Yours, Eventually

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-Three

Asma didn’t have Farooq’s number. She combed through her inbox in a panic, hoping to find it buried in an email, but she came up empty. She tried his old number shortly after the party—on a prayer that it would somehow, miraculously work. But the number had been assigned years earlier to another person. Unable to think of a way to get it from her family without having to contend with unwelcome questions, she even resorted to calling his company. After fifteen minutes of working her way through the company’s prerecorded phone directory, only to be accidentally cut off, she gave up.

Not that she knew what she was going to say to him, if she could get hold of him. Something along the lines of Marry me, not Lubna , perhaps? Even thinking of it made her shudder with embarrassment and shame. But still, she needed to talk to him. To make sure he was certain about Lubna, even though Asma was the one who had pushed him toward her. She wanted to make sure this all wasn’t some big mistake.

Her phone had been buzzing continuously all afternoon. Mostly Maryam and Iman, probably dying to be the first to share Lubna’s good news. Asma ignored all the calls and texts, which she knew would be about the engagement or wedding plans, undoubtedly already underway. She knew how her family was, like a SWAT team at the ready. And at the word engagement they would spring into coordinated action, breaking down doors and badgering florists for better prices. She wondered, with another drop of her stomach, if Iman would oversee planning the wedding. That would be quite a coup for her business—wedding planner for the hottest Desi couple of the year. But Asma couldn’t think of any of it now. She would deal with all of that later.

And there was no time, anyway. As soon as she got home, Asma remembered: Omar was taking her out to celebrate her job offer tonight. She had tried to get out of it—calling him to tell him that she was beat after the party and wanted to take a rain check. But when his phone went straight to voicemail, she hung up without leaving a message. So there she was, trying to care about her hair while the love of her life was probably already discussing wedding plans with her sister-in-law. She would have laughed, if she weren’t perpetually on the edge of tears.

Omar was on the board of the Sacramento History Museum and had invited Asma along for their annual friends-and-family party, promising her a night of glitz and good food.

When she arrived, wearing a simple but no doubt expensive green dress that she had helped herself to from Iman’s closet, Asma made her way into the lobby of the museum, peering at the artwork in the hallway while looking around for Omar. She was already regretting her decision not to cancel, concerned that the makeup she had unartfully applied wouldn’t adequately cover up her red, puffy eyes. She hated coming to these types of functions by herself—she knew no one and felt uncomfortable at the thought of having to make small talk with strangers.

Still, there was the food. She took a mini quiche off the tray of a passing waiter, then stood in a corner of the lobby, pretending to be engrossed in the bronze bust of an old white man she didn’t recognize.

“Asma! So lovely to see you!”

Asma turned at the sound of her name and found Dr. Sandra Kim, the head of Sierra Oaks Internal Medicine, who had interviewed her for the job.

“Dr. Kim!”

“I was just thinking about you this morning. We’re waiting eagerly for a response to our offer.”

“I was honored to receive it. I’m just discussing the logistics with my family.” Asma hoped she would be forgiven for her white lie. Apart from Rehana, she still hadn’t told her family about the job offer.

“We would be lucky to have you. Omar can’t stop singing your praises.” Dr. Kim looked around. “Where did he go, by the way? I thought I just saw him on the patio.”

“Oh, yes,” Asma said, relieved to hear where she could find Omar. “I just came in to get one of these.” Asma held up her mini quiche, then stepped outside.

Guests were milling about the back patio, drinks in hand. Asma spotted Omar in a corner, his back to her, deep in conversation with a woman dressed in a black cocktail dress and strappy stilettos. As Asma approached, she was surprised to see Shagufta Dadabhoy, Mrs. Dadabhoy’s granddaughter. This didn’t exactly seem like the compulsive texter’s scene, and Omar hadn’t let on that he knew the Dadabhoys.

Asma stopped walking, wondering if she should slip away unnoticed, but it was too late. Shagufta had seen her. She stopped talking so suddenly that Omar turned around, curious to see who had interrupted their conversation.

“Hey, salaam,” Asma said, waving her hand awkwardly, still holding the mini quiche. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No worries, Asma,” Omar said with a warm smile. “I’m just wrapping up here. I’ll come find you in a minute.”

Shagufta barely acknowledged Asma. True to form, she pulled out her phone and stared at the screen to forgo any interaction.

Asma headed toward the bar set up on the other side of the veranda. She popped the mini quiche in her mouth as she waited for the bartender to make her mocktail. She wondered why Shagufta was at the reception in the first place. Probably a courtesy invite, Asma thought, no doubt suggested by her father.

Asma threw a few dollars into the bartender’s tip jar, then made her way to the patio railing and looked out onto the museum’s grounds, dimly lit by decorative lamps strung from the trees. Although in the middle of Sacramento, the museum had acres of land where the groundskeepers tended to a small orchard.

Asma walked down the patio’s wooden staircase to the rows of orange trees, a calm oasis away from the bustle of the guests. She found a small path between the trees and walked down the aisle, taking in the sharp citrus scent of the air. She was picking up a fallen orange from the ground when Omar joined her.

“You know, they have a buffet table full of hors d’oeuvres if you’re hungry.”

“Nothing like fresh fruit.” Asma held up the orange. She looked behind Omar, motioning toward the museum’s main building.

“I didn’t realize the Dadabhoys would be here.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“Lovers of history?”

“It appears so.”

“What happened to Shagufta?”

“She wandered off somewhere.” Omar looked around at the trees surrounding them. “Let’s walk toward the back, they have lemon trees. Perhaps we’ll find Mrs. Dadabhoy back there, sucking on one.”

Asma giggled as she and Omar set down the path. She let her hands brush over the leaves of the trees they passed.

“This reminds me of our backyard in Palo Alto. We used to hand out bags of oranges and lemons from the trees my mom planted when we were young.”

“I remember your mother’s garden here in Sacramento. It seemed like your mom was always outside when I came over.”

Asma immediately regretted bringing up her mother. She’d closely guarded memories of her over the years, hoarding them in her mind, afraid that if she shared too much or too often, they would slip away.

“She was such a wonderful woman,” Omar said, reaching down to pick up an orange strewn across their path. “She was the only aunty who ever wanted to know how I was doing—not how I was doing in school.”

It had been years since Asma had spoken with anyone at length about her mother. She rarely remembered her with her father and sisters, afraid that the emotions unearthed by their memories would shake the foundation of the life she had built after her death. When she had wanted to talk about her, she had done so only with the two people she knew who could emotionally support her: Fatima and Farooq.

She still remembered the first time she talked about her mother to Farooq. They had been studying on the quad, Asma hunched over her biology textbook. Farooq had reached up and brushed the hair out of her eyes. It had triggered a memory so vivid— “How can you see the world through that hair!” her mother used to say while sweeping Asma’s hair out of her face—that Asma had burst into tears. Farooq had wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t try to fix things or make it better. But that was Farooq. He understood, somehow, when something was beyond his reach. Too big a feeling, or too painful a memory. He understood that simply sitting there, unflinching, was enough. Unlike her father, who would be overcome by his own emotions, or her sisters, who would, no doubt, make it about themselves.

Asma turned toward the trees to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes. She had to stop thinking about Farooq. Still, the pain was so fresh that she couldn’t help wrapping her arms around herself for a moment, as if she needed to hold herself together. Omar glanced in her direction, then slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. And though she wasn’t cold, Asma was grateful for it. It felt comforting, to be cared for, even in the smallest of ways.

“After my father’s stroke, I started thinking a lot about my legacy—how will I be remembered and for what?” Omar continued.

Asma dabbed at the corner of her eye with her finger. “We’re not responsible for our parents’ actions.”

“No, we’re not. But who they are forms so much of who we become. I mean, look at you. You’re the backbone of your family. You’re a testament to your mother’s life. I’m sure she would’ve been so proud.”

Asma choked up, unable to hold back her tears. She didn’t know if she was crying because of Farooq or because she desperately missed her mother. Or because of the realization that she’d inadvertently repeated her mother’s choices—changing the course of her life for the benefit of her family. Was this really what her mother would’ve wanted?

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” Asma brushed her face with the back of her hand, then searched in vain for a Kleenex in her purse.

“Stupid clutch purses,” she said. “Why am I even carrying this? I barely have room for my phone.”

“They look good,” Omar said. “Must be made by a man.”

He patted his pants pockets. Finding nothing, he reached up to undo the knot in his tie.

“Here, use this.”

“No, no, it’s okay!”

“Please, take it. Seems like I’m the only guy here wearing one. I forgot I’m in Sacramento.”

Asma took the tie from Omar’s outstretched hand and hesitated before using it to wipe her cheeks.

“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” Omar replied.

Omar’s comment coupled with the way he was looking at her made Asma shift with both discomfort and desire. She thought back to her conversations with Fatima and Rehana about Omar as a love interest, all of a sudden confused.

Asma was busy folding up the tie and avoiding eye contact when she saw Omar’s hand approaching her face. And then he reached out and swept the hair back from her eyes.