Chapter Four
Four
The rolling green hills off the 280 freeway in San Mateo were a welcome, soothing respite from the mass of gray buildings that flanked the 101. Crystal Springs, a serene human-made reservoir, was tucked away at the bottom of the hills, a not-so-secret refuge for joggers and hikers eager to escape the bustle of city living. And for Asma, who’d decided that the only way to clear her head of the previous night’s news was to exhaust herself in nature.
But still, even after an hour of hiking, Asma couldn’t believe that Farooq’s sister would be her family’s new tenant. What were the chances?
Asma took a gulp from her water bottle as she reached the end of the trail. She made her way to a nearby bench and plopped down, out of breath from the hike and the gorgeous view of the reservoir.
The view made her think about the summer before her freshman year at Berkeley. She’d lied to her father so he would let her go on an orientation trip to Yosemite, telling him the trip was only for women on the premed track. She’d justified it at the time by reminding herself that she was about to be living on her own at school, away from her home and the rest of her family. She was about to be making all of her decisions on her own, without her father’s permission. So what was the harm in diving into that world a bit early?
She’d noticed Farooq immediately when she arrived, loaded down with a backpack full of camping gear and flush with the idea of a fresh start. Brown, skinny, and tall—wearing a Berkeley sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers—Farooq had a bright, lopsided grin that lit up his entire face as he introduced himself to the group. His eyes crinkled up at the sides when he and Asma made eye contact, his smile growing wider as she felt something pass between them. But she did her best to avoid him at first, wary that the aunty network might catch wind of her deception about the trip through this unknown boy. And also because a part of her wanted to blend in with the other teenagers, to not be set apart by immediately buddying up with the only other Muslim kid on the trip.
But on the first night, as their group sat around the campfire roasting hot dogs for dinner—Asma despairing at the sad hockey puck of a veggie burger that was the alternative option for the evening—she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find the cute Muslim boy, still with a smile on his face. Without a word, he held up a pack of halal hot dogs.
It was a simple gesture. But in that moment, away from home for the first time, in the middle of the woods, with the light disappearing and a chill in the air and a bunch of strange teenagers for company, the sight of those hot dogs was so comforting she wanted to cry. And Farooq—that was his name, she learned, as they sat shoulder to shoulder, spearing their hot dogs with sticks and holding them over the campfire—felt like finding home, in that strange place. From then on, being with Farooq always felt to her like coming home.
Asma pulled out her phone, trying to shake off the memory. It wasn’t yet six a.m.—too early to call anyone for a chat to clear her head. She considered hiking back—this wasn’t the distraction she’d hoped it would be, not when all she could think about was him. But working at the hospital had taken it out of her, and even the thought of getting up to start the hike back was exhausting. She almost laughed at herself, now that she was nearly on the other side of residency. When she was in college, part of her never imagined she’d actually get here.
He did, though. Farooq seemed to never doubt it for a second.
They danced around each other that first semester, gravitating toward each other when they arrived on campus, simply because it was nice to already have a friend. They made up excuses to see each other—sharing books they thought the other would like and snacks pilfered from student group meetings—though they didn’t have any of the same classes and lived in different dorms. They’d take trips to the halal restaurants near campus and drive out to the various state parks around the Bay Area, their hands brushing against each other as they explored new hiking trails. When his roommate insisted on practicing his trumpet in their dorm room, Asma was happy to have Farooq hang out in her room until they got the all clear text from his neighbor across the hall. He’d go with her to the indie and foreign movies her friends didn’t want to see, sitting close to her, attentive, never complaining that most of them were romances.
And then there was the morning her organic chem grade was posted. Asma had been obsessed about the final for a month, unable to keep from fixating on it as the “make-or-break premed class,” as she explained to Farooq over and over again. When he failed to coax her out of the library or her dorm for weeks at a time, Farooq started bringing her meals between his shifts at the computer lab. The day after the test, he’d driven her out to a remote hiking trail in the Santa Cruz Mountains and stood in the middle of nowhere with her, demanding she yell as loud as she could.
“I promise, it’ll make you feel better,” he said, when she laughed at the suggestion.
“I’m not going to just yell,” she’d replied. “That’s crazy. Someone will think you’re trying to hurt me.”
“There’s nobody for miles,” Farooq said, and then laughed when Asma gave him a horrified look. “Okay, so look, you’ve been under so much stress lately that your body thinks you’re being chased by a wild animal or something. You have to find a way to let all that stress out.”
“You’re going to make fun of me,” Asma said.
“I promise you,” Farooq replied. “I will never make fun of you for this. Other things, sure. But the next thirty seconds, whatever you do, I’m not going to make fun of you for it.”
“Thirty seconds?” Asma asked.
“I’ll time you,” Farooq said, pushing a button on his digital watch. The one Asma teased him made him look like a computer nerd, which was exactly what he was. “Go!”
Asma took a deep breath, then let out a little noise that immediately dissolved into laughter.
“You have to do better than that!” Farooq said.
“Okay, okay,” Asma replied. She took another breath and looked up to the slice of sky between the trees above them. She closed her eyes, feeling the light breeze on her face and Farooq beside her. She thought about all the hours she’d studied for that final, all the sleepless nights, all the effort that was compressed down into that one hour-long test. She thought about her mother, who had also wanted to be a doctor, whose dreams were cut short—first by marriage and then by illness. And then Asma let out a yell so loud she was surprised she couldn’t hear it echo off the nearby mountains.
“Excellent!” Farooq shouted, clapping. “Do you feel better?”
Asma considered. She felt a little dizzy, but lighter. Elated even.
“I do!” she replied, feeling a rush of relief. The test was over. Her future, whatever it would be, was momentarily out of her control. It felt great, actually.
“Well, you still have eight seconds if you want to do it again,” Farooq replied.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she stepped forward and kissed Farooq. He went still as she did, as if both of them knew she was crossing a line, and neither was sure if it was the right move. And then, as soon as he started to kiss her back, her body relaxing into the comfort of his and her face tingling where his hand touched her cheek, his digital watch began to beep. She stepped away, blushing furiously at what she’d just done.
“Okay, well, you’re not allowed to make fun of me for that,” Asma said, as he glanced down to silence the alarm.
Farooq looked at her with such tenderness that she grew warm from head to toe. “Never,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her close. “I’ve wanted to do that since the day we first met.” Asma understood immediately from the look on his face the depths of his feelings toward her; he didn’t have to say anything else at all.
They didn’t talk about the kiss after that, but the next week, when the organic chem grade was posted, she found that she couldn’t look at it. She made him finally click the link, sitting in her dorm in her pajamas, because she couldn’t even get dressed until she knew how she’d done.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” she said, her hands over her face. “Because it’s bad, right? Oh God, I knew I should’ve taken more practice exams. I just thought at the end that maybe I should get more sleep.” Asma babbled on until she felt Farooq’s arms around her. A startling feeling, at first, in the way she’d startled him with the kiss.
“You got a ninety-seven,” he had said into her hair.
“What?” she said, feeling the tension in her go slack, until all her weight was resting against him. “Really?”
“I’m so proud of you,” he said, his lips brushing against her ear.
It was the first time anyone other than her mother had said that to her.
Asma had told Fatima that she was unsure if she still loved Farooq. But his return had brought her feelings to the surface from where she had buried them all those years ago.
Of course she still loved him. She wasn’t sure she could ever stop.
—
Asma flipped through an old issue of a gossip magazine, its well-worn pages ripped and dog-eared. She was pretty sure the celebrities who were just like her—eating pizza! pumping gas!—didn’t spend their only afternoon off work sitting in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. She put the magazine down and checked her phone. It had been thirty minutes, much longer than it usually took for Mr. Ibrahim’s exam. She couldn’t help but worry.
Mr. Ibrahim had never been good about taking care of his health. When Asma was young, her mother had gently coaxed him to eat less and exercise more, his love for her the only motivation he had to take a walk each night after dinner. He had lost his appetite when she passed, dismissing his daughters’ concerns over the years that he was losing weight and seemed depressed. His spirit had improved considerably when Rehana moved in with the family, although not his diet. Neither Mr. Ibrahim nor Rehana could understand the harm of eating fried food and meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. After all, they said, that was how generations of their family had eaten—ignoring that generations of their family had passed away from complications related to heart disease.
“Dr. Ibrahim?” The receptionist was holding open the waiting room door. “They’re ready for you.”
Asma had been taking her father to his doctors’ appointments since she could drive—it was the only way he’d ever go. It had become a ritual of sorts but took on a new level of importance once she started medical school. Her father had almost entirely delegated his medical care to Asma, depending on her to schedule his appointments, order his medications, and review his test results.
“Dr. Ibrahim,” said her father’s physician, Dr. Razfar, rising to greet her with a firm handshake. “So nice to see you again.”
Dr. Razfar was an internationally renowned cardiologist, whom Asma had tracked down at a medical conference after deciding that her father could do better than his general practitioner, an old friend of his who Asma believed should’ve retired at least a decade earlier. Dr. Razfar hadn’t been accepting new patients, but Asma had managed to convince him to make an exception as a professional courtesy.
“The good news is that your father’s cholesterol is responding well to the new statin. But I would like to see his blood pressure a bit lower. Have you been under any extra stress lately, Mr. Ibrahim?”
“Well…” Mr. Ibrahim began, but then he looked to Asma to step in.
“We’re in the middle of moving to Sacramento,” Asma replied, deciding this wasn’t the time to mention the ruination of the family finances. “Getting the house ready to be rented. It’s been a lot.”
“Mitigating stress is very important, especially at your age,” Dr. Razfar said to Mr. Ibrahim. “Make sure you don’t overexert yourself. And I want you to get a blood pressure cuff and use it every day. Let your daughter here know what the numbers are. If they go up any higher, we’ll adjust this new medication.”
Dr. Razfar directed his comments at Mr. Ibrahim, who again looked at him blankly before turning to Asma. She nodded.
“I’m happy to continue seeing your father even after your move to Sacramento, or I can refer you to a colleague there. Whatever you prefer.”
“Thank you, we’ll find a way to make it work,” Asma replied.
Mr. Ibrahim was unusually quiet on the walk to the car, brushing off Asma’s concerned inquiries. “I’m just a bit tired today.”
As Mr. Ibrahim slid into the passenger seat, Asma was startled to see gray hair near his temples. He must really not be feeling well if he’d neglected to do his roots.
Her worry only increased when he nodded off during the ride home. It wasn’t like him to take an afternoon nap.
“I know you’ll take good care of your father and your sisters.”
Asma’s mother’s words came to her so suddenly and clearly that she whipped her head around to the back seat, half expecting to find her sitting there. She straightened around and took a deep breath, remembering the evening after the doctor told them that her mother’s cancer was terminal. Asma had gone into her mother’s room to check on her before going to bed. Her mother had clutched Asma’s hand and whispered those words to her. Asma had taken them to heart, vowing to herself that she wouldn’t let her down.
It was an enormous burden to put on a teenager. But who else was there? Her father had broken down at the diagnosis, unbridled emotion that made it impossible for him to even think about life without his beloved wife. Maryam had been a child, not yet a teen. And Iman? Asma had tried to talk to her, to see if they could handle things together. But Iman had shut her down—she was in denial and kept repeating that everything was going to be fine, that their mom would pull through. It was only Asma, just fourteen years old, who seemed to understand what was waiting for them. So Asma swallowed her fear and stepped up as her mother had hoped, her mission to keep her family upright the only thing that got her through those difficult years after her mother’s passing, even if it was to the detriment of her own grief.
What would things have been like if her mother had never died? Asma thought about it often, unable to envision the trajectory of her life with someone else for them to all lean on. Would she be spending what little free time she had worrying about her family’s finances and father’s health? Or would she have had the peace of mind to focus solely on her career? Would she and Farooq be married, without Rehana’s dictate that it was against her mother’s wishes?
Asma’s anger simmered into guilt. Her mother had never asked anyone for much. How afraid she must have been to leave her dependent husband alone. And how devastated she must have felt that she would not live to see her daughters grow into women.
Asma knew now that her mother had sought comfort the only way she knew how—to rely on the one person she thought could handle the responsibility of taking care of their family the way that she had. And for years Asma had tried to live up to that expectation.
But she was reaching the end of her rope.