Yours, Eventually

Chapter Twenty-One

Twenty-One

Asma woke up early and stretched. She sat up in bed, feeling refreshed. Over a month in Sacramento, and she had finally finished unpacking the last of her boxes the previous day. Sacramento had not been that bad. Neither had living again with her father and Iman. Not that she would ever admit it to anyone. There was comfort in slipping right back into the role she knew so well, being the responsible one in the house.

True to his word, Omar had arranged for Asma to interview with the head of a local family practice, which promised flexible hours and ample one-on-one time with patients, none of the irregular shifts and breakneck pace that usually accompanied emergency medicine back in Palo Alto. Asma thought of how many patients she saw in the ER would have benefited from the standard of care a primary care physician could have afforded them. It was a tempting position, she had to admit. But there was a part of her that knew she’d miss the adrenaline of the ER, the feeling of “now or never” decision-making. And the sense that she was saving lives in real time, not just treating ear infections and migraines and type 2 diabetes.

Downstairs her father was sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him, busy on a sudoku puzzle. This is how he’d spent every morning since returning to Sacramento after his heart attack. “It’s important to keep your brain active,” he kept saying.

Mr. Ibrahim looked up from the paper when Asma entered the kitchen, his forehead deeply creased in concentration. His look softened at the sight of his middle daughter.

“You’re looking nice, beti.”

Asma was stunned. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had paid her a compliment on her physical appearance.

“Thanks, Abu. So are you,” Asma said. “I’m glad I’m here to help.”

“He was doing just fine before you got here,” Iman said, coming into the kitchen.

“You mean, besides the heart attack?”

Iman rolled her eyes and perched her sunglasses on top of her head. She looked stunning. Her face was made up with precision and subtlety lost on most beauty influencers. She was wearing a soft black silk blouse paired with deep red capris and holding ridiculously expensive shoes.

“Where are you going?” Asma asked.

“Target. I have some stuff to pick up for a party.”

“In that outfit?”

From the look on Iman’s face, Asma had caught her in a lie. “Some of us don’t wear chappals and a fleece when we go shopping, Asma.”

Asma’s eyes narrowed. What was Iman trying to hide?

“Which party?” Asma asked. There was no point in trying to get the truth out of Iman now, in front of their dad. “The soiree to celebrate reupholstered furniture? Or a puppy shower for a new dog?”

“Don’t be a jerk. It’s for Noreen’s son’s birthday party, I told you and Abu about it weeks ago.”

“Dr. Sheikh’s grandson,” said Mr. Ibrahim. “Dr. Sheikh is an anesthesiologist. And the president of the masjid board. He just received a medal from the FBI’s Sacramento Field Office.”

“For being a native informant?” asked Asma.

“Native what?”

“She’s being rude,” said Iman. “He was just trying to be helpful. Their family is super rich and well-connected. They basically gave me a blank check for this party.”

“Pick up something for tomorrow while you’re out,” said Mr. Ibrahim.

“What’s tomorrow?” Asma asked.

“We’re going for lunch at Mrs. Dr. Dadabhoy’s house after jumma namaz.”

“Not me,” said Asma. “I don’t need her matchmaking services. Plus, I have plans.”

Iman looked incredulous. “You? Have plans?”

“Yes, Iman. I have plans. I’m going to Oakland to have lunch with Fatima.”

Iman made a face and put on the oversized designer sunglasses that had been perched on her head. She headed out of the kitchen while Mr. Ibrahim looked at Asma with a confused look.

“Who are you having lunch with?”

“Fatima. Fatima Malik.”

Mr. Ibrahim continued to stare at Asma as though he couldn’t place the name.

“Abu, you can’t be serious. Fatima, my best friend from Cal?”

Mr. Ibrahim shrugged. “Reschedule. The Ahmeds and Rafiques will be at lunch too.”

Asma was annoyed that her father was pretending not to remember Fatima.

“No!” Asma said, louder than she intended. Mr. Ibrahim seemed more surprised than angry at her outburst. Asma lowered her voice. “We’ve been trying to get together since I got here. Tomorrow afternoon is the first day that worked.”

“You’d rather see her than have lunch with three of Sacramento’s most important families?”

“Abu, I’d rather have lunch at Taco Bell by myself than with the three most important families in Sacramento.”

Mr. Ibrahim scoffed, but Asma knew he was hiding a smile.

—

Asma sat, indicator on, waiting her turn to park in the lot of Al-Madinah, a former liquor store turned first halal meat market in Sacramento that sold a mishmash of halal groceries to the area’s diverse Muslim population. She hated coming to Al-Madinah. The store was always packed and the parking lot a disaster—runaway shopping carts, double-parked cars, and people attempting U-turns in flagrant violation of the posted one-way signs.

A car pulled out from a spot near the front, but before Asma, who was next in line, could pull in, she was cut off by a battered minivan that U-turned into the open spot.

She slammed on the horn. “What the hell?”

Rehana, sitting in the passenger seat, put a hand on Asma’s shoulder to calm her down and to direct her to an open spot near the back of the lot.

Asma was still annoyed by her father’s feigned ignorance about Fatima. Rehana had dragged Asma out of the house to cool her off, saying she needed help picking up groceries.

“I do so much for Abu and he can’t even be bothered to remember the important people in my life?” Asma remembered her father’s complete amnesia about Farooq when he reappeared on the scene; one of the most formative relationships, and heartbreaks, of her life hadn’t even registered.

Asma jostled a sticky shopping cart free from the stacks at the entrance to the store. She pushed it behind Rehana, who was already inside, walking toward the butcher at the back and stopping to pull tins and boxes from the shelves.

“You know your father, Asma. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

“It’s just another example of how secondary my relationships are to him, especially if the person isn’t distinguished ,” Asma said, trying not to be pointed about the meaning associated with her comment—she didn’t want to bring Farooq up with her aunt again.

The line in front of the butcher spilled into the frozen foods aisle. Buying meat at Al-Madinah was not an organized affair—there were no little paper number tickets or digital number clocks. Things were even worse on the weekends. The butcher was truly survival of the fittest—the strongest among the customers managed to snag the freshest and choicest cuts of meat in a timely manner while the weak were left to loiter and scavenge at the leftovers.

Asma watched in awe as Rehana pushed past the crowd of waiting customers and jostled for position to grab the attention of one of the men behind the counter. There was something about Rehana’s presence that commanded attention. Through all the yelling and grabbing, Asma saw one of the butchers head straight toward Rehana to take down her order. As Rehana rattled off how she wanted her chicken, beef, and goat cut and packed, something on the shelf next to Asma caught her eye: halal beef jerky.

Asma felt a pang of sadness at the sight of it, remembering her conversation with Farooq at the Qureishis’ kitchen table. So much had happened in the months since that morning—it felt like a different time.

Asma shook her head to remind herself: she was moving forward, no looking back. She took a picture of the beef jerky and texted it to Omar: How do you feel about beef jerky? He definitely looked like someone who needed to keep up his protein intake, and she wondered how much he worked out to maintain his physique.

She was throwing the beef jerky into her cart when she felt her phone vibrate. She looked down, expecting to see a text from Omar, but instead she saw a notification for an email. It was from the private practice with which she’d interviewed:

Dear Dr. Ibrahim,

We are pleased to offer you a staff position at Sierra Oaks Internal Medicine…

Asma forgot for a minute that she was at Al-Madinah. She felt a bit dizzy as she read and reread the email, wondering if she should find somewhere to sit. Rehana returned to the shopping cart, arms loaded with wrapped packets of meat.

Asma held up her phone.

“I got the job,” she said, her voice sounding far away as she spoke. Was this it? Was this how it happened? She’d give up emergency medicine and start dispensing antidepressants and albuterol?

“Mubarak!”

“Hold on a sec,” Asma said. “I need to forward this email to Omar.”

Rehana took control of the cart, navigating it toward the produce section on the side of the store as Asma trailed behind her, nose in her phone.

Rehana was bagging up eggplants when Asma finished her email.

“Looks like you’ve changed your mind about Omar.”

“I might have been too harsh at first.”

“That was nice of him to help set up the interview.”

“Very nice. I basically leapfrogged the entire application process.”

“He’s a good boy. Very pleasant. And handsome.”

“I see what you’re trying to do, Aunty. We’re just friends. Abu has his eyes on him for Iman.”

“Iman isn’t interested,” Rehana said. Asma looked curiously at Rehana, wondering what she knew. She was grateful when a passing shopper accidentally rammed his cart into Asma’s leg.

“I hate this place. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

As Asma walked outside, she wondered what Rehana meant by implying that something was going on between her and Omar. Was it because he really was interested and Rehana thought they would be compatible? Or because he fit into Rehana’s preconceived expectations of what Asma needed? Her numbed surprise about the job offer faded, replaced by an irritation she couldn’t quite place.

It was only when her phone buzzed with texts from Omar— CONGRATS! So proud of you! And then, I feel strongly about beef jerky!! with two thumbs-up emojis—that Asma felt like smiling.