Written in the Stars (14 page)

Y
our face is a window to your world,” Saif once teased me as he sat across from me in the high school courtyard. He had pushed his tall red energy drink toward me, insisting I try some, and burst out laughing at my concerted effort to smile as I took a sip.

“It’s good!” I had protested with a wince before grabbing and downing my water bottle in one long gulp.

“Don’t ever play poker with me.” He grinned. “You couldn’t lie if your life depended on it.”

He was wrong.

The sun has long since set; dinner was over hours ago. I sit on a plump leather couch in the living room of Amin’s home. Feiza sits next to me watching television. She hardly blinks. Nasim sits on a recliner across from us hemming Amin’s pants. On the surface, everything is exactly as it has been these past three months.

I stare at the television, but nothing registers except the desire to keep my breathing steady and my face as expressionless as possible. No one must know what I am feeling right now. No one can know what happened today.

The morning began like all the others before it. I propped a squirming, giggling Zaina on the kitchen table.

“Zaina!” I lifted up her sandals. “I can’t put your shoes on if you keep moving around!”

Feiza walked into the kitchen and shook her head at her daughter. She wrapped a gray chador around her shoulders. “Be a good girl, Zaina, or we won’t take you to the market! I mean it this time!”

I love going to the market with Feiza. She picks the things we need while I look after Zaina. Our time there is nothing special, but trips to the market are a chance to escape the four walls of the house, a momentary reprieve from the boredom that otherwise pervades my existence. Now that I’ve become a permanent fixture, the servants have slowly intervened in my chores, gently insisting I leave the labor to them. They can’t understand that I want to clean and dust. I want to scrub the grout until it gleams white. What would I do if I stopped and stayed completely still? I can’t be sure, but I fear I might slowly go insane.

Now as I sit on the couch this evening, I think back to what happened and wonder:
Despite my greatest efforts, have I finally gone mad?

We made our way down the road toward the market as we did nearly every other day. I remember my shock when I first encountered open-air markets such as these, with raw slabs of red meat hanging on hooks in the open air. Carrots, radishes, and turnips in crates lining the front of the store. It all felt bewildering, but now, a few months later, I can hardly believe I ever shopped anywhere else. Crisp, cool stores with sliding doors and fluorescent lights and stock boys in white aprons talking on cell phones as they line up groceries on white metal shelves now feel like a fable, a fairy tale I might have heard a lifetime ago. This market, the dusty floor, the women’s voices at a steady hum, the flies buzzing overhead, this is reality.

I never thought I could feel this way, but it turned out Selma was right: letting go helped ease my anger at the unfairness of it all. I couldn’t say I was happy now, but I had accepted that this was my life. The farther away I let the past feel, the more I could accept my reality.

This morning, Bibi Fatima had nodded at us from where she sat by her house on the corner near the market, sorting through her lentils. She smiled a toothless grin at Zaina, as she always did. The market was busier than usual. I recognized most of the women here by their chadors, each with uniquely patterned reds, pastels, and blacks; some women covered their heads with them, others wrapped their chadors around their shoulders. A tall man with a wiry build and thick mustache carefully inspected a fresh batch of goat meat swaying on a hook.

I stood apart from the shoppers as I normally did. Zaina, now more confident in the use of her sturdy legs, no longer let me hold her in my arms. Now she demanded to explore every corner of the store and taste as many things as possible before I inevitably caught her. Today was no different. She whimpered in my embrace, squirming against my hip and pointing toward the floor.

“Okay,” I finally told her. “I’ll let you walk with me, but hold my hand and don’t let go.”

I set her on the floor, gripping her hand tightly in my own. She looked up with pleading eyes, her hand tugging mine, small tears forming as she babbled in a language known only to her. I looked at the splotches of red appearing on her cheeks, a tantrum approaching.

“Zaina.” I leaned down and kissed her cheeks. “You like sugar cookies, don’t you? The ones with the sprinkles? Or maybe some ice cream? You want to go with me to get some?”

I was looking up at the cooling display shelf tucked in the back corner of the store when I suddenly stiffened.

Someone was watching me. I could feel the gaze boring into the side of my face.

I had grown accustomed to the penetrating stares of strange men. Oftentimes the glances were merely curious ones by those passing by and wondering who I was, the one with a gait distinct from the other women in the area. Sometimes, however, my eyes had met those of an admirer, taking me in, seeming to undress me with his gaze. At first, in my anger, I stared back at these men brazenly, expecting them to blush with shame and look away. But I was always the one who ultimately looked the other way; the men seldom did. I grew to understand why Feiza and the other women chose to cover themselves in large chadors, cloaking themselves when out and about, and soon learned to keep my focus on the ground, a charcoal-gray chador cloaking me as well.

Then why now, after months of averting my eyes, had I looked back?

I fidget now on the sofa, trying to keep my eyes fixed on the television.
Why today had I met this gaze?

I ignored it at first; I did my best to look away. I rushed to catch Zaina, who had yanked her hand from me and raced toward the shelf full of glass spice jars. I scooped her up into my arms. I lifted my hand to adjust my shawl.

And that’s when it happened.

I caught for an instant the eyes of a man staring back at me.

It was a strange sight—a figment so real, I could reach out and touch it. Despite the months of perfecting the art of looking away, I was transfixed in shock. Zaina wriggled from my grasp and bounded toward the chickens in the wire coop in the distance, but I could only stare at the hallucination, the strange incarnation standing in the store, a short distance from me.

Saif.

I slowly stood up straight, afraid to move too suddenly, afraid the mirage would vanish. I looked at the cream-colored round hat on his head, his white salwar kamiz, and the light brown chador draped loosely around his shoulders. It wasn’t Saif. It couldn’t be. This person had light stubble around his jaw. This person had closely cropped hair. Saif in his jeans and wavy hair looked nothing like this person standing across from me, staring at me now.

But why, then, did I see his eyes and recognize somebody familiar?

I felt a tug on my salwar. Zaina held a half-eaten apple. “Up!” she squealed. I reached down and lifted her in my arms. She rested her head on my shoulder, humming softly to herself.

I turned back, but he was gone. Nothing stood in the space he occupied just moments before.

Now, as I stare at the television screen, I wonder,
Is my mind finally cracking?
Why now? After all these months, after I have finally accepted it, why does he haunt me in the faces of strange men in the marketplace?

* * *

“Feiza, come with me to the market,” I say the next morning.

“We just went yesterday. Did we forget something?” Feiza steps into the kitchen.

“We didn’t forget anything—rice wasn’t on our list.” I pull out an empty sack of rice.

Feiza stares at the empty bag of rice and places a hand over her mouth. “Thank God you checked! What if Saba had noticed first? I swear that bag was nearly full when I checked yesterday.” She frowns. “Usman is coming in a few weeks. I’m just too distracted to function properly these days.”

I blush, feeling guilty about the upturned rice at the bottom of the garbage can. “I don’t know, but we should get some more.”

“Give me a minute. Zaina is asleep. I don’t want to wake her. Let me make sure Saba can watch her before we go.”

I just want to be sure,
I tell myself.
I just want to confirm that I simply hallucinated.

We step into the market and make our way toward the large brown rice sacks at the far corner of the store. “These are going to be heavy.” Feiza lifts the handle of the largest bag. “We should have sent Mushtaq. We just got so nervous, we headed over here without thinking. He always brings the rice.”

“Let’s just pick up a small bag. If we go back empty-handed, Saba will be upset.”

Feiza lifts the handle of the smallest bag. “I understand why she’s bitter, but we’re not the reason her engagement broke. You know she taught at the primary school here before her engagement ended? Nasim still tries to persuade her to go back, but she’d rather sulk at home all day. I wish she would stop taking it out on us.”

“Should we tell her that when we get home?”

“You’re terrible! Let’s go pay for this.”

“Let me get some cookies,” I tell her. “I promised Zaina I would get her some sugar cookies yesterday, and I forgot.”

“You are so good to her.” She smiles. “She’s lucky to have you.”

I watch her make her way to the vendor at the front of the store. She pauses at the stall of fresh produce. I glance around. A handful of women are milling about in the distance. No figments linger in the open-air market today.

I count out the money I brought with me and make my way to the row lined with packaged goods and biscuits. Suddenly, I gasp.

There it is. The hallucination. The same clothing. The same hat. The same stubble. And the same eyes. He’s at the edge of the aisle close to me. Close enough to touch. He does not look away. He’s watching me.

“Are you okay?”

I turn around. It’s Feiza, standing right behind me. “Naila”—she puts a hand on my shoulder—“you don’t look well.”

“I’m fine.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just going to step outside.”

“Sure.” She watches me with concern. “I’ll be just a second.”

The world seems uneven, moving faster than it should as I go. Hallucinations are supposed to be blurred, hazy, and translucent. Yet this one seems real. Solid.

The sky grows overcast, giving me reprieve from the otherwise bright sun. The months have passed; the heat has grown more forgiving, and yet—it lingers.

Maybe that’s what’s going on. I have heatstroke.

I draw in a deep breath and adjust my chador to keep it from sliding down my hair.
A figment,
I tell myself.
You’re having some sort of setback. Just take a deep breath. It will pass.

I am turning back to see if Feiza is nearly done when my heart drops. The figment has stepped outside. He looks at me. He hesitates for a moment. And then he walks toward me.

“Naila,” Feiza calls, “feeling any better?” She appears before me, holding the plastic grip of the small rice bag.

I look past her shoulder. He’s still there. So close. But Feiza is walking now. Her footsteps leading home. I force myself to follow her, but it’s difficult. My legs are made of bricks.

This is no hallucination. It’s Saif. Saif is here.

I
sit at the dinner table and stare at my cold plate of food. My hands grip the metal glass of water by my side.

“What’s the matter?”

I look up. Nasim is staring at me.

“We’re almost done eating, and you haven’t even touched your roti.”

What can I say? That Saif is here? That he has light stubble and wears clothing I’ve never seen him in before? But that his eyes still look back at me in the same way they always have? And for this very simple reason, today, right now, I find myself unable to eat?

“Sorry. I’m just not feeling well.” Pushing my chair back, I get up. “I think I’m going to lie down.”

“She wasn’t feeling very good today when we went to the market either,” Feiza says as I walk to the bedroom. “I hope she’s not coming down with something.”

“God forbid the princess should catch a cold!”

“That’s enough, Saba,” Amin chides his sister as he so often, uselessly, does.

* * *

I toss and turn in bed that night. I can’t sleep.

Getting up, I slip on my sandals and walk into the family room. I unlatch the hook to the French doors and step outside, taking a seat on a wicker sofa in the courtyard. The darkness cloaks me, and for a moment, I feel invisible. I take a deep breath and release it slowly.

After all this time, how did he find me? I think of the letter I wrote him months ago. I told him to let me go. I told him I had made my peace. I told him to move on. I kept my letter as simple as possible, hoping that by writing it I was releasing him from the burden of hanging on to me. If I couldn’t be free, I wanted him to be. It was one of the most painful things I had done.

And yet, despite that letter, how many times had I dreamt in my darkened room that somehow Saif would find me? Every day I had looked for his face in every face I saw. But this hope has long since been extinguished. I was the one who told him to move on. And after three long months of silence, I thought he had.

I look up. The moon is absent, but the stars—for a moment, I am breathless. There are so many stars scattered across the sky tonight, they threaten to overtake the darkness.

I imagine Amin in the bedroom inside, an arm covering his eyes as it normally does, small snores escaping his mouth, completely unaware. I never imagined I would ever speak to Amin again, much less feel anything other than dark hatred, but as time has passed, I’ve grown tired of the vitriolic emotion bottled inside. I want to hate him, but hating is an emotion that requires more energy than I can muster these days. This wasn’t a choice either of us made, and while I don’t love him, I thought I had made my peace.

But Saif is here. And now I feel nothing close to peace.

I
t’s been three days—the longest three days of my life—but it’s finally time to go to the market again. I pause and take in the person staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. Circles outline my eyes like charcoal etchings. My mouth is sandpaper dry. I’m trying to seem calm and collected, but I can’t eat. I can’t drink. Every time reality seems to settle in, every time I think I can begin to make sense of it, I fall into a tailspin once more.

I need to see him.

I take a deep breath and cradle Zaina on my hip. In my tightly clenched fist I hold the message I’ve written for Saif, hastily scrawled on a scrap sheet of paper.

The road kicks up more dust than usual today. I shield my eyes with one hand to protect against the haze of clay-colored earth. Feiza makes small talk on our way to the market. I try to respond, to appear interested, but I can’t focus. As soon as we enter the store, my eyes dart to the shelves, the corners of the walls.

I set Zaina down on the ground. Before I can grip her wrist, she runs toward the spice aisle.

“Zaina!” I make my way toward her. She’s hunched over the bottles of pickled mangoes on the bottom row. I grasp her hand and stand up. When I do, I gasp. It’s him.

How long has he been standing there? Saif, in a khaki salwar kamiz, at the edge of the aisle, his hand leaning on the shelf, his eyes focused directly on me. Our eyes meet. He is standing so close to me.

He picks up a bottle of crushed chili and examines it.

“Naila.” His voice is soft, barely audible. He turns the bottle in his hand, examining it as though it were gold.

I bite my lip. The world grows hazy. My head throbs. My stomach hurts. Saif stands mere inches from me. In an instant, I feel transported. It’s as though it’s the two of us again.
I want to touch him
.
Just his arm. Just to make sure he’s real
. I tremble and take a step toward him.

Just then, a tug. I look down—it’s Zaina, pulling on my kamiz. Feiza is in the distance, coming toward us. I look at Saif and begin panicking.
Has she seen us? Does she know?
I hesitate. My resolve wavers, and yet
if not now, when?

I push out any other thoughts and walk toward him. His eyes widen, but I avert my gaze. With a sharp intake of breath, I press my hand—and the note—into his. For a fraction of a second, his hand curves over mine.

I step into the open air. Beads of sweat dot my forehead. I close my eyes and will my hands to stop trembling. When I look back, he’s gone.

“Who was that?” It’s Feiza.

“Who?”

“That man. Did you see him? He’s a bit young. I’ve never seen him here before.”

“I didn’t see anyone new.”

“Probably someone’s relative visiting from America. You can always tell by the way they walk that they’re not from here.”

“Maybe.” I bite my lip and do my best to keep my gait steady. Feiza is talking, but all I can think about is the warm touch of his hand against mine. The softness with which he spoke my name. After all these months, despite everything that has happened and how different he looked, he was still Saif. The boy I fell in love with.

And he came all this way for me.

Each step I take away from him feels painful.

Each step away makes me ache for the life I almost had. For everything that was ever home to me.