Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
They saw the fog rolling down the freeway before they saw the city, the skyline obscured by a haze. Between the clouds, Asma could see the outline of the familiar San Francisco landmarks—the peak of the Transamerica building, the outline of Coit Tower, the imposing Bay Bridge.
Although San Francisco was only about an hour from San Jose, Asma had spent very little time in the city. Her family hadn’t taken trips to San Francisco when she was growing up, her parents preferring to turn the car southward toward the warmth of Los Angeles. In high school, she took the occasional trip up to the city with girlfriends to go shopping or to see a show, but the vast majority of her time in San Francisco had been spent during her four years at Berkeley.
“I could get used to this life,” Lubna said, interrupting Asma’s nostalgia.
“Me too!” Maryam chimed in.
Farooq insisted that their entire trip was on him— hotels, meals, everything. Asma had tried to convince Maryam that they should pay their own way. But Maryam had no such qualms.
“Please, Asma, he’s the one who invited us—he’ll be insulted if we offer to pay.”
It was already clear that Maryam planned to take full advantage of Farooq’s generosity. She’d made reservations at Oasis, which she heard was the best spa in the city, and dropped heavy hints that she wanted to dine at Le Chateau, famous for its five-course tasting menu. She insisted on staying at the Fairmont Hotel, at the top of Nob Hill, where they had a breathtaking view of the city and the Bay spread in front of them—the tracks of the cable cars, the Victorian houses, and the outline of the bridge against the water.
Asma thought that Maryam would’ve been eager to get the weekend started. But she dawdled through the morning, planning her weekend itinerary. By the time she packed the boys off to the Qureishis’, decided what outfits she wanted to bring, and what snacks they might need in the car, their whole group was running an hour late. By the time they finally all packed into the car with Saba and Lubna, and got through the traffic that started where the freeway met the route into the city, they were two hours behind. They had to abandon their plans to check into the hotel first and head straight to dinner instead. Asma, wearing faded khakis and an old med school sweatshirt, wished she’d had the foresight to have dressed for dinner instead of the car ride.
Dinner that night was at the family restaurant of one of Farooq’s friends.
“Naveed moved here five years ago from Pakistan to go to business school at Stanford,” Lubna said. “He’s a banker, totally rich, went to Karachi Grammar School, you know the type.”
“God, those KGS kids are such snobs,” Maryam said.
Kettle, meet pot , thought Asma.
“He’s got the craziest story, though. So his mom is totally trying to set him up with girls from home, but he falls in love with this Desi chick in his B-school class and they get engaged. At first his mom is freaking out, but then it turns out this girl is rich and from their hometown so it’s like a perfect match.”
“Rich and from your hometown—what more could any man want in a wife?” said Hassan with a wink at Maryam.
“Shhh, Hassan, let her finish!” said Saba.
“Yeah, Hassan! Let me finish! It’s just getting good.” Lubna took a deep breath, then launched back into her story. “So the wedding is all set up—it’s this huge affair—everyone and their mom is invited. They have all these events planned over the course of three weeks—three dholkis, two mendhis, dawat after dawat. And everything is going great—until the bride doesn’t show up to the shaadi!”
“Oh my God, did someone murder her?” Maryam asked, twisting around to gape at Lubna with what seemed to be genuine concern.
“What? No! She stood him up! She was in love with some other dude.”
“Oh.” Maryam settled back into her seat, seemingly disappointed.
“So the guests are just sitting there, assuming she’s late, because brides always show up late to their weddings. But then two hours turned into three, then four—then at hour five Naveed’s dad comes out and tells everyone that the bride is sick.”
“That is so sad,” said Saba.
“I know, it’s, like, my nightmare,” added Lubna.
“ That’s your nightmare?” Hassan asked Lubna, amused.
“I’m glad you think this is so funny, Hassan,” Lubna said, not amused. “How devastating for him. He had taken off all this time from work for the wedding and honeymoon and everything, and instead, he just came back to San Francisco. Apparently he was such a mess, he wasn’t even able to go back to his apartment, he just moved in with his uncle.”
“And we’re having dinner with this guy?” asked Maryam. “Can’t wait.”
“It’s actually his uncle’s restaurant,” Lubna said, brushing off Maryam’s sarcasm. “Kamran. Apparently Farooq knows him pretty well too. He came here from Pakistan after his wife died. Which was fortunate for Naveed, to have family in the Bay, after what he went through.”
As they followed the GPS through the city and into the Tenderloin, their excitement over dinner simmered down considerably. Imagining a sleek modern restaurant worthy of a Food Network show, they fell silent when Hassan pulled in front of a battered storefront. The name of the restaurant on the red awning was obscured by bird droppings.
They stood close to the car as Hassan fed the meter, trying to ignore the stench of urine and weed coming from the group of men lighting up on the stoop of the neighboring building.
“Are we going to just hang out on the sidewalk?” Asma asked.
“Yeah, let’s get a move on,” said a grumpy Hassan, exhausted from the almost two-hour drive. “I’m hungry.”
They hustled into the restaurant packed with cabdrivers and families and were immediately hit with the pungent aroma of Desi food that would likely stick on their clothes and follow them around for hours after dinner. Tables topped with cloudy pitchers of water and chipped plastic cups crowded the space in a haphazard manner, and a long line of people clutching sticky menus while waiting to order at the front counter snaked around the restaurant. Farooq was already there, staking out a big table in the back corner. He stood up when they entered and waved them over.
They navigated the crowd, pushing gingerly past the stained plastic tablecloths and greasy napkin dispensers. Asma looked at Maryam with apprehension—the look on her face was one they were used to seeing before she said exactly what was on her mind.
“I don’t know why people confuse dirty with authentic,” she said, before Asma could stop her.
“Shhhh,” Asma admonished Maryam.
Farooq didn’t seem to notice their faces or hear Maryam. He was busy trying to wave someone down.
Asma followed his wave to behind the stove, where a chubby middle-aged man, covered in sweat, broke out into a grin. He yelled something over his shoulder toward the back kitchen before removing his apron and using it to wipe his face. On his way to meet them he stopped to give his salaams to a few of the patrons. They were reviewing the menu by the time he made it to their table. Farooq introduced him as Kamran, the owner of the restaurant, and he greeted each of them warmly, Lubna last.
“Lubna! So nice to meet you,” Kamran said with a smile and a sly look at Farooq. Farooq smiled in response. Asma felt sharp disappointment mixed with jealousy. She couldn’t keep up with the ping-ponging signals she was receiving from Farooq, and knew that she needed to have a private conversation about where things between them stood.
Asma turned her attention to the head of the table, where a sad-faced man was standing with a plate of samosas.
“This is Naveed, my nephew,” Kamran said.
Asma recognized the expression on Naveed’s face: utter pain and despair, the wounds of heartbreak. Realizing that the rest of the table—after their perfunctory salaams—were in too good a mood to pay attention to him, Asma pulled an empty chair from the neighboring table, brushed the crumbs off the seat, and motioned for Naveed to sit down.
“So,” Asma said once Naveed was settled. “I hear you’re an investment banker.”
It was a pathetic attempt at conversation, but Asma couldn’t think of anything else.
“I’m not sure I’m going back to my job,” said Naveed. “I’m thinking about a career shift.”
Asma waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prodded gently.
“In what direction?”
“Writing,” Naveed said, his voice defiant. It was clear from the way he said it that previous expressions of this new plan had not been met with excitement. But his look softened when he saw Asma’s face light up.
“That’s wonderful! What do you write?”
It was as if Asma had uttered the magic words. Naveed transformed, enthusiastically launching into a detailed description of his novel.
Over the course of dinner—which, Maryam conceded later, was delicious, “in spite of the grossness of the restaurant”—Naveed and Asma fell into an easy rapport, a relief for Asma to have someone to talk to. By the end of the meal, Asma had even managed to make him laugh, a detail, she noticed, that was not lost on Farooq, who was observing them, intently, from the other side of the table.
—
Asma woke early the next morning to a text from Lubna— meet in lobby at 9 —and bright blue skies. The day was also unusually sunny, the streets outside the hotel still empty save for the occasional early-morning tourist bending backward to snap pictures of the flags flying above the hotel’s porte cochere. Asma raised her face toward the sun, enjoying the warmth on her cheeks, the light breeze, and the soft clanging of the cable car that was making its way up the hill.
“Hey there, beautiful!” a homeless man called out from the corner.
Asma turned around.
“You, I’m talking to you!” he continued, pointing at Asma. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked the valet attendant standing just a few feet away.
“She is, indeed!” the attendant agreed.
Asma mumbled thanks under her breath, embarrassed that she was actually flattered by the attention. She hurried back into the hotel just as Saba and Lubna were coming out of the elevator.
“You’re looking nice this morning,” Saba said. “Are you wearing makeup?”
“Just the lip gloss Lubna gave me.”
“You should wear it more often.”
“Clearly. It’s getting a reaction out of everyone,” Asma said. “Where are Hassan and Maryam?”
“Still asleep,” Lubna said. “Here, Farooq left these for us.”
Lubna held out name badges. “We better hurry, his presentation is at nine thirty.”
They set off down the steep decline of California Street, careful to watch their step in between admiring the bird’s-eye view of the Bay Bridge stretching over the sparkling water separating San Francisco and Oakland.
“I love everything about this city except for maybe these hills,” Saba said. “Tariq and I were even talking about moving here after we get married.”
“Wait—what? Are you engaged?” Asma asked.
“Basically. Tariq needs to come and officially ask Ammi and Abu, but we’re good to go. Maryam even gave us her blessings.”
“She did? When?”
“After the Walmart thing.”
“What Walmart thing?”
“Maryam was at the Walmart in Daly City and her car broke down,” Lubna said.
“I remember that day. She called me at work asking for a ride.”
“Apparently she called everyone before calling me,” Saba said. “And even I wasn’t free. But Tariq was. And he picked her up.”
“What was she doing at a Walmart in Daly City?”
“She needed to pick some stuff up for the boys’ school but didn’t want to be seen at any of the stores by our house.”
“You know,” Lubna said, “because she’s such a crusader for workers’ rights.”
Asma chuckled. “Classic Maryam.”
“I know, right? To her credit, she apologized to him. And me,” said Saba. “I told her I wouldn’t forgive her unless she gave me permission to use the story in one of my routines.”
Asma laughed.
They made it to the Moscone Center a few minutes before Farooq was scheduled to take the stage. Attendees were swarming about wearing matching orange lanyards and carrying conference tote bags, enthusiastically greeting acquaintances they likely only saw once a year. Asma snagged a conference program she found abandoned on a table. She flipped through it and found Farooq’s headshot—he was the keynote speaker for the morning session. She swelled with pride as she read his bio.
Asma, Lubna, and Saba found seats in the middle of the main hall.
“There are so many people here,” Lubna said in awe.
The lights dimmed as the lectern in the middle of the stage was illuminated by a spotlight and projected onto two huge screens. A minute later, Farooq’s face filled both of them.
“Everyone always wants to hear my origin story,” Farooq began. “How did I get the idea for this platform that has already drastically transformed medical services for people living in rural areas?”
He was confident and calm as he shared the details of his family’s journey from Pakistan to a small farming community in central California. Asma remembered the story. It was there that the death of his father’s beloved sister—from a treatable illness that no one caught until it was too late—forever changed the course of his life.
“I grew up wondering if Aunty Zainab could’ve been saved if she only had access to a doctor and preventive care. There’s no way to know. But I knew that I could make sure that what happened to her didn’t happen to anyone else.”
The massive audience seemed completely engaged—laughing, groaning, and clapping on cue as Farooq went into the details of his company’s product. A way to connect people—no matter where they were or how much money they had—to the massive network of medical professionals that Farooq had built. Just as he had envisioned so many years before.
The only people who didn’t seem to be listening were the two sitting next to Asma.
“Reception in here is so bad.” Lubna was staring at her phone.
“None of my posts are uploading,” Saba said.
Lubna swiveled around in her seat.
“I think there’s Wi-Fi in the lobby.”
“We’ll be right back,” Saba whispered, as the two of them scooted past her and out of the hall.
They hadn’t made it back by the time Farooq wrapped up his talk. Asma looked around and wondered if she should try to find them in the lobby. But then she spotted Farooq near the front of the hall, ringed by security guards and a mob of what appeared to be tech groupies. She moved toward him—maybe she could pull him aside and finally get him alone.
She stood off to the side, waiting for the horde of people to disperse. It was almost as if Farooq sensed she was near. He found her face through a gap in the crowd and smiled. She smiled back, her heart racing. He excused himself and made his way to where she was standing.
“What did you think?”
“Very impressive,” she said. “And moving.” Asma’s voice unexpectedly cracked with emotion.
“You remembered?”
“Of course.” She had known Farooq for months before he had shared the story behind his idea for a startup, the pain that lived on the edges of his childhood. Grief that she shared that he didn’t want to overshadow with details of his own. It was only with Farooq that she was able to sit with the sadness that had been her companion since her mother’s death. In losing Farooq, she realized now, she had also closed herself off to that sadness.
A slight man wearing a polo shirt and khakis had come up beside Farooq and put his hand on his shoulder. “Good job, man.”
“Thanks,” Farooq said. “Asma, this is Patrick, our CFO. Patrick, this is Asma. She’s known me forever. Before all of this.” Farooq gestured around the room.
Asma smiled at the introduction as she shook Patrick’s outstretched hand.
“Lubna and Saba didn’t come?” Farooq asked, looking behind Asma.
“They did,” she replied. “I lost them.”
“We can meet them back at the hotel,” he said. “Let’s get breakfast.” She nodded, too shocked by the invitation to respond audibly.
“We have that investors’ meeting,” Patrick said. Asma had forgotten he was still there. Apparently, so had Farooq.
“Can you handle it?” Farooq asked.
“You know they didn’t come to hear from me,” Patrick replied.
“Go,” Asma said. “We’ll catch up later.”
“Are you sure?” Farooq asked.
Asma nodded as the mob closed in on Farooq again. She stood for a moment looking at him, surrounded by nerdy tech groupies, and felt herself swell with pride and hope.
—
Having been unable to find Saba and Lubna in the packed lobby after the conference, Asma went back to her hotel room. She mindlessly flipped through the channels on the TV, smiling as she replayed her short conversation with Farooq over and over in her head. Particularly the prospect of Farooq blowing off a work meeting, and Lubna, to have breakfast with her. She was so proud of him—his confidence, his brilliance, and how he had used something so painful in his past to help others. Eventually Asma dozed off on the hotel bed, waking to the sound of her phone vibrating. It was one of four missed calls from Maryam, no message or text, of course. Hassan had the sense to text her that they would all be meeting at the hotel’s patio restaurant for lunch at one. It was already twelve forty-five.
By the time Asma showered and changed her clothes, she was running late. She grabbed a scarf from her bag—the San Francisco fog could roll in at any minute—and dashed out of her room. She was checking her face in the mirror next to the elevators—it really did look like she was wearing makeup today. Apparently getting away from the hospital and catching up on sleep was doing her good.
The group was seated at a corner table on the patio, and had already started on appetizers, by the time Asma arrived. Lubna was sitting next to Farooq, animatedly showing him something on her phone. When he saw Asma, he stopped talking and motioned for her to sit in the empty seat on his other side. Naveed called out to her before she could.
“Asma! I saved you a seat.”
It would be weird if she didn’t take it. Naveed handed her a folder the minute she sat down.
“I wanted to share this with you. I wrote it last night.”
Asma opened the folder but was distracted by the sound of Hassan’s low whistle. There was a gleaming red sports car at the valet, visible from the table. The men strained their necks to stare.
“Amazing,” said Naveed.
“Beautiful,” marveled Hassan.
“I don’t think you’ve ever used any of those words to describe me,” replied Maryam.
A man made his way out of the hotel and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. He tipped the valet before getting in, checked his hair in the rearview mirror, and sped off. But not before Asma recognized him—it was Omar Khan. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been sipping tea in the house in Sacramento with her father and Iman.
“I saw that guy at the conference this morning,” said Farooq, glancing at Asma.
“He looks Desi,” Hassan said.
“No, he looks Arab. Must be from the Gulf,” said Maryam.
“He’s Desi,” said Saba. “I heard him checking out. His name is Omar Khan.”
Asma’s stomach dropped as Saba said the name. She hoped beyond hope that Maryam wouldn’t recognize it. Asma didn’t relish the idea of having to explain how they knew him—the Ponzi scheme, Iman’s almost- engagement, their family’s financial ruin—to the rest of their group.
But, as if on cue, Maryam’s brow wrinkled.
“That name sounds familiar.”
“Cuz, like, everyone is named Omar Khan,” said Saba.
“No, I really know that name. Hassan?”
Hassan didn’t respond, pretending to be engrossed by the menu. He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly, a detail lost on Maryam. She continued to repeat the name a few times before her face lit up with recognition.
“Omar Khan! I remember now! His father was Abu’s financial advisor!”
Asma looked quickly at Maryam across the table and coughed, trying to get her attention. But Maryam ignored her and continued.
“What are the chances! I haven’t seen him since—ow, Asma, did you just kick me? Watch where you’re putting your foot!”
“Sorry,” Asma said, and was beyond grateful when a perky waitress appeared, distracting Maryam from whatever she was about to say next.
—
“Do you think Iman would ever forgive Omar?” Maryam asked Asma as they walked along the sand-strewn path.
It was Farooq’s idea for them to drive to the beach after lunch and walk along the cliffs at Ocean Beach. The sun was still out, even though it was windy and fog was starting to roll up on the sand. Small groups of people dotted the beach, with beach chairs, coolers, and umbrellas clustered around bonfires. Waves crashed in the distance, the soothing sound of the ocean interrupted occasionally by the cries of seagulls.
Maryam and Asma brought up the rear as the group marched on ahead of them.
“I don’t know,” Asma replied. “She says she’s over him. I don’t think she blamed him necessarily for his father’s crime. I think the bigger question is whether she wants to spare Abu the strain of being related to the Khan family after we lost so much because of them.”
“But she loved him, didn’t she?” Maryam asked. Asma considered the question. Was it possible that Iman had loved Omar—more than as just an ideal match? Asma couldn’t imagine it at the time, but maybe that was only because she didn’t give her sister enough credit. After all, thanks to Rehana, Asma had broken up with Farooq based on the simple implication that her mother wouldn’t have approved of the match. But faced with a very live parent who might be hurt by the union? Asma couldn’t imagine Iman would have made any other choice, whether she loved Omar or not.
“I don’t know,” Asma replied truthfully. “I guess, under circumstances like that, it doesn’t even matter.” But Maryam scoffed then.
“Of course it matters, Asma,” she said, with her usual bluntness. “If you find someone you actually love, it’s stupid to just throw it away over a family squabble.”
Asma wondered if Maryam would have said the same all those years ago about her relationship with Farooq. Probably not, hindsight being 20/20. She was never more grateful that Maryam was ignorant of her relationship with Farooq than in that moment.
As if thinking of him had conjured him, Asma noticed Farooq ahead slowing down from where he had been walking next to Lubna. It looked like he was lingering behind to join them. Now was the time to finally have their talk, that much was clear. But how to get rid of Maryam?
“Maryam, where’s Hassan? This is such a nice stroll, you should join him.” Asma hoped Maryam wouldn’t notice that her departure would leave Asma alone with Farooq.
“He’s walking with Naveed,” Maryam said, oblivious. “No, thank you. That guy is such a downer.”
“Well, he was dumped on his wedding day,” said Farooq, catching up to them.
“Like six months ago. Thank God and move on already. There’s nothing more irritating than when a person wallows in a relationship that didn’t work out.”
Asma and Farooq both winced simultaneously. But it was no use. Maryam wasn’t going anywhere.
The group reached the end of the path and, one by one, descended the stairs to the beach below. There was a patch of sand and a small clearing where the waves crashed to the shore between rocks.
Maryam made Hassan give her his jacket before he followed Naveed and Kamran, who was practically dragging Farooq off toward some surfers at the far end of the beach. She plopped down directly on the sand and used the jacket to shield her face from the glare of the sun. Lubna and Saba kicked off their shoes and rolled up their pants.
“We’re going to dip our toes in the water,” said Lubna. “Come on, Asma!”
Asma declined, more interested in the tide pools at the opposite end of the clearing. She felt herself relax as she watched a small crab making its way out of a narrow hole in the sand. Asma rarely came to the beach. She had forgotten how calming the sound of the water could be, how therapeutic it was to comb her hands through the sand and watch the grains slip through her fingers. She was making a mental vow to visit more often when she heard Lubna squeal. Lubna was balanced precariously on a rock in the middle of the water.
“Farooq! Farooq!” Lubna yelled, as the group of men made their way back from where the surfers were bringing in their boards. “Take a picture of me!”
Asma brushed the sand off her hands and stood up, alarmed, as Lubna pulled her leg up behind her in an exaggerated yoga pose, clearly hoping for an Insta-ready photograph.
Asma took off jogging toward where the group was congregating, calling out to Lubna on her way.
“Lubna, be careful—
But Asma’s premonition came to life before she could finish her warning. As they all watched, a wave crashed over the rock, throwing Lubna off-balance. She slipped and fell into the water, out of sight.
For a moment, their little group of shocked onlookers was frozen, perhaps hoping that she might pop right back up, laughing, with little more than seaweed tangled in her hair. But after that single held breath, they all seemed to realize at once that she hadn’t resurfaced.
And then. Pandemonium.
“Lubna!”
“Oh my God!”
“She’s drowning! She’s drowning!”
Everyone raced toward the water. Farooq reached the edge of the ocean first and ran through the waves toward the rock where Lubna had been standing. He dove in and disappeared under the water, resurfacing a few seconds later with Lubna’s lifeless body. Naveed and Hassan were close behind, waist-deep in the water as the three men hauled Lubna to shore. Asma pushed past them when they reached the sand, her instincts kicking in, assessing the situation with her years of trauma experience.
Lubna was bleeding from the side of her head. Asma pulled the scarf from around her shoulders and pressed it against Lubna’s temple. She checked Lubna’s pulse, then immediately began CPR, barking orders between chest compressions.
“Hassan, call 911! Farooq, Saba— back up ! I need space. Maryam, stop screaming!”
Hassan pulled his phone out of his pocket, then yelled, “No reception!” Asma cursed silently. Lubna wasn’t breathing. CPR would buy her time, but a head wound of this sort would bleed fast, causing Lubna’s blood pressure to bottom out sooner rather than later. And that wasn’t even taking into consideration the potential internal injuries—a brain injury, a bleed—that Asma couldn’t evaluate here. Moments mattered in a situation like this. She needed help.
“Naveed—go—run! Flag someone down on PCH! Everyone else, try to get cell reception. We need an ambulance.”
The rest of them scattered, searching for higher ground—with Maryam and Hassan prying Saba away from Lubna—except for Farooq. He paced back and forth next to them as Asma continued CPR, his hands covering his mouth. But through them, she could hear him speaking. At first she thought he was praying, but then as he drew closer the words became clearer. He was talking to her.
“Please, Asma. Don’t let her die. Asma. Please. Save her.”