Yours, Eventually

Chapter Twenty-Six

Twenty-Six

Fatima called her as Asma was walking back to the house.

“So…” her best friend began. “That might have been a bit of a false alarm. About Omar. And the engagement ring.”

“What do you mean?” Asma asked. Not that it mattered anymore. Asma was not going to marry Omar Khan even if he asked, of that much she was certain.

“Well, it turns out that ring was for someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“He posted a photo of the two of them. He calls her ‘Shaggy’? I don’t know, she looks a little young.”

“Shaggy?” Asma said. “I have no idea who that could be. But listen, Fatima, I honestly don’t care. When I tell you that Omar is the last thing on my mind right now, you’ve got to believe me.”

“Okay, so what is on your mind right now?” Fatima asked.

“Other than the fact that Iman is engaged out of nowhere to an elderly cousin of ours, and we had a huge fight? Long story short, I realized that I have to find a way to finally stop making excuses and go after the life that I want,” Asma replied. Shocked at how easily the words came out.

“I mean, those aren’t bad things to be thinking about,” Fatima said. “But wait, Iman is engaged? What is in the air over there in Sacramento?”

“No idea,” Asma replied. “I’m just glad that I haven’t caught it yet.”

“So you’re not the least bit disappointed about Omar?”

“Surprisingly not,” Asma said. “I told you he wasn’t my type. Never trust a man that smooth.”

“Who is this cousin Iman is engaged to?”

“You’re not going to believe it, Fatima,” Asma said. “He’s in his forties, and his mother is awful. His whole family, really. I mean, they’re absolutely stinking rich, but the emphasis is really on the stinking part.”

“Okay, but…is she happy?” Fatima asked.

“She says she is,” Asma replied. “I guess she is. It’s what she’s wanted.” Asma let out a long breath. “Okay, okay. I know I need to be less judgmental. Believe me, Iman just gave me that whole speech too. But really, this guy has a teenage daughter! And if you ever met her you’d know…”

Asma couldn’t finish the sentence. A flash of revelation hit her like a lightning bolt, until something like a manic giggle was rising in her throat.

“Oh, Fatima,” Asma said. “You’re never going to believe this.”

“What?” Fatima asked.

“I think I know who Omar is engaged to,” Asma replied.

—

Mr. Ibrahim and Iman were back at the kitchen table when Asma returned home, hours after she had first left.

“Omar Khan is engaged to Shagufta Dadabhoy?” Asma asked by way of greeting. Her father looked up from his phone.

“Yes,” Mr. Ibrahim replied. “We just found out ourselves.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that he basically used us to get close to their family? And marry a nineteen-year-old for her father’s business connections and her money?”

Rehana, washing dishes at the sink, turned off the faucet.

“Beti,” Rehana said, “it would only bother us if he were making a fool of you. Shagufta is an entirely different story.”

Asma looked at Iman, who had not acknowledged her presence.

“That haramzada doesn’t think I know he used us to get to the Dadabhoys?” Mr. Ibrahim said. “He’s a bigger fool than I thought. After all, I’ll be his new stepgrandfather. He will never make another move without my knowledge or permission.”

“Checkmate, bitch,” Iman said under her breath.

Asma was surprised at how shrewd Mr. Ibrahim seemed now. She had always thought her father a bit of a simpleton when it came to navigating their financial and social interactions—he was easily dazzled by money and status and seemed to have little insight into all the social politics and underlying complexities. But he was right, Omar would answer to Mr. Ibrahim in all things from now on. In this instance, her father had come out ahead. Revenge at last.

Rehana set down a stack of plates on the table. Asma grabbed her hand, still wet from washing dishes.

“Aunty, can you please sit down?” Asma asked. “I want to talk to all of you. You too, Iman.”

Iman put her phone down.

Once Asma had her family’s attention, she took a deep breath.

“I wanted to let you all know that I turned down the position at Dr. Kim’s private practice.”

“You did what?” Mr. Ibrahim asked.

“I know it’s a good opportunity,” Asma continued quickly. “But I don’t want it. I want to move back to the Bay. I only moved here to take care of you, Abu. But it was out of obligation.”

Mr. Ibrahim didn’t respond.

“I called Dr. Saucedo. The job they had open has been filled, but she said she’d help me—that she would do whatever I needed her to do to get a position in emergency medicine.” Asma paused and gathered herself before continuing. “And there’s still an apartment in my old building. I just put down a deposit.”

During Asma’s walk home from the park, she had imagined her father’s possible reactions to her news and practiced her responses. She braced herself for his outburst.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, he slumped down in his seat. He looked defeated. Rehana placed her hand on Asma’s arm.

“Is this about Omar?”

“No, Aunty. I’d made my decision about Omar even before I knew about his engagement to Shagufta. This has nothing to do with anyone else. It’s about me. I love emergency medicine. And I loved my old hospital from the moment I started residency. I worked hard to be valued there. I never wanted to move back here.”

Asma looked at Iman.

“Iman, you were right. I’m sorry. I should have been more honest about how I felt from the beginning. I’ve been angry and I blamed you all.”

Iman didn’t say anything, but her eyes moistened.

“So you want to move back and live on your own and work as a doctor?”

“Yes, Abu.”

Mr. Ibrahim sat quietly before looking at Asma.

“What will people say?”

Finally, a question that Asma was prepared for.

“They won’t say anything if you stand by me, Abu. They’ll say, there’s a man who loves and supports his daughters.”

“No, they won’t.” Iman broke her silence. “We’re not some white family in an after-school special. They’ll talk. They’ll never stop talking. They’ll say that Abu has no control over his daughters. And that you’ll never get married because you’re too independent and career-minded.

“But,” Iman continued before Asma could respond. “Who cares? These aunties are so annoying. And most of them have their own skeletons. We can’t live our lives based on the fear of what they might say—especially because you know they’re talking about us anyway.”

Asma smiled at her sister. She knew how much Iman’s opinion mattered to their father. That she was dispensing it in Asma’s favor made her grateful. Perhaps this marked a small shift in their relationship, one where Iman came into her role as the older sister looking out for Asma.

Mr. Ibrahim nodded as if considering what Iman had just said.

“I think it’s a good idea too,” Rehana said.

“Really, Aunty?” Once upon a time, Asma had seen Rehana as a friend and an ally. Now, however, she wondered if Rehana wasn’t trying to make up for her mistakes.

“Yes, beti.” When Rehana turned to her, it was clear from her face that this was her way of apologizing. “I’ve only wanted what was best for you. And I realize now that I haven’t always been right.”

“Well then,” Mr. Ibrahim said with a sigh. “If all of you are fine with this, then I guess I am too.”

Asma looked at her father, astonished. She hadn’t been expecting to convince him so easily. Was that it? Asma searched her father’s face to see if he was upset—if the anger and yelling would come later. He just looked tired.

“I’m going to wash for dinner.” Mr. Ibrahim pushed his seat back from the table and stood up. But he didn’t leave.

“You know, your mother wanted to be a doctor,” Mr. Ibrahim said after a moment. He turned to Asma. “Sometimes it’s hard for me. You remind me so much of her.”

Asma’s eyes filled with tears as her father bent down, brushed the hair out of her face, and kissed her on the forehead.

—

For the fourth time that year, Asma packed all of her belongings into boxes and loaded them into the trunk of her car. It didn’t seem like very much, this physical representation of her life on her own. A few boxes of clothes and books. Keepsakes and some kitchen stuff she’d never unpacked after she moved from the Bay. The box of her mother’s saris, which Iman had insisted Asma take with her.

“I’m going to need all new clothes of my own now,” Iman said, giving a regretful little shrug that Asma knew covered her delight at the prospect of being the wife of a wealthy business tycoon. “I don’t think I’ll have room for these anymore.”

Asma knew better, though. Iman loved their mother’s clothes just as much as Asma did. But it was a signal from her sister, Asma understood. A sign of approval and forgiveness. That Asma should have their mother’s clothes.

Asma embraced Iman and Rehana and her father in the driveway of their house before she set off for Palo Alto. It felt significant, though she’d only be two hours away. She’d never left home before without the intention of someday coming back.

She stopped at the post office before she got on the highway, dropping the package she’d wrapped that morning in the mailbox. Another piece of her past wrapped up in brown paper and sent off into the world, every move she made that day leaving her feeling lighter, untethered, ready to move forward with her life in spite of what anyone else might think. And then she was on the highway, chasing the afternoon sun toward the horizon, headed west. Headed home, she thought, the term popping unprompted into her head. Home. The idea made her smile.

—

By the time Asma made it to the Qureishis’, she was an hour late for Lubna’s party. The house looked like it was being transformed into a clothing store when Asma stepped inside, with wire racks of beautiful garments in the entryway and on the landing above the staircase. Boxes of shoes and jewelry were stacked against the walls. It paid to be an Instagram influencer getting married, it seemed. Desi designers and boutique owners were sending over racks of their finest stock nearly every day, Lubna reported to Maryam. They had all decided to make a weekend of going through the bounty and selecting what Lubna would actually keep.

She found Maryam standing outside Lubna’s room, with the door partially ajar.

“I’m sorry I’m so late. Did you get my text?”

“No, the boys are playing with my phone. Where’s Iman?”

“She’ll be here in a bit.” Asma lowered her voice. “She’s out with her boo.”

“That’s Uncle Boo to you,” Maryam said with a giggle. Then, looking at Asma with concern: “You okay?”

“Yeah—why?”

“You’ve been all over the place recently. Like, literally,” Maryam said. “Palo Alto to San Jose to Sacramento back to Palo Alto. I just wanted to check in.”

Asma looked at her younger sister with affection— this was the first time Maryam had ever really asked how she was doing. “This is the best I’ve felt in months.”

“Good,” said Maryam. “Just remember, even though you are now the only one in our entire family who is not married or coupled off—you’re not alone.”

Asma chuckled. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“I’m serious, Asma,” Maryam said. “You’re always taking care of everyone. It’s time to sit back and let us take care of you. I mean, I am a mother. I have the whole nurturing thing down, it comes with the job.”

Asma reached for her sister, the one she’d been emotionally tending to for most of her life. She’d spent so much time taking care of Maryam that she hadn’t stopped to let her grow into the woman, and mother, she could be. And here she was, with the emotional maturity to recognize that it was time for things to change.

“I am lucky to have you,” Asma said, choking up.

“Asma, beti, is that you?” Bushra called out from inside the room. “Did you hear back from the restaurant?”

Asma gave Maryam a big hug and dried her eyes.

“Iman said she’ll negotiate the contract, Aunty,” she called back. “She can get you the price you want, no problem.”

It was Maryam’s turn to lower her voice.

“I told Aunty we should just postpone the engagement until Karachi Tandoori is available, I don’t know why she’s insisting on Lahore Kabob.”

“The food at these restaurants all tastes the same.”

“It’s not about the food. It’s about class.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“Speaking of class, did you see Shagufta’s engagement ring?” Maryam rapped on the doorframe. “Saba, show Asma that picture of Shagufta’s ring!”

“It’s huge!” Saba appeared at the bedroom door, her phone open to Instagram.

“Tacky big, if you ask me,” Lubna added from inside.

“Enough with this picture nonsense, hurry up and finish dressing!” said Bushra.

“We’re hurrying, we’re hurrying!”

Maryam grabbed the phone from Saba’s hand as Lubna cried out, “ Ow! Ammi!”

“Stop moving!”

Asma peered over Maryam’s shoulder at the picture on Saba’s phone.

“Wow, it is huge.”

“You mean, wow, it is tacky.”

“They’re not that tacky!” said Hassan.

Hassan, Naveed, and Farooq were coming upstairs, all of them wearing matching turbans.

“Looking good!” Asma said with a laugh.

Farooq startled at the sight of her, then slipped the turban off his head, his cheeks reddening.

“Those things might be uglier than Shagufta’s engagement ring,” Maryam said, passing Saba’s phone to Hassan.

“Who is the sucker who bought her this?” Hassan asked.

“Omar.”

“Omar?”

“Omar Khan.”

“Omar Khan?”

“Are you going to just repeat after me?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Asma saw Farooq—who had thus far avoided eye contact—look sharply at her. Had he not heard about Omar’s engagement to someone who was most decidedly…not Asma?

“Good riddance,” Maryam was saying. “I hear he’s crooked. Plus, gross—what kind of man in his early thirties marries a nineteen-year-old?”

Maryam was so busy shaking her head in disgust that she didn’t notice a look pass between the men that Asma could only interpret as “a lucky man.” Asma made a face at them.

“Okay, she’s ready!” announced Saba.

“Wait, hold on!” Asma said. “Naveed can’t see the bride!”

“Oh, come on,” said Naveed, “it’s just her engagement outfit.”

“Oh, yes!” Bushra said from inside the room. “These Americans say it’s bad luck.”

Hassan flipped the turban off Naveed’s head. “Go check that Kamran has everything he needs in the kitchen. I’m getting hungry.”

Naveed put up a minor protest as the others forced him back downstairs. Once they were out of sight, Asma gave Saba the go-ahead.

The bedroom door opened as Saba announced, “Presenting…our beautiful bride!”

Lubna stepped out in a deep green lengha, the floor-length skirt covered in delicate, hand-stitched embroidery. She looked gorgeous. As Asma and Maryam crowded around her to admire the intricate work, Asma noticed that not everyone was focused on Lubna’s outfit. Farooq stood back from the group, his eyes never leaving Asma.

—

Kamran had outdone himself with their dinner. They came back downstairs to find the table covered with a nearly overwhelming amount of food, which Lubna set to work photographing for Instagram, tagging Kamran’s restaurant. As they began to sit down, Asma attempted to maneuver herself so that she could sit beside Farooq, but Kamran ended up sandwiched between the two of them. Naveed, sitting at the head of the table, cracked jokes that kept Lubna and Saba in stitches for the duration of the meal. Asma marveled over his transformation from the last time they had all been together. How far he’d come since she first met him in San Francisco, months ago.

“It’s like he’s a whole new person,” Asma said to Kamran.

“I was just thinking the same thing. My sister’s engagement broke off before she met Naveed’s father. It took her years to recover. Looks like Naveed is nothing like his mother.”

“I’m not surprised,” Asma said. “Men bounce back much quicker from these things.”

Farooq choked on his water and began coughing violently. Asma peered around Kamran with concern as Kamran pounded him on the back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Farooq, reddening once more.

“So you think it’s easier for men to get over women than the other way around?” Kamran asked.

“I don’t think men get as emotionally attached,” Asma replied, not because she really believed it. More because she wanted to see Farooq’s reaction. To bait him, even, into saying something.

“Maybe we move on faster to forget, to bury our pain,” Kamran said. “Women talk about everything. Men talk about nothing.”

“Maybe. Or maybe guys don’t need to emotionally invest because they have so many more options.”

“How so?” asked Kamran.

“Men can marry women from back home. Or non-Muslim women. Or women much younger than themselves.”

“Women can too,” Kamran said.

“Come on, you know that’s not true,” Asma said with a pointed look. “Imagine what would happen if your niece came home and said she wanted to marry her Latino, non-Muslim friend. Everyone would freak out. But that’s exactly what happened with the imam at our mosque, and everyone celebrated. MashAllah, he found someone! A new Muslim!”

Kamran opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. The rest of their little party was leaning back from the table, complaining of being stuffed, though they hadn’t made much of a dent in the food.

“I want to finish this conversation later,” Kamran said. “But right now I need to go make chai.”

“I’ll start packing this up,” said Asma, and started gathering the plates of uneaten food. Maryam helped her for a minute before being distracted by Saba and Lubna, who were debating whether to post sneak-peek snippets of her outfits to Instagram. But when Asma turned, Farooq had taken the platter Maryam had set down and was helping Asma clear the table. They carried what they could into the kitchen, setting the platters on the counter and beginning to wrap them up. Kamran, who was pouring out cups of chai, glanced at the two of them.

“Um,” he said, blushing a bit. “Would you two mind taking over for a minute? I think I hear Naveed calling…” He hustled out of the kitchen before Asma could tell him that she was pretty sure Naveed was in the bathroom. She looked at Farooq, who appeared to be trying to keep from grinning as the two of them were left alone in the kitchen.

“Smooth,” Farooq said, almost to himself. He motioned to the cups of chai. “Shall we try this again?”

“Sure,” Asma replied, feeling her pulse pick up.

“Did you mean what you were saying in there? About how men aren’t as hurt by heartbreak?” Farooq asked, as he held out the first empty cup.

“No,” Asma said quickly. “I don’t really know why I said that.” They both fell silent then. She’d wanted so badly to talk to him alone, but now her mind was blank when it came to where she should start or what she should say. They were through filling four cups of chai before she rustled up the courage. “I sent you something,” she blurted out finally. She wondered if the package had even reached him—she’d sent it to his office, after all, and who knew if it had finally made it to his desk.

Farooq nodded.

“Yeah. I got it,” he replied. “And the note. But…” He paused. “I wasn’t sure what it meant, exactly.”

Asma considered what she’d written on the paper she’d tucked into the copy of The Rumi Collection that he’d given her all those years ago. She told him it was hard for her to part with the book, because it had meant so much to her, but that she felt like he should have it. She had loved it for so long that the only way she could move forward was to let it go, to give it to someone who might love it anew. At the time, Asma thought her message had been clear, that she wanted to let go of her past mistakes and start fresh, start over. But now she wondered if Farooq had thought she was closing the door on their past so she could pursue a future with Omar. Thinking back, it was likely that it was exactly what Farooq was thinking.

“I meant it to be a gesture, I guess,” Asma said, feeling a bit breathless. They’d had so many misdirects and false starts, so many mixed signals. All she wanted was to wipe all of it clean. “That I’m ready to let go of all our mistakes.”

“Our mistakes?” Farooq asked.

“The fact that I hurt you. I listened to my family instead of doing what I wanted,” Asma said. “That’s a lesson I’m only starting to learn, I guess. And Lubna…”

“That was not my finest hour,” Farooq said, shaking his head. “I was still so angry with you, when you reappeared in my life. I thought…here’s a beautiful young woman. That she was your sister-in-law felt right, in a vindictive way. It was cruel and unfair to Lubna, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Thank you,” Asma replied. They’d finished filling the cups, but both were lingering. Asma began wrapping up the food, just to have something to do with her hands.

“I’m just relieved that she’s found what she wanted,” Farooq continued. “But I needed you and your family to see that I could offer more than money. Trying to prove a point and protecting my ego.” He shook his head, a sheen of tears in his eyes. “It was a mistake.”

“We both made them,” Asma replied, stopping what she was doing and reaching over, clasping his hand in hers. She cleared her throat, blinking back her own tears. “So that’s what I was trying to say, I guess. That I’m ready to forget the past, and only focus on what’s ahead.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Farooq replied, pulling his hand away. Asma’s heart dropped. Of course it wasn’t that easy. They’d both done so much to hurt the other—how could they ever pretend as though none of it had happened? But Farooq was opening his wallet and pulling out a folded strip of paper. He held it out to Asma. “I can’t let go of the past,” Farooq said. “I carry it with me, always.”

Asma took the paper from his outstretched hand and unfolded it. It was the same strip of photo booth photos she’d thrown away, all those months ago.

“You carried it with you, all this time?” Asma asked, suddenly out of breath.

Farooq nodded. “I couldn’t let myself forget what it was like to be that happy.”

Asma had been waiting for these words for so many years, but now that she had them she couldn’t think—she couldn’t move. The pain, the hope, the love—it was all too much. She burst into tears. She was about to tell him she still loved him, despite all their time apart, and despite all the ways they’d failed each other over the years, when Maryam and Bushra came into the kitchen.

“I don’t know why we can’t keep a babysitter. I mean—”

Bushra cut Maryam off when she saw Asma.

“Asma, beti! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…I just…” Asma began, but she couldn’t find the words. Maryam elbowed past Farooq and considered her sister, frowning.

“It must be the haleem, I thought it tasted weird,” said Maryam.

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Asma said, wiping her eyes and trying to stop her tears.

“You need some rest,” Maryam said with her newfound resolve to take care of Asma. “I’ll have Hassan take you home, you look awful.”

“It’s fine, I can go myself.” She glanced back at Farooq, who met her gaze. A moment of understanding.

“Yeah, I bet it was the haleem. My stomach’s starting to feel weird too,” Maryam said, already clutching her belly.

“The haleem was great, don’t you dare say anything to Kamran,” Asma ordered Maryam as she headed out of the kitchen and toward the front door. She opened the door and waited, holding her breath. But when the sound of approaching footsteps made her turn, she was disappointed to see Hassan there instead of Farooq.

“Maryam said you’re not feeling well?” Hassan said.

“It’s okay, really,” Asma replied, glancing over Hassan’s shoulder as Farooq appeared behind him. “I probably just need some fresh air.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home?” he asked, jingling his car keys. “I wouldn’t mind heading home and taking a nap while everyone is occupied here.”

“I’m fine,” Asma replied. “I’ll just sit outside for a few minutes, see if I feel better.”

Hassan nodded, then glanced behind him.

“Farooq, you mind taking Asma home if she doesn’t feel better in a few? I swear, doctors make the worst patients.”

Farooq hesitated and looked from Asma to Hassan and back to Asma again, unsure.

Asma nodded. “Yes, please—that would be perfect.”

Hassan left Asma and Farooq standing face-to-face on the Qureishis’ doorstep. They stood smiling at each other for a few moments—completely oblivious to the vendors streaming in and out of the house and Maryam calling after Hassan from inside—before Farooq reached over to sweep the hair out of Asma’s face and take her hand.