Yours, Eventually

Chapter Three

Three

Asma examined the box in front of her and mulled her options. A shriveled old-fashioned donut, a chocolate glazed marked with the fingerprints of someone who had changed their mind, and half a cherry-filled donut, the insides oozing out from either side of the knife used to cut it in half. None of them looked particularly appetizing, but Asma hadn’t had the stomach for breakfast after her discussion with Rehana the previous evening, and she needed something to get her through this resident meeting.

Asma grabbed the old-fashioned, then pushed the box just out of reach. Her fellow residents were scattered around a large table in the hospital’s executive conference room in various stages of attentiveness. A few fiddled with their phones and one appeared to be napping. Dr. Saucedo, sitting at the head of the table, was busy speaking to a nurse who had come in for a patient consult. No one except Asma seemed to be listening to Jackson drone on about a patient’s stomach pains.

Asma swallowed a yawn and caught the eye of the resident sitting next to Jackson. The resident tilted her head subtly toward Jackson while mouthing blah blah blah .

Asma stifled a laugh with a huge bite of her donut. It was stale.

“He was in last week, too, with a high fever, which we know can be particularly dangerous in geriatric patients,” Jackson continued with his patient summary. “He lives in a local nursing home, so I contacted his family, who live on the East Coast.”

Despite her years in the ER, Asma was still struck each time an elderly patient came in unaccompanied by family. It was one of the times Asma felt most keenly the cultural divide between how she was raised and the reality for many of her patients. Asma couldn’t imagine her father, or any of the aunties or uncles in her community, alone in a hospital. Mr. Ibrahim’s every health issue was monitored by Asma, and that’s how it would be for the rest of his life.

Mr. Ibrahim had sprained his foot playing tennis during Asma’s freshman year in college and was under strict orders to not drive for the month it would take to heal. Asma had moved home—over Iman’s protestations that she could handle things herself—to coordinate his care and make sure the rest of the household continued to function. If not for her, she was sure her father would’ve been late for all his physical therapy appointments, and Maryam late to school every morning, while Iman finished putting on her face.

Asma felt a pang of regret as she remembered her father hobbling around on his crutches, but it was soon overtaken by anger, rekindled after the recent news about Farooq. Not only had her father squandered her mother’s success and their family’s finances, but he’d forced her—with her aunt’s help—to end her relationship with Farooq. As difficult as it was for her family to relocate to Sacramento under these circumstances, Asma was actually looking forward to having some distance from her father. And her aunt. Even if it meant living with Maryam and her theatrics until the end of her residency.

As the meeting came to a close and the residents gathered their things and began to leave, Asma turned to find Dr. Saucedo beside her.

“Mind if I talk to you for a moment?” the older woman asked, nodding toward the opposite end of the conference room, which was now empty of residents.

“Of course not,” Asma said, following Dr. Saucedo until they were out of earshot of the stragglers.

“How’s your job search going?” Dr. Saucedo asked, her voice slightly hushed.

“It’s on pause. My family is moving to Sacramento—I’m staying with my sister until graduation but then it looks like I’ll be moving there too,” Asma replied. Dr. Saucedo’s mouth turned down at the corners, a small twitch of disappointment.

“That’s a shame. I just got word that there might be an opening here, and I wanted to encourage you to apply. I could give you a hell of a recommendation.”

Asma felt a simultaneous thrill and the deep pull of regret. She wanted nothing more than to keep working for Dr. Saucedo in the ER that had begun to feel like a second home to her. And to be singled out and mentored by someone as discerning as Dr. Saucedo was an honor. But as angry as Asma was with her family, she couldn’t defy her father’s edict that it was inappropriate for her to remain in the Bay without them. She felt guilty even thinking about it. Her father had supported her through college and med school; she wasn’t sure she would have come this far without him.

But then she thought back to her conversation with Rehana. What about what Asma wanted? Did that ever matter? Did her father’s financial support come with a lifetime of obligation? Hadn’t she already sacrificed enough?

“Well, nothing’s decided for sure yet.” Asma shook her head to stop the memory from surging back and to stifle the anger and regret rising within her. “If there’s an opportunity here, it would be silly for me not to at least apply.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Dr. Saucedo said, squeezing Asma’s shoulder before following the rest of the residents out of the conference room.

—

Asma was running twenty minutes late for her lunch with Fatima. They were attempting, once again, to find the new halal Mexican food truck. By the time they tracked it down through its Instagram stories the previous week, the truck had run out of carne asada. But when Asma arrived at Fatima’s house to pick her up, she found her sitting at her dining room table, stacks of paper almost entirely covering the glass top.

“Fatima! Tacos!”

“I know, I know, I need ten minutes—I shouldn’t have assigned a final paper.”

Asma took a seat across from Fatima and glanced at the first paper in front of her.

“?‘I’d like to be an investigative reporter for ProPublica so I can expose how the government’s war on terror hindered freedom of speech for American Muslims,’?” she read, her eyes widening in admiration. “Intense! What was the writing prompt?”

“Write about your dream job,” Fatima replied. “Mainly journalists and astrophysicists with a healthy dose of celebrity stylists and brand ambassadors.”

“All noble professions.”

“I got only one essay about wanting to be a doctor.”

“At an Islamic school full of Desi and Arab kids?”

“I know, right? And that was so he could work in refugee camps.”

“What a generational shift. Every kid I knew growing up wanted to be a doctor.”

“Almost every kid,” said Fatima with a rueful smile. Fatima had wanted to be an architect when she and Asma met in college, but instead had followed her mother into teaching.

“It’s never too late,” Asma said.

“Ha! Right,” said Fatima.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about something,” Asma said, and then waited the requisite minute for Fatima to realize it was important and look up from the paper she was grading.

“Okay,” Fatima said, folding her hands on the table in front of her. An armchair life coach, open for business.

“Do you think I made a mistake breaking up with Farooq back in college?” Asma asked.

Fatima had never met Farooq. She and Asma met at the beginning of their junior year, the summer after Asma had broken off the engagement. Asma had been sobbing in the bathroom outside the lecture hall where her first class of the semester was starting in minutes.

“You okay in there?” A gentle question accompanied by a gentle knock at the stall door.

“I just dumped my fiancé,” Asma blurted out, mortified when she opened the door to find a girl with similar height and complexion, a lavender hijab wrapped around her head. Just what I need , Asma had thought, a Desi Muslim woman to judge me .

But Fatima turned out to be divinely sent. She was a compassionate and understanding confidante. She had blown off that first lecture to sit in the quad and listen as Asma narrated the past two years—to a stranger, the first and only person she had spoken to at length about her relationship with Farooq.

“Did you make a mistake because it turns out he’s absolutely, insanely loaded now?” Fatima asked with a quick, inquiring smile. Trying to see if Asma was serious.

“No, not that,” Asma said. “I mean, I always knew he’d do something brilliant. It’s just, maybe I should have fought harder to convince my family that it was only a matter of time before he’d make something of himself. I believed in him, I really did. I was just so young and got turned around by my family.”

Fatima sat back in her chair, crossing her arms, considering. She had a look on her face that said This is serious business .

“But it was about more than that, wasn’t it? I thought you broke up with him because you knew your mother would have wanted you to focus on medical school, instead of getting sidetracked with marriage and kids, and all that?”

“That’s what my aunt said my mom would have wanted.”

“So that’s a good reason,” Fatima said. “And you’ve done it. You’re a doctor, and you’re amazing at it. Why are you second-guessing that now?”

“Because, it turns out, Rehana just told me that to convince me to break up with him,” Asma said, feeling tears prick her eyes. “I don’t even know if there was any truth to it. I have no idea what Ammi would have wanted for me. And now it’s too late to change any of it.”

“Oh, Asma,” Fatima said, reaching forward and taking Asma’s hand. “I didn’t know you still thought about him.”

“I don’t think about him that often. Only every time I hear a sad song, or a love song, or see someone who looks like him, or someone mentions Berkeley, or—”

She stopped herself, feeling foolish for thinking so much about a heartbreak that was nearly a decade old. Fatima shook her head with a look of pity.

“Well, what if it’s not too late after all?” Fatima said. “What if you talk to Farooq? Call him and explain.”

“And say what? ‘Hey, remember me, the chick who dumped you because my family thought you were a broke college dropout? They heard you’re rich now, so never mind! Let’s get back together!’?”

“Or, ‘I saw you in the news and realized I made a mistake all those years ago,’?” Fatima countered.

“Fatima, his last words to me were literally ‘I never want to see you again.’?”

Asma could still feel the anger radiating off him as he sat next to her in her car. It was the second-worst moment of her life, and it had occurred in the parking lot of her dorm. She remembered thinking how awful it was even then, to have such an important conversation while drunk students stumbled by on the sidewalk across from them.

“I love you, Farooq. And I believe in you,” she had cried, reaching out to hold his hand. “But my family can’t get over that you’re not in college. And I can’t go against them.”

He had yanked his hand back, out of her reach. “This is how you believe in me?” Asma could still hear the pain in his voice and see the betrayal on his face all these years later.

She winced remembering how he’d slammed the door when he got out of the car, how she’d jumped from the force of it, the sudden loud noise in the silence of the car’s interior. And he’d made good on his promise to rid her from his life. After her explanatory emails and calls went unanswered, she had camped out at the computer lab to see if she could catch him before or after a shift. It was only then that she found out, from another student worker, that he had quit the job and moved home to Stockton to live with his parents.

“I’m the one who dumped him,” Asma said. “I sat there and told him that my family didn’t think he was good enough for me. Can you imagine how much that must have hurt him?”

Fatima drew back in sympathy, though Asma suspected the sympathy was more for Farooq than her.

“Still,” Fatima said, “it’s been eight years. That’s a lot of time and distance. He could have realized that marrying young might not have been the best thing for either of you.”

“If I reach out to him now, he’s going to think I’m only interested in him now because he has money.”

“I’ll be happy to testify to the fact that you’ve regretted it since it happened and have been pining away for him ever since.”

“I wouldn’t say pining.” Asma was indignant.

Fatima cocked an eyebrow. “You haven’t had a single romantic interest since Farooq.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You don’t make time for a personal life.”

It was the first time Fatima had ever called out Asma about this—and Asma didn’t like it. “You sound like an aunty,” she said.

Fatima mouthed Wow . “You’re my best friend, so I’m going to let that one slide.”

Fatima had come too close to the truth. Which was that Asma couldn’t imagine letting someone else in, after the twin losses of her mother and Farooq. She couldn’t imagine finding anyone who measured up to that first love, a relationship where she’d felt fully safe and seen. It was easier to close off her heart and to focus on her career. To throw her life and energy into something she could control.

“You made a mistake, Asma! Everyone should get a second chance.” Fatima leaned across the table toward Asma. “Do you still love him?”

It was a question Asma had been avoiding for years but had been mulling over since she first heard the news about Farooq.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I did, so much. But then I spent so much time trying to move on with my life that I got good at being alone.”

“You have to figure this out. At least for your own peace of mind. I mean, reach out to him—what’s the worst that can happen?”

“It always makes me nervous when people say that,” replied Asma. “That’s the part in the movie where they cut to my mangled corpse in an alley.”

Fatima rolled her eyes and air-stabbed Asma with her pen. Asma laughed and swatted Fatima with the essay she’d been reading about government surveillance just as she heard someone coming down the stairs.

It was Salman, Fatima’s husband. The world’s dullest man, who didn’t deserve her best friend.

“Salman!” Asma called out, the guilt from her true thoughts about him making her greeting come out extra enthusiastically.

Salman flinched and dropped the box he was carrying.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” Asma jumped to her feet as papers fluttered out of the box and through the railings of the staircase. “Haven’t seen you for a while!”

Salman responded as he always did—politely. He nodded, then hurried down the stairs to bend awkwardly and help Asma pick up the papers.

Salman was short, bald, and chronically disheveled, the opposite of what Asma had always imagined a big law firm partner looked like. But he was brilliant and had risen through the ranks of his firm with lightning speed because of his technical background. He’d made partner in just six years, his firm doing everything they could to keep him from going to another.

“Big case, huh?” Asma asked as he shoved the papers back in his box.

“Yes.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

Salman responded with an ambiguous grunt.

“What’s that? Then you’ll have to kill me?” Asma joked.

When Salman didn’t respond, Asma gave up trying to make conversation. Despite her attempts, she had never been good at engaging Salman and was disappointed that, even after years of knowing him, she wasn’t getting any better.

Asma looked at Fatima, who was ignoring them both, scribbling notes on a paper, her long curly hair spilling onto the table in front of her. Asma marveled at the mismatch of their relationship. Fatima, full of life and light, married to Salman, an old soul growing even more curmudgeonly as he aged. Fatima and Salman had been introduced by their families during Fatima’s senior year in college and got engaged after a two-month courtship. Asma was convinced Fatima was settling and could do better—at least someone with some semblance of a personality. After one too many times of Asma asking, “Are you sure?” Fatima had responded with her characteristic good sense tinged with uncharacteristic irritation: “He’s decent, has a stable job, and comes from a good family. I don’t need to be swept off my feet, this isn’t a movie.” Asma had backed off. Fatima seemed content. And this was, in fact, how many of the young women in their community were married, although Asma’s view of relationships had been forever altered by her romance with Farooq.

But Fatima had compromised a lot for Salman over the years, beginning when Fatima had wanted to pursue a career in architecture after college. Salman had been encouraging at first, promising they could relocate so she could pursue graduate school. And it seemed to work out perfectly when Fatima was accepted into Columbia—her first choice—as he could easily transfer to his firm’s New York office. But when it came time for her to enroll, Salman was in the middle of a huge case and didn’t want to bring up a transfer with his partners. Fatima deferred her enrollment for a year, but again, the timing wasn’t right for Salman’s career. It was then that Fatima realized the timing would never be right. She shelved the dream and accepted a position at her mother’s school. Asma was outraged on her behalf but Fatima refused to talk about it. She was wary, Asma realized with dismay only much later, of Asma’s judgment.

“I’ll be home late, eating dinner at the office,” Salman said, on his way out.

“Sorry,” said Fatima as the garage door slammed closed behind him. “He’s been in a mood. We went to see the fertility specialist last week and he’s been acting weird ever since.”

Weirder , thought Asma.

“How was the consultation?”

“The doctor seemed pretty optimistic about our chances.”

Fatima and Salman had decided to start a family shortly after Salman made partner. After years of batting away questions from family and friends about when they would have a baby— InshAllah was an answer that appeased no one—Fatima now had to answer the prying questions with the knowledge that it wouldn’t happen on its own. They had been trying for two years and it appeared as though their only option was IVF.

“She said we’ll start everything during my spring break. I just have to get through these papers.”

“Well then, let’s get a move on,” said Asma, rejoining Fatima at the table. She picked up another essay. “?‘When I grow up, I want to be a professional gamer.’?” She looked at Fatima in confusion. “A professional gamer? Like sports?”

“No, like video games.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Everything is a thing.”

—

Maryam, Iman, and Rehana were sitting around the kitchen table gupshupping over tea when Asma got home. Around them, the kitchen was in chaos, with moving boxes sitting open and partially filled on every inch of counter space. Asma wasn’t sure how they’d be ready to move out so soon, especially if her sisters and aunt took such frequent tea-and-gossip breaks.

“They are completely out of control,” Maryam was saying as Asma walked in.

“Bushra lets them run wild,” Rehana agreed, meeting Asma’s eyes. Asma glanced away, pointedly. There had been palpable tension between her and her aunt since their conversation the previous night. Asma was angry and not ready to address any of the complicated feelings that the conversation, or her debrief with Fatima at lunch, had brought up.

“The boys?” Asma asked, taking the empty seat at the table.

“You think my boys are out of control?” asked Maryam, a mixture of surprise and indignation. While the answer was a resounding yes—Iman was still grumbling about how Maryam’s sons had escaped from the guest room during their father’s party and jumped into the pool—Iman shot Asma a look that had her backtracking immediately.

“Of course not!” Asma replied.

“We’re talking about Lubna and Saba,” said Iman, helpfully, if a moment too late.

Hassan’s sisters had been favorite targets of gossip for the Ibrahim women ever since Hassan and Maryam were married. Maryam didn’t approve of how late they stayed out with their friends, particularly when it left them unable to help her with early-morning babysitting. Rehana thought their total disregard for how they were perceived reflected badly on the entire extended family, including the Ibrahims. And Asma was pretty sure that Iman was just jealous that they were at the beginning—rather than the latter end—of their twenties.

But Asma found Hassan’s sisters refreshing. At nineteen and twenty, they were confident and passionate—so completely unlike how Asma had been at that age. She couldn’t imagine either of them allowing their family’s objections to stop them from marrying a boy they were in love with.

“They are really developing a reputation. It won’t be good when it comes time for them to marry,” said Rehana. “Uzma said that Saba was seen in a bar a few weeks ago!”

“What was Uzma Aunty doing in a bar?” Asma asked, still avoiding Rehana’s gaze but unable to avoid the subtle dig at Uzma.

Rehana wasn’t amused. “It’s not a joke, Asma.”

“Saba was in a bar for her stand-up comedy, she’s not drinking,” Asma replied.

“Well, she shouldn’t be in that environment at all. It’s not appropriate,” said Maryam.

“Especially because she wears hijab,” Rehana added.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Asma asked.

“The optics are weird,” Iman said. “But if you are going to hang out in a bar, do it on the DL. You don’t have to share everything .”

“Like Lubna, constantly taking pictures of herself and posting them online,” added Maryam.

“Lubna is the worst kind of influencer,” Iman said. “Selfies, outfits of the day—what is she promoting, other than herself?”

“Harsh words from someone who has benefited from her two hundred thousand followers,” said Asma. “You didn’t seem to mind when she gave you a shout-out for planning her friend’s bridal shower last year.”

“Which is why I won’t call her out publicly,” Iman said.

“How generous of you,” said Asma. “I think it’s great that they’re doing what they want and aren’t bothered by what any of you have to say.”

“All you ambitious ladies,” Maryam said in a tone that made it clear this was not a compliment. “You’re in fearless pursuit of being the world’s best ER doctor and they’re on a ruthless path to achieve the most Instagram followers.”

Iman snickered.

“It’s a mutual lovefest,” Maryam continued, buoyed by Iman’s reaction.

“Ohhhh, Asma’s so nice!” Iman said, imitating Lubna in a fake singsong voice.

“At least they like one of us,” Asma retorted.

“Girls, enough!” Rehana said with a sharp look at Asma. “Asma, Bushra Aunty sent us some haleem, it’s in the fridge.”

Asma knew she was being dismissed but followed her aunt’s instructions anyway—she always had room for Maryam’s mother-in-law’s cooking. She helped herself to a bowl of haleem and ignored Maryam and Iman, who were listing all things they’d done for Saba and Lubna, as though it were evidence that they, too, were well-liked by the girls.

Asma had finished her first bowl of haleem and was midway through her second when Mr. Ibrahim and Mr. Shafiq entered the kitchen with broad smiles.

Mr. Ibrahim announced the news. “Shafiq has found us a tenant!”

“He’s famous,” offered Mr. Shafiq.

“Yes, he’s a well-known writer,” added Mr. Ibrahim. “So they say. I’ve never heard of him. And I’m quite well-read.” He pulled his glasses down his nose.

“I was introduced to him at a dawat last week,” said Mr. Shafiq. “He’s starting a teaching fellowship at Stanford next month and he and his wife are looking for a home nearby.”

“A writer who is also a teacher,” Mr. Ibrahim said with a shake of his head. “Who would have thought that someone like that would be able to afford a house like this ?”

“Well, his last book was made into a big Hollywood movie,” said Mr. Shafiq. “His name is Yusef Abdullah.”

Asma felt the blood drain from her face at the sound of the name. Her spoon clattered onto the table.

Rehana looked at her with alarm. “Beti, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m full.” In fact, Asma suddenly felt nauseated.

“He’s an African American. And Muslim,” continued Mr. Shafiq. “His wife is Pakistani. Actually, I think her brother used to live around here.”

“Can’t be,” said Mr. Ibrahim, “we’ve been in this neighborhood for years and I don’t remember any other Pakistanis nearby.”

“No, I’m sure he did. I used to run into him at jumma. Dr…. Dr…. umm, Dr….” Mr. Shafiq tapped his pen to his teeth, thinking. “I can see his face, I am just forgetting his name…Dr.—”

“Waheed.” Asma could barely say the name.

“Ah yes, Dr. Waheed. He was an Islamic studies professor at Stanford.”

“Oh. Yes, I think I remember him. You confused me by calling him a doctor,” said Mr. Ibrahim. “A professor should be called a professor.”

“And there was a younger brother too.” Mr. Shafiq looked at Asma, who was staring down at her hands, willing herself to keep down the haleem. Why had she eaten two bowls? “Asma, do you remember his name?”

“Farooq,” whispered Asma. Saying her ex’s name in front of her entire family made her feel faint.

Rehana’s head snapped up with recognition.

“Yes! Farooq. Farooq Waheed.” Mr. Shafiq nodded enthusiastically.

“Why does that name sound so familiar?” asked Mr. Ibrahim.

“That’s true, I’ve heard that name somewhere recently. From where?” asked Maryam.

Iman abandoned the group text on her phone, in pursuit of this much more interesting conversation occurring in real time. She looked at her father, then at Asma, then at her father again.

“Remember, Abu? Asma went to school with him,” she said, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Asma felt her cheeks grow hot. Asma had kept her relationship with Farooq a secret from her family, which hadn’t been such a difficult feat, considering they’d been at Berkeley. She had never spoken to her sisters about him—not even after the fact. Iman had been so wrapped up in her life, and they didn’t have the type of relationship where they confided in each other about anything so intimate as romantic relationships. Maryam had been in high school at the time, too young. Asma didn’t want to set a bad example, make her think that it was okay to date. And then when he proposed, it had been over so quickly with her father and Rehana that she’d never spoken of Farooq again. But it was clear Iman knew something based on her interest in this piece of news.

“Hmm, I don’t remember that,” said Mr. Ibrahim. “No, it’s something else.” Asma wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not by the fact that her father didn’t remember the name. Farooq had just been a gnat to swat away, an unfit suitor to be dismissed and then forgotten completely in pursuit of a worthier match.

It was Mr. Shafiq who piped in to supply the missing information.

“He was in the news recently. His startup was bought by Google. He’s worth hundreds of millions.”

“Oh, right!” Maryam said. “Lubna and Saba won’t stop talking about him!”

Asma stood up and grabbed her bag where she’d dropped it by the door. She couldn’t take another minute of this conversation. She left the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t wait for me for dinner. I’m going to bed soon. I have an early shift tomorrow.”

As she darted up the stairs to her room, Asma could barely see straight. It had been years since she’d last seen or spoken to Farooq. And now, in the span of just a few weeks, the man who hadn’t been good enough for her family had come crashing back into her life in the most unexpected ways. And his sister would soon be living in their house.