Yours, Eventually

Chapter Twenty-Five

Twenty-Five

Asma needed to think things through before she talked to anyone else—much less Omar. She called a Lyft and silenced her phone in anticipation of Maryam catching this gossip all the way in San Jose, but when she glanced down a few minutes later, there was a missed call from Omar. Her stomach did an uncomfortable flip-flop, and she nearly asked the Lyft driver to pull over so she could get some air.

When she finally got home, Asma walked into the house to find Iman and Mr. Ibrahim sitting in the living room with a man she’d never seen.

“Asma, beti, you’re home. We have some wonderful news about an engagement.”

“I promise you, it’s not true,” Asma replied. “I’m not engaged, nobody asked, it’s not happening. Yet. Or at all. Or yet.”

“Asma,” said Mr. Ibrahim patiently, “I’m not sure what exactly you mean, but we’re not talking about you.”

“Oh.” Asma was so confused. “Okay.” She looked at the man, who smiled warmly at her.

“This is Mrs. Gulnaz Dadabhoy’s son—and Shagufta’s father, of course—Zubayr Dadabhoy. He has just come to ask for Iman’s hand.”

Asma felt faint. She looked at Iman, who sat on the love seat with a smug look on her face.

Iman was getting married to…Shagufta’s father?

—

“Come, Zubayr, I want to show you our garden,” Mr. Ibrahim said.

Asma breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Ibrahim led Shagufta’s father out of the room. She felt as though she was going to crawl out of her skin in his presence. Now Asma understood why Iman had seemed so secretive for the past few months. Why Rehana had been so certain that Iman had no interest in getting back together with Omar. But still. Zubayr Dadabhoy? Father of the incessant texter? Son of the sour old lady with the bad manners and the plantation-style house? Asma thought back to the afternoon she spent sitting in that living room, its furniture still covered in plastic, while Mrs. Dadabhoy wondered aloud what sort of match might be suitable for Asma. Only now did Asma realize why her father hadn’t enlisted Mrs. Dadabhoy’s help for Iman…because that match had already been made.

As soon as they were alone, Asma turned to Iman.

“Okay, tell me everything.”

“Can you believe it?”

“Um, no, I can’t,” replied Asma. “What’s going on?”

“I’m engaged,” Iman replied. “To Zubayr.”

“Why?” Asma asked.

“Because that’s what you do when you want to marry someone.” Iman spoke slowly, as if explaining the concept of an engagement to a child.

“Iman, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You don’t have to marry some old guy just because you’re about to turn thirty.”

“He’s not that old, Asma. He’s in his midforties. I’m like Amal Clooney. I could never have married a man my own age.”

“He’s related to us!”

“Our third cousin, like, three times removed. It’s fine. This is how royalty used to marry.”

Asma could only shake her head.

“I want to do this, Asma,” Iman said, reaching over and taking Asma’s hand. “You’re the only one who doesn’t do what you want.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Asma asked, pulling her hand away.

“You sit around, waiting for things to work out for you, and when they don’t, you blame everyone else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Where should I start? How about moving here? No one asked you to. But you left your beloved hospital, then blamed all of us for your choice.”

“I didn’t blame anyone.”

“You’ve been complaining since you moved. We all know you’d rather be in Palo Alto working in that dirty ER, no matter the opportunities you have here,” Iman said. “And what about Farooq?”

“What about him?”

“You think I didn’t know about that? Abu said no all those years ago and you just gave up—you didn’t even fight for him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Asma said, bristling at the implication that her breakup with Farooq was somehow a result of her own failing. Still, the comment stung.

“I don’t?” Iman asked. “You don’t think I heard you crying every night for months? I tried, Asma. I tried to talk to you but you didn’t even notice.”

Asma stared at Iman. She had known? Asma faintly remembered Iman knocking on her door during a few of her crying sessions; she had quickly composed herself before answering the door. It had never occurred to her that Iman was trying in her own way to provide an opening for them to talk.

“And then fine, you get a second chance because life has been good to you and then you’re such a wimp with that too. You just sit back and let him hook up with Lubna.”

“Shut up, Iman.”

Iman stopped talking, perhaps realizing that she’d gone too far. The two of them sat in silence.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Iman asked finally.

“I am happy for you.”

“No, you’re not. You think you’re better than me.”

“I do not!”

“Of course you do. You think you’re better than all of us. You’re always making fun of my events. And you mock Maryam, the whiny stay-at-home mom. You’re the busy and important doctor.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. You say it in the way you talk to us, the way you act, the way you look when we’re talking.”

“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.” Asma rose from the couch and started out of the living room.

“Then, go!” Iman stood up. “I’m the one who has been here all this time, taking care of Abu.”

At this, Asma spun around. “You? Taking care of Abu? How? Spending his money?”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about. Yes, I spend his money. But I’m also the one who has been living here with him, looking after him, making sure he’s taken care of.”

“Haven’t I been living here too?”

“Not because you want to. It’s out of guilt. And obligation. And you remind us of that every day,” yelled Iman. “You act like you’re the only one who misses Ammi. Don’t you think I do too? Don’t you think it hurt that she turned to you to take care of everything? Even though I’m older? She didn’t trust me! But I’ve been here. I never left his side!”

Iman was ugly crying, her face red and crumpled. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Asma was speechless. Iman always acted like she had it all together. Asma had fallen apart at her mother’s funeral and Iman had been perfectly composed—she had remained that way throughout the mourning period and in the years that followed. This was the first time Asma had ever seen Iman cry.

Asma looked at her sister and saw her, perhaps for the first time. It had all been an act, a protective shield. A responsibility Iman felt, being the oldest daughter, to keep it together, a secret vow she had made to a woman she didn’t think believed in her. Maybe it was a way for her to hide her pain and continue with her life, which, until now, Asma realized, had not gone according to her plan.

But as Asma stood there staring at her sister, the crack of vulnerability that had opened up on her face closed. Before Asma could say anything, Iman turned and ran out of the room.

—

Asma remembered very little of the days following her mother’s death, the memories jumbled into one another. The house full of people, the unwanted hugs and kisses, the food—so much food. One day, unable to take the crying and Quran recitation that had been playing on loop nonstop, Asma left. She walked without a destination and eventually found herself in a park near the house where she sat for hours, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time.

After the confrontation with Iman, Asma also started walking, until she found herself in another park. The perfectly trimmed grass, carefully pruned flower bushes, and brick pathways looked eerily familiar, as if she’d rediscovered that same place from thirteen years ago.

Asma couldn’t stop replaying the events of the day, especially Iman’s accusations. She was overcome with shame and regret. Iman was right. Asma did think she was better than her sisters. Iman’s events were frivolous and over-the-top and Maryam complained way too much about nothing.

But it was more than just that.

Asma realized her contempt for her sisters lay in how they’d chosen to live their lives: they had happily gone along with the status quo.

Iman had stayed at her father’s side without complaint—over the years she had provided him company and an audience and had never even attempted to move out or live on her own. Maryam, too, had done what was expected of her. She had met a nice man approved by her father and had married young into a respectable family.

And yet. Her sisters were both happy and doing well. Iman was good at her job, her business was thriving, and she had just met a man who seemed to be everything she’d been looking for. And, despite all of Maryam’s whining, Asma knew she was grateful for her beautiful children, a stable and dependable partner, and a loving extended family.

It was only Asma who was unhappy. She had convinced herself over the years that it was her mother’s dying wish and her responsibility to take care of her family—managing her father’s medical care, keeping watch over their finances, and doing what was required behind the scenes to make sure things didn’t fall apart. She had played the martyr card and had done it all without being asked, yet blamed her family. Asma didn’t think this was what her mother intended. It certainly wasn’t what Asma wanted. But her chosen role in her family had given her an excuse to stay stagnant in her life—to not have to make hard choices or fight for what she wanted. Like her job. And Farooq.

And here she was. Thirteen years after the death of her mother and nothing had changed. She was still in the same place, unable to make moves without being paralyzed by the fear of what might happen if she had to take responsibility for the decisions in her life. She was like this garden in Sacramento with its stupid brick pathway headed absolutely nowhere.

No more.

Asma sat in the park until the sun set, her resolve strengthening, then picked up her phone.