sneered at him the other day

  at the playground, with all the swagger that comes from two

  extra years, three extra inches, and race-car-print pants.

  That’s a girl toy. It’s pink, and it’s fluffy.

  And my tiny four-year-old brother had stared at him and

  said simply: It’s a boy toy because it is mine, and I am a boy.

  And that was that.)

  Kakak, he says, his voice plaintive but not quite a wail, not

  yet. Kakak, I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?

  Each word lands on a jangled nerve, sending

  sparks of irritation flowering through my chest.

  What I want to do is say: Go away and stop bothering me.

  What I want to do is say: Can’t you see I’m busy?

  What I want to do is snap.

  Instead I think: What would Mama say?

  And I take a deep breath

  and glance at the clock, which is

  ticking down the last couple of minutes to seven,

  and I tell him: Soon. Abah will be home soon.

  Can you wait awhile, sayang?

  He frowns, bottom lip puffed way out.

  Okay, he says finally over one shoulder as he leaves.

  Fine. But only a tiny while.

  (I used to call Aiman by his name, which means “fearless,” or

  adik, which means “little brother,” or sometimes

  monyet, which means “monkey,”

  when he was in a monkeyish mood, climbing

  everywhere, all sweat-soaked and

  screeching with exuberance.

  But sayang means “love,” and it’s what Mama calls us—