Written in the Stars (7 page)

N
o one seems to have noticed my absence. My cousins are still watching television. The guests have left, and my mother is in deep conversation with my aunts. I head to the bedroom I share with Selma.

I need to be alone.

The curtains are drawn over the windows. The room is pitch-dark. Pressing my purse close to me, I drop to the floor at the foot of the bed. I hug my arms around my knees. My tears soak through the fabric of my clothes.

“Naila?”

The door creaks open. A small slice of light cuts through the darkened room.

“It’s me . . .” Selma’s voice trails off.

I wipe my tears and shield my face from the sliver of light.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m just feeling homesick. That’s all.”

Selma sits down next to me in the dark. I look over at her drawn expression. She leans her head back. Her eyes are squeezed shut as though she is fighting tears. I thought telling Selma I was homesick would be a good excuse for my crying, but have I now offended her? I open my mouth to tell her this isn’t her fault. That being with her has been the best part of the trip.

But Selma speaks first.

“You found out, didn’t you?”

I blink my tears away. “Found out what?”

“You still don’t know?” Her voice is soft, but her words hang heavy in the darkness between us.

“Know?” I repeat, looking at her in the darkness.

She says nothing for a moment and then I hear a shudder as a sob escapes her lips.

“Will you forgive me?” Selma looks at the floor, large tears falling down her cheeks.

“Forgive you? What are you talking about? Forgive you for what?”

“They made me swear on Nana’s grave I wouldn’t tell you.” Her body starts shaking with sobs. “I wanted to from the start. I would never keep something like that from anyone, much less you. It’s been killing me. When they found out I’d overheard them—”

“Selma!” My voice rises. “Overheard what? What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” she pleads. “I should have told you from the beginning.”

“It’s okay.” I drape an arm around her shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

Selma faces me; her eyes are red, and her hands tremble. “You have no idea why your trip got extended?”

“No.” I try to keep my voice steady, but my mouth has gone dry.

“You are not going back home.”

“I know. We’re staying until the end of the summer.”

“No. I mean you’re not going back, ever.”

“Selma, of course I am going back. I know we’ve stayed longer than we planned, but we’re not going to stay here forever. Is that what this is about? I’m sorry I’ve taken over your room and that you have to go to all these parties because of me, but we’re going to leave at the end of the summer. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“You still don’t get it. Can’t you tell what is happening?” Her voice wavers. “You have no idea why we suddenly started going to all these dinner parties? Why they always bring their sons when they come to our house? Why their mothers ask you all those questions?”

A hollow darkness descends over me. “Why?”

“It wasn’t just your imagination. All those people—they really were there to look at you.”

I think back to the gatherings, always with a young man sitting by a parent’s side. Suddenly, I gasp, clasping a hand to my mouth. “No.” I stare at her. “No. that can’t be it.”

Selma looks at me. “I overheard my mom talking to your mother about it a few weeks ago. They said you wouldn’t be happy about their plans, so no one was supposed to tell you until they found the right person. Your mother said you’d come around to the idea once a good match was found for your husband,” Selma says. “That’s why everyone cares what you wear. That’s what all of this has been about.”

Husband.

I can’t breathe. I think of my parents, my mother and father’s shared glance on the rooftop. My lungs are constricting. Every day they looked into my eyes, every day they smiled at me. Every day they knew. Everyone knew.

“Have they picked someone yet?” I try to remember the men I’ve seen over the past few weeks, but even the one today is a blurry haze.

“They’re considering two right now.” She pauses. “I wanted to tell you earlier. They made me swear not to. I just kept hoping and praying your parents would change their minds and see what they were doing, or that you’d somehow find out on your own.”

“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. “Just think back, tell me everything you know.”

“There was one a few weeks ago who your mother really liked. You might remember him. The one with the mustache and spindly beard? His family lives just two villages over from ours. He’s a doctor, and he works in Karachi. His father owns more land
than anyone we know. It was a very impressive rishta. His parents want him to settle in the US, but the last time I heard our mothers talking about it, the family was unwilling to budge on the amount they wanted in dowry from your parents.”

“And the other one?”

“The other family is looking more serious. They were the ones with the dark green car and the woman with the peacock pendant. Remember? She had that mousy-looking girl next to her with the short haircut. They live in the city, the next one over from our village.”

I try thinking back, struggling to visualize. All these weeks, I’ve been questioned, observed, judged. Offers made. Counteroffers presented.

My chest hurts, but my eyes are dry. Selma tells me more, but it sounds like she’s describing someone else’s life, not my own. Part of me wants to run as far away as I can, but at the same time, my body feels heavy, bricks attached to my feet.

“The woman with the peacock pendant, she called again this evening,” she says quietly. “They’re coming again—their son wanted a more proper meeting with you. Nothing has happened yet. But, Naila, something will.”

J
ust because I am the last to know does not mean anything about my reality has changed. Stay calm. Be still. You’ll find a way out of this.

I internalize this mantra, repeating it to myself as I brush my teeth, as I sit at the breakfast table, as I try to eat these eggs that taste like cardboard sliding down my throat. I remind myself of it as I force my mouth to turn upward in the semblance of a smile and push away the other feelings, the darker ones that threaten to engulf me.

“Any calls today?” My mother sits across from me at the breakfast table and looks expectantly at my chachi.

“I think we’ve had enough visitors,” my father says.

“I think you’re right.” My mother nods. “We could take it easy for a little while at least.”

I stiffen, waiting for a guilty glance in my direction, for a clearing of a throat, a moment’s hesitation, but my father simply lifts another bite of roti to his mouth. My mother takes a sip of tea and resumes talking with my chachi.

I feel the small metal outline of the phone in my purse and squeeze it. I need to talk to Saif. I have to tell him. And yet this is where I am stuck. What can I tell him without causing him to panic? And for what? What can he do? I release my grip on the phone. This is something I have to fix myself.

* * *

The idea hits with the force of lightning on still water. Standing at the sink washing dishes, I see it like a vision: exactly what I need to do. I dry the dishes and hurry to my bedroom.

“Naila.” Selma follows, steps behind me.

“Selma, I’m sorry, but I just want a little privacy.”

“Oh, I’m s-sorry,” she stammers. “It’s just that we haven’t really talked about this since last night.”

“I know. We’ll talk later, but I need a little time to myself right now to think.”

“Okay. Well, whatever you need. I’m here to help.” She smiles weakly at me before walking away.

I watch her go and feel a twinge of guilt, but I can’t draw anyone else into this. I have to do it myself. I can’t burden anyone with the potential consequences.

I step into the room. I imagine my mother’s horrified expression, my father’s anger. My pace slows to a halt. I don’t want to do this, but what else can I do?

I latch the metal lock shut. Yanking open the wooden armoire, I pull out three outfits, tossing them on the bed. The suitcase, wedged awkwardly in the closet, proves more difficult, but after a few sharp tugs, I stagger back with it in hand. My heart races. I stuff in my shoes, my sunglasses and books.

I’m not asking,
I remind myself.
I’m telling them.
I’ve seen cabs come through occasionally. A bus stop can’t be too far away. No matter what, I’m leaving. The fear of my parents’ reaction threatens to paralyze me, but what keeps me packing, keeps me stuffing things into my suitcase, is the image of the next suitor, watching me with greedy eyes.
No.
I shake my head.
I am out of options.

I open the outer pouch of my suitcase. I stored two hundred dollars in there before I left for Pakistan, along with my visa and passport. I’m so thankful I never touched this spending money. It’s not enough to get me home, but it’s enough to get me to the airport. Once I’m there, I’ll figure out what to do next.

Wait.
I slip my hand inside. Nothing but slick vinyl.
This can’t be right
. I had checked the pouch just two weeks ago. I had felt the embossed cover of the passport between my fingers. But now I run my hands through and grasp air. I push open the cover and peer in. I unzip the suitcase and feel against the lining, between the seams. Nothing.

My knees suddenly feel cold against the hard concrete floor. My money, my visa, my passport, all gone. I grip the edge of the suitcase.

Did they know I would do this? Are they already ten steps ahead?

T
he pungent aroma of seven different spices wafts through the house. I hear the sizzling of onions and the patting of dough as I make my way to the kitchen.

I stand at the oval kitchen entrance, watching the women at work. Selma opens the fridge and reaches inside for vegetables. Khala Simki, her back to me, stands by the stove, where she stirs the simmering stew with a wooden spoon.

My mother is at the edge of the counter. I watch her take a ball of dough between her fingers and roll it under her palms until it’s thin and round.

“Ami?”

The sounds of the kitchen absorb the word. Clearing my throat, I try again.

“Ami.”

My mother looks up. She motions me over with one powdery hand. “I was wondering when you were going to join us! Selma is chopping the vegetables. I could use your help with the tomatoes and onions here.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I need to talk to you in private.”

“I’m in the middle of making roti for dinner.”

“This can’t wait.”

My aunts and Selma look up. My mother gazes at me, apparently cool and calm, though I know she is anything but. One does not speak out of turn, particularly under the watchful eyes of those who will surely dissect your behavior afterward.
Ami,
I think, meeting her gaze,
you must have known I could not stay silent forever.

“Where is my passport?”

Her eyes widen, but in the next instant, she smiles. “Your passport is with me, of course.”

“I need it.”

Ami stares at me. Her eyes speak to me much as they have all of my life. “Stop it right now,” they say. But today, I simply stare back at her.

She wipes her hands against her apron and walks up to me. Grabbing my elbow, she pulls me toward the empty drawing room. “What was that scene about back there? Have you lost your mind?”

“I need my passport. My visa. My money. They were all in my suitcase. Now they’re gone.” I refuse to look at her.

“I put all our passports together, for safekeeping. Why the sudden need for it?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” She crosses her arms. “How interesting. And where, pray tell, are you leaving to?”

“I’m going back home.” I push down the lump growing thick in my throat. “You both said no, but I have to go. I have things to do at home.”

“Is this not a home to you too? Haven’t your aunts and uncles treated you like a daughter? Your younger cousins absolutely adore you. Selma is like your sister. Yet you want so badly to leave.”

“I appreciate everything everyone has done for me, but it’s time for me to go. I need my passport, my wallet, my visa.”

“I could tell you were beginning to get unstable.” My mother wipes her forehead with her shawl. “But I never thought you would consider bringing this much shame on us.”

“This has nothing to do with shame, Ami. I need to go home, that’s all.”

“Who are you, Naila? I raised you from a baby, but I don’t recognize you anymore. It’s him, isn’t it? You want to go back to him, right?”

“No. My passport.” My voice cracks. “I just want my passport.”

“You’re not getting it. It’s safe with us. Please.” She meets my gaze. “Please trust us.”

I watch her leave and press a trembling hand against the wall.

How can I explain any of this to Saif, I wonder, when I can’t make sense of it myself?

T
he sun has barely risen when Khala Simki taps on my door and pops her head inside. “When Nasim comes for lunch today, please wear the green salwar kamiz I bought for you.” Before I can respond, she’s gone.

Selma is already sitting up in her bed, watching me.

“Is this the one they’re serious about?” I ask her.

“Yes. Remember the woman with the peacock pendant? It’s her family.”

“I can’t do it, Selma.” My heart hammers in my chest. “I can’t sit there and pretend I don’t know.”

“Do they know yet that I told you?”

“Selma, I will never tell them you told me, I swear.”

“I want to help you.” Her eyes well with tears. “I should have told you from the beginning, but I’ll help you. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I don’t need help.”

“But you do. Let’s go for a walk today, talk about things. I have some ideas, but I don’t want to talk about anything in the house.”

“Maybe later.” I open the armoire. I know I’m hurting her by shutting her out, but I know it’s for her own good. The more Selma knows, the more trouble she will be in later. I yank the green outfit from the armoire, snapping the hanger in two with my force. The thought of sitting down for this meeting makes me sick, but until I know what to do, I must pretend I know nothing.

* * *

There is a knock on the front door. My mother grips me by the wrist, leading me into the drawing room. “Sit with me. Selma will make chai today.”

I take a seat next to her on the white sofa. The guests walk in. Their footsteps echo off the walls. I keep my gaze fixed on my coral bangles, twisting the thin scarf resting in my lap with my fingers. I wind it so tight, my fingertips turn pink, then white.

I don’t want to marry you.
I want to scream this as I hear them settle in on the sofa across from me. For a moment I’m struck by the impulse to do just this. To stand up and scream at everyone in this room, to humiliate my parents as they are humiliating me—but what good will it do? All of these people gathered in this room are coconspirators against me. Why would any of them care if I disagreed? I squeeze my hands until they go numb.

I try to focus on other things. The sugar-coated biscuits on the coffee table. The glow of the sun filtering through the translucent red curtains. But I can’t forget he’s here. I can’t forget he’s watching me.

It takes everything in me to fight the urge to run out of the room, the desire growing stronger with each passing moment I spend sitting under his stare. I know what he is doing. I can tell in the way he shifts his weight and clears his throat. He wants me to look at him. Though curiosity pokes its head and nudges me to meet his gaze, I refuse. I will not give him the satisfaction.

I hear his mother, her voice a low soprano in the quiet room. I close my eyes. I think of Saif. His smile, his dimple, the way he holds my hand before kissing me. He is the only thing keeping me from what I fear would otherwise be the slow onset of insanity.

“We must be on our way,” the woman finally says. I hear the creaks of the sofa as people move to stand, murmurs of thanks and good-bye. I look up just then to see my father laughing, patting my chacha’s shoulder. He walks down the hall in his favorite salwar kamiz and the dark vest he wears every day without fail, despite the heat and humidity. My eyes widen. I press a hand against my purse. Just as I refuse to part with my purse, he refuses to part with his vest.

I know exactly what I need to do.

* * *

Night passes slowly as I wait for everyone to fall asleep. Finally, I slip out of the bedroom and make my way down the hall. My bare feet feel cool against the floor. I pause at my parents’ shut bedroom door and press my ear against it. Silence. Turning the knob, I open it a crack before slipping in. The moonlight casts a gentle glow on my mother’s sleeping figure, tucked under the white sheet. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. My father, too, is sound asleep, exhaling deep, guttural snores.

I searched this room just hours ago, every suitcase flap, beneath every pillow and mattress. I have to find his vest; there’s no other place my passport could possibly be.

I drop to my hands and knees and crawl to the closet. I press my hands to the cold metal surface and push the accordion door with my finger, trying to nudge it open. It doesn’t budge. I tug again and cringe. This time it groans loudly, and then, a thud. An avalanche of books come tumbling down.

“Naila?”

My father sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. I stay still, half crouched on the floor.
It’s a bad dream,
I think frantically.
Please go to sleep.

A click, and suddenly the room fills with yellow artificial light.

“What is it? Is everything okay?! Is someone hurt?” My mother is sitting bolt upright, her hair matted against her face. She looks down at me and puts a hand to her chest. “What’s wrong?”

I look at my father’s confused expression. I watch my mother tie her hair up in a haphazard bun. I can’t breathe. Who are these parents? Why are their expressions unreadable despite a lifetime of presumed literacy? No matter how much they disapprove of Saif, no matter how angry they are, I do not deserve this.

“What am I doing? What are
you
doing?” My voice pierces the quiet room. “Why are you doing this?”

In an instant, my father is in front of me, his hand pressed against my mouth. “Enough,” he says into my ear. “No tamasha here. Not in the middle of the night.”

I try to wrench his hands away, but he holds me tightly. “I know what you’re trying to do!” I scream through the palm he has pressed against my face. “I know everything!”

My mother stands up and looks out the window. Her body trembles. I watch her contorted face; she’s crying.

I stop struggling. My father releases his grip. I press my hands against my eyes. “Ami. Please. Please. Don’t do this to me.”

“No,” my mother says softly. “We would never want to hurt you. We don’t have a choice, though. We’ve lost you.”

“You’re gone, beta.” My father’s face is no longer stern—he looks familiar again, like the father I had before my life shattered. “We have to help bring you back. We’re your parents. It’s our responsibility.”

“You don’t have to bring me back. I’m not gone. Just look at me. I’m right here, I’m your daughter.”

“But you
are
gone, and it breaks our heart that you can’t see it.”

“Ami, I know I’ve made mistakes. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. But I’ve done nothing to deserve this.”

Ami clutches a gray chador tight around her shoulders. “When you were little, we could just hide the cookies you wanted. We could send you to your room to consider what you did. We did what we thought was right. We tried to raise you well.”

“You did raise me well.” Fat tears roll down my face in a steady torrent.

“We raised you well?” My mother laughs. “We can see for ourselves what a job we did. We are your parents. We love you. We want what’s best for you. If we see you doing wrong, we have to stop you. Even if you hate us, and I know you do right now, one day, you will see we did what was best for you. That is what we have always tried to do.”

I look at my parents. I can try all I want to, I realize. But I will never convince them.

I make my way back to my room. My body feels numb. I walk inside and shut the door behind me, trying to still my trembling frame.

“Selma, wake up.”

She wakes with a start. “What’s wrong?”

“Selma, I need your help.” Tears slip down my face. “I need to tell you everything.”