Chapter Nine
Nine
Asma sat on the couch, remote in hand, watching a reality show where families look for a new home because their current house is bursting at the seams. It created a strange sense of symmetry for her, because just that morning, Asma had left early to tour the new luxury apartment complex down the street from the hospital. If Dr. Saucedo was right and a job was about to open up in her ER, she could probably afford a two-bedroom place. Big enough for her father to stay with her when he visited from Sacramento. And even if she had to find a job at one of the other Bay Area hospitals after graduation, it would still be worth it. She couldn’t mentally afford to live with Maryam.
“You’re not ready?” Maryam was standing in the doorway dressed in a hot-pink salwar kameez and holding a gold clutch. “We’re supposed to be at Aunty Bushra’s house in twenty minutes.”
“I’m staying in tonight,” Asma replied.
“What’s wrong?”
“Work was exhausting,” Asma said, though really, it had been a good day overall. She arrived that morning to discover that she’d correctly diagnosed Mr. Shepard with Legionnaires’ disease, and it was likely that many of the residents at Green Meadows had been exposed. She’d contacted the nursing home’s administrator herself with the news, and he’d assured her that they would find the source of the infection and address it.
But even the best of days left Asma tired, and she’d earned a night of vegging out on the couch instead of dealing with another of Maryam’s social events.
“That’s not a good enough reason,” said Maryam. “We’re all tired. I’ve been handling the house and the boys all day.”
“Please, Maryam, just cover for me.”
“It’s low-key, Asma, not some huge party.”
“Then why are you dressed like you’re going to a wedding?”
“I always dress like this.” Maryam twirled to show off her outfit.
“Well, I’ll be dressed like this ”—Asma motioned to the flannel pajama bottoms that she was wearing along with a ratty med school T-shirt—“and be right here when you return.”
“Fine! Leave me all alone to handle the boys and help Aunty,” Maryam grumbled. “Hassan’s not even going to be there. He says I didn’t remind him about it and he scheduled back-to-back patients.” Maryam had her hands on her hips. “Why should I have to remind him? Who reminds me?”
The question was rhetorical and Asma had the sense to keep her mouth shut.
“It’s called the mental load,” Maryam answered herself. “Women are expected to be the keepers of the family’s to-do list, to make sure all the stuff that needs to get done gets done.”
Maryam was monologuing to the room, to an audience that was not there. Asma didn’t have the energy to engage. She slowly shifted her eyes back to the TV.
“I mean, just in this past week, I took the boys to their annual checkups, put together their outfits for spirit day, and filled out their field trip permission forms. Does Hassan even know all that stuff is happening?”
Asma shrugged, her eyes still on the TV.
“No, the answer is no,” Maryam said. “But he knows that when he’s hungry, there’s food in the fridge and on the table. Does he think it appears by magic?”
It kind of does , Asma thought, and Aunty Bushra is the magician . She answered Maryam with another shrug.
“I just ask that he makes time for things that are important. Like tonight. He really should meet Farooq. It’s rude not to be there at a dinner his parents are throwing for him.”
Asma jerked her head back to Maryam so quickly she almost strained her neck.
“Wait, Aunty is having a dinner for Farooq?” Asma asked.
“Seriously, Asma?” Maryam glared at her. “Now I have to carry the mental load for you too?”
“Sorry, no one told me.”
“What are you talking about?” Maryam said, her voice rising. “ I told you.”
Asma was certain she would have remembered if Maryam had, but that was beside the point.
“Never mind,” Asma said. “Why Farooq?”
“For Lubna.”
Oh no.
“I told you guys, I heard he was a jerk!” Asma said, trying to contain her sudden panic. This couldn’t be happening. Asma could force herself to get over the fact that Farooq probably had to end up with somebody, but the prospect of it being someone in Asma’s family was intolerable. The fact that her family was embracing him now with Lubna, after he’d made his millions, would all but prove to him how shallow they were all those years ago. And Asma desperately wanted him to know that it hadn’t been about the money. At least not for her.
“Lubna met him at some gathering and said he was really nice. He must have changed since college.”
“But isn’t it weird, just inviting some rando over for dinner?”
“Aunty invited Sophia and Yusef too. I mean, Sophia is our tenant.”
“I don’t remember a clause in the lease that says we have to invite them over for dinner,” Asma said.
“What’s your problem?” Maryam suddenly looked curious. “I thought you didn’t even know him.”
Asma realized she was having what must appear to Maryam as an outsized reaction. “I didn’t.” Now was not the time to fill Maryam in.
“Then why do you even care?” said Maryam.
“I just think the whole thing is so strange. Like, come have dinner with us and our single daughter.”
“Oh please, Asma.” Maryam turned on her heel. “You know how this game is played.”
I do , Asma thought as she watched Maryam walk down the hall. She turned off the TV.
Which is why I need to be there tonight.
—
Asma stepped out of the shower onto the bath mat, her wet feet making soggy footprints in the gray shag. She tightened the towel around her, then grabbed an extra one from the back of the door to wrap her hair. The bathroom mirrors were fogged up in a way that suggested the water she had used was much hotter than it had felt when she was standing under it. She stood in front of the medicine cabinet for a few seconds before swiping her hand across it.
Her path to this point professionally had resulted in so many casualties, starting with her face. Her eyes, once bright and framed by long lashes, looked tired, accentuating the dark circles below them. Small wrinkles paved a path across her forehead and down between her eyebrows, unruly after months of missed threadings. Her hair had started to thin and break, baby hairs peeking out from the front and back of her towel turban.
All those years of residency-induced stress and sleep deprivation had taken their toll.
But she was a doctor—and a damn good one, at that. And wasn’t that the goal when she ended things with Farooq so many years ago? Tonight, she would have the chance to let him know. To prove to him that she hadn’t broken up with him because of money, but because she wanted to be the person treating Mr. Shepard when he came into the ER. Maybe, finally, she could make him understand. And maybe, hopefully, it could lead to a second chance.
She finished her pep talk and marched to the closet to dig deep into one of her many U-Haul boxes. She scrounged up an old and tattered bag, then took stock of the pathetic mess of makeup inside. Was her skin color still the same shade as this foundation? Did mascara have an expiration date? Where were the boys’ school supplies? She needed a pencil sharpener for her eyeliner.
As she stood up, her hand brushed against one of her salwar kameez—a crimson tunic with embroidery. It was the color Asma was wearing the first time Farooq told her that he loved her—a spontaneous declaration during a stroll around campus on a crisp spring day that had taken them both by surprise. They spent the rest of the afternoon on a romantic high, the two of them sitting side by side on a bench and holding hands as they watched the sun set on the Berkeley hills. Asma had teased Farooq later that he had turned the color of her shirt.
Asma stood looking at the outfit, the vividness of the memory washing over her as if it had happened just yesterday. She wondered if seeing this color would remind Farooq of that afternoon too.
There was only one way to find out.
She pulled the salwar kameez off its hanger, pressed it flat against her body, then stuck her head out of the door.
“Maryam, where’s your iron?”
—
Bushra had outdone herself. Platters of kabobs and bowls of salan crowded the kitchen counters, with several pots and pans still on the stove. Bushra, bustling around, paused for a second when Maryam and Asma entered the kitchen, the warm air enveloping them in the familiar embrace of spices that made Asma feel as though she were home.
“Girls, you look beautiful!”
“We clean up well, huh?” Maryam helped herself to a pakora from a tray on the island, then settled onto a barstool. “I helped Asma with her makeup. She’s the only almost-thirty-year-old I know who hasn’t watched a single YouTube tutorial.”
“I think I read that article—by thirty you must have two times your salary in your retirement account and know how to properly apply eyeliner.” Asma rummaged in the drawer underneath the microwave. She found an apron and slipped it over her head. “What can I do, Aunty?”
“Nothing, beti, the girls should be helping me. Lubna! Saba!”
Asma followed Bushra around the kitchen until she gave her a cucumber to chop for the salad. Maryam, who had now moved on to sampling the samosas, made no move to assist Bushra or Asma, instead muttering under her breath, “I swear, I’ve never seen Lubna or Saba help Aunty during one of her dinner parties.”
The girls didn’t make their appearance until the guests were at the front door, bounding down the stairs at the sound of the doorbell. Asma noted that they were especially dressed up for the occasion, wearing the custom-made clothes they had worn last Eid with so much embroidery that they made Asma’s outfit look plain by comparison.
Asma was moving aside dishes to make room for the steaming platter of biryani that Bushra was carrying out of the oven when Yusef and Sophia entered the kitchen.
“Oh my goodness!”
“This is quite the spread!”
Asma didn’t see Farooq enter behind them and startled at the sound of his voice, a deep murmur giving salaams. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, looking sharp and well put together in a button-down shirt with slacks, his hands clasped together in greeting, holding out a gorgeous bouquet of flowers to Aunty Bushra. She couldn’t get over how much he had come into himself, how he stood so confident and assured. His first view of her tonight would be the same as his last one: her back, now adorned with the clumsy bow of her apron. She slowly untied the apron, preparing for the big reveal of her outfit and made-up face. But before she could slip it off her neck, Bushra handed her a platter piled high with naan. “Asma beti, can you please put this next to the biryani?”
Asma took the platter with one hand and attempted to yank off the apron with the other, just as the twins came racing into the kitchen. They stopped when they saw Farooq.
“It’s you!” said Zayd.
“It’s me!” Farooq answered, amused. His eyes crinkled at the side as he smiled, just as Asma remembered.
Zaki stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes.
“Zaki—stop it!” Maryam said. “Why are you doing that?”
Asma looked at the boys in confusion before it dawned on her what was going on. Zaki was imitating Farooq’s face from the photo booth strip he had found in her book.
“Zaki!” Asma said, trying to hide her anxiety. “Can you please take this apron and give it to Dadi?”
Asma pulled the apron off over her head and held out her hand to Zaki. He ignored her, still staring at Farooq.
“You’re in the picture,” said Zayd.
“What picture?” asked Farooq.
“From the book,” said Zaki.
“What book?” asked Aunty Bushra.
“From the box.”
“What box?” Maryam asked.
The boys turned to look at Asma.
“What are you talking about?” Asma smiled at them in a sinister, threatening way. No one noticed—except Farooq, who looked at her sharply. It was clear he knew exactly what the boys meant. The look sent a jolt through her to the point that she barely realized it when the platter of naan slipped from her hand. It fell to the floor and shattered, shards of white CorningWare decked with small yellow and orange flowers flying everywhere.
—
Asma sat next to Bushra on the couch, the rest of the family and guests sprawled around the living room, their plates heaped with food. The destruction of the naan had mercifully distracted her family, who didn’t seem to wonder why she had dropped the platter in the first place. By the time they had cleaned up the mess, they had long forgotten the picture of Farooq. Although Asma knew, much to her distress, that Farooq hadn’t.
Now Bushra waved off Asma’s apology, her ire directed toward the twins and Maryam.
“This is what I was saying.” Asma was still so flustered that she didn’t realize Bushra was talking to her.
“What were you saying, Aunty?”
“Maryam! She doesn’t watch these boys and—”
Asma nodded as Bushra complained but tuned her out as she tried to listen in on the conversation Farooq was having with the girls and Sophia across the room.
“It was in the garage,” Sophia said.
“Of course it was,” Lubna said. “Isn’t that where all startups begin?”
“It seems like a million years ago,” Farooq said. “Working hard with just an idea and no guarantee of success.”
Farooq had shared his idea with Asma shortly after they met, hesitant at first.
“So people in the Central Valley have no money and no accessible healthcare,” Farooq had said. “They basically see someone only when it’s an emergency. And by then, it’s too late.
“It sounds crazy,” he continued. “But what if there was a way I could build a network of medical professionals across the country—doctors and nurses—who want to help?” He had pulled out his phone and held it up. “And then develop some way for the people who need medical care to access that network through their phone, no matter where they are or how little money they have?”
“It’s not crazy,” Asma had assured him. “It’s brilliant.” She felt a rush of love thinking about his big heart and how their career ambitions so closely mirrored each other in helping people through medicine.
Asma knew it was her early support that had propelled him forward and factored into his decision to drop out of college and work on his idea full time. A decision that ultimately came back to haunt him, when her family used that as a reason for them not to be together.
Asma wondered if his comment to Lubna was directed at her, but he continued to look at Lubna.
“I remember those days,” Yusef said, coming back into the room from the kitchen, his plate piled high with seconds. “We had them too.”
“The life of a struggling artist,” Sophia said. “You pretend like studio apartments are romantic.”
It turned out Asma wasn’t the only one halfway invested in her conversation with Bushra. Bushra cut herself off midsentence.
“Uncle and I lived in a small apartment when we first came to this country,” she said. “Our rent was two hundred dollars a month. It was a fortune! Uncle wasn’t making much.”
“But they didn’t care because they were so in loooooooove,” Saba crooned. “You know Ammi and Abu had a love marriage. I have a whole bit about it in my routine. He was so handsome ,” Saba said with a slight accent, imitating her mother.
Bushra smiled, then wagged her finger at Saba.
This piqued everyone’s attention, especially Farooq’s.
“Aunty, if you don’t mind me asking—what did your family say?” he asked. “Marrying a man who didn’t have much money?”
Lubna put up her hand. “Nooo, don’t get her started, she won’t stop!” But Asma felt herself flush with embarrassment.
“My parents didn’t mind,” Bushra started. “He was a good man, they knew it would work out. We were getting married for ourselves, not for other people.”
“That must have been unheard of when you married, Aunty,” said Sophia. “I don’t think that’s the case with many Desi families even today.”
“I know how these ladies talk,” said Bushra. “But if you raise your children right and trust them, then you don’t have to worry.”
“I’ll remember that the next time you yell at me for performing somewhere you don’t like,” said Saba.
“Beta, you shouldn’t be in bars,” said Bushra with a shake of her head.
“My last one is this weekend,” said Saba. “I promise!”
“Cancel it, please, Saba! I need you at my event.” Lubna’s face brightened as she turned to Farooq. “Farooq! You should totally be on my panel. It’s for PIMPS!”
Farooq choked on his kabob. He coughed and pounded on his chest with his fist, glancing at Aunty Bushra, then at Lubna, in barely restrained horror.
“PIMPS—Pakistanis in Many Professions,” Lubna explained, seemingly oblivious to Farooq’s reaction. “It’s a networking group for Pakistani American professionals.”
“A bunch of Desi kids from rich South Bay families who talk and dress like they were raised on the streets of Oakland,” said Maryam.
Asma stifled a laugh and noticed that the guests did the same. Maryam’s bluntness could sometimes be refreshing.
“Don’t be a hater, Maryam,” said Saba.
Lubna ignored Maryam’s comment, her focus still on Farooq. “I’m hosting a career panel at their mixer. You would be such a big draw. Please say yes!”
“Sounds interesting,” said Farooq. “I’d be happy to.”
“Awesome! Asma’s going to be on the panel too. We couldn’t have a career panel without a doctor.”
Asma smiled and tried to meet his gaze, but Farooq no longer looked as pleased with his invitation. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Like half the attendees will be Berkeley grads, I’m sure they’ll have tons of questions for you guys,” said Lubna. “I can’t remember—were you two friends in college?”
“No.”
Farooq said no so quickly and forcefully that Asma understood. It had colored every interaction they’d had since they’d first seen each other in the Ibrahim backyard. Farooq was still angry with her. That she was a doctor now, and that years had passed, made no difference. Asma felt like an idiot for thinking otherwise. She looked down at her plate and didn’t look up until the conversation turned elsewhere.
—
Asma stood by herself in the kitchen. She hadn’t been able to sit with the group any longer and had left to make chai, which she was pouring into cups when Farooq came out of the bathroom. He looked surprised to see her. Their eyes met, finally. Asma willed herself not to break his gaze.
“We weren’t friends?” she asked.
“That’s what we were?”
Farooq’s answer, and his tone—cold and harsh—caught Asma off guard. He had never spoken to her like that before. She overfilled one of the teacups.
“You need help?” he asked, his voice softening.
An olive branch. She nodded.
Farooq took his place beside her. He held the cups steady as she poured the tea, her arm brushing against his sleeve as she moved from cup to cup. Her skin seemed to prickle with awareness of how close he was to her again, after so long. She had yearned for this moment, dreamed of it for years—and now that she was here, she wished she could freeze time and stay next to him forever.
Asma realized this might be her only chance to be alone with Farooq. She needed to talk to him now. She took a deep breath, the faint, familiar scent of Farooq’s aftershave only slightly soothing her nerves.
“Farooq, I’m sorry,” she said.
Farooq kept his hands and eyes on the cups. He didn’t reply.
Asma put down the teapot and turned to him. “I regret so much the way things ended between us, but I want you to know that I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I thought I was doing what my mother…”
Asma trailed off, a knot forming in her throat as Farooq stayed quiet.
“I’m not the same person I was eight years ago.”
And there it was. As the words left her mouth, Asma realized that was what she needed Farooq to know. That if she were given a chance to do things all over again, she really would do them differently.
She needed him to believe her because she needed to believe it herself.
“It’s fine,” he said finally. Dispassionately. “Water under the bridge.”
She realized she had been holding her breath, and exhaled.
“That’s it?” Asma asked, her voice still taut with emotion.
Lubna popped her head into the kitchen. “Farooq! We’re waiting for you. Saba is shooting down my movie ideas, I need backup.”
“She keeps picking old movies!” Saba called out from the living room.
“I’ll be there in a second,” Farooq said, as Lubna disappeared back into the living room. His smile faded as he turned back around to face Asma.
“Everything happened so long ago,” Farooq said with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact, his face unreadable. He picked up the tea tray. “I don’t even think about it anymore. I’ve moved on.”
Asma remained still as Farooq left the kitchen, the wind knocked out of her. Unable to move. As afraid as she’d been that he was still angry at her for their breakup, this—the revelation of his indifference—was so much worse.
In her mind, he, too, had spent the last eight years mourning the end of their relationship. Wishing things might have been different. But he hadn’t. And, worse yet, he now knew that she had.
Asma had known Farooq intimately for two years and, as much time as had passed, she still knew from his face exactly what he meant and what he had left unsaid:
I’ve moved on. And you should too.