Chapter Seven
AMIRA
T he tray of baklava teeters in my arms as I slip off my shoes and adjust my skirt. I shift it between my arms to push my sleeves back down, then balance it carefully against the brick pillar as I open the door to my parents’ house. The sharp smell of mixed spices wafts through the door. It should be overwhelming against the fresh spring air, but instead, it smells like home. For every frustrating adult memory I’ve had in this house, I can think of a thousand happy childhood ones.
Waking Christmas morning to the smell of curry stewing on the stove, and my father’s constant jokes about celebrating such a Western tradition but donning the Santa hat to dish out presents all the same. Coming home from school in tears because pre-teen girls are downright cruel, and my mother mixing my favourite Turkish tea to cheer me up. Sitting in the laundry while my aunt dyed my hair for the first time, never mind the wash out colour did almost nothing against my near-black hair. This house was one filled mostly with joy, for a very long time.
Shame it’s far from it now. My mother calls through the house, begging me to come in further and stop ‘loitering in the doorway’. It’s her way of saying ‘stop letting the fresh air in’. I do as I’m told, pausing to fix my hair in the hallway mirror.
I should, by now, be used to coming into this house as an adult. I should be used to the changed dynamic in my relationship with my parents and over the awkward feeling that came when I first moved out. This house will always feel like home, but the realisation it isn’t mine any more is somehow a shocking revelation every week. Little changes always seem strikingly obvious. My father’s chair inching out from the corner of the room until it’s practically blocking the view of the TV from the main lounge suite. My mother’s lace doilies no longer hidden beneath books and magazines.
She greets me as I enter the kitchen, her floral apron tied neatly in the centre of her back and her long greying hair falling over the bow in a long braid.
“Amira, princess, it’s been so long.”
I shake my head and wriggle free from her arms to put the container of sticky sweet pastries on the counter. She always says that, even when it’s only been a few days. I suppose, after having your children around you for so long, it feels lonely once they are gone.
Don’t get me wrong, I miss her too. But after all the years I’ve been living on my own, or with friends, I’m used to it now. I love the freedom that comes with not living with family. How no one is around to tell me I shouldn’t stay up so late or play music so loud. The way I can bring home whoever I want, without facing endless questions and berating the following day. The way I can spread myself out through the kitchen to make baklava, and how I can bake macarons or cupcakes or biscuits without my mother tutting at my decision to make something so ‘untraditional’. So yeah, I miss seeing my mother, and sometimes my father, but freedom is good.
“You should keep some of this,” she chimes as she opens the container. Pinching the smallest piece of baklava between her fingers, she breathes the sweet honey smell in deeply before taking a bite.
She savours the taste as the layers of pastry no doubt melt on her tongue. I love making it, and she loves eating it. I’d make it more if I could, but I tried some at the store and it didn’t sell as well as the danishes and mini cheesecakes and cake pops. So, I make it for my mother, and I’m not sad at all when she forces me to keep some for myself.
I take a piece now, eating just as precisely as she did and indulging in the blend of honey and nuts. The flavour takes me back to my childhood and reminds me of my grandmother. We spent more than a handful of afternoons working around this very counter, making baklava together. My mother never had the patience to build the layers of thin pastry, but I did. It fuelled my love of baking, and I’ll always be grateful to have had the opportunity to share those memories with my Nene .
“Tell me, princess,” my mother starts after finishing her last bite. She turns to put the old kettle on the stove and I hide my grin at how nostalgic it feels. “Tell me about the boy.”
And now I’m hiding a scowl instead. I had hoped to avoid this conversation, but I should have known she would bring it up as soon as she got the chance. It would help if I knew about ‘the boy’, but I’m still a little dumbstruck. I’d hardly looked at Noah sideways but now I can barely stop thinking about him. I’ve spent far too many nights alone in my bed, wondering what it would have been like if I hadn’t drunk as much as I did at the wedding. Imagining him carrying me up the stairs anyway but staying after he placed me in the centre of my bed.
I have to squeeze my eyelids shut and shake my head to clear the vision from my mind. It works, but in its place all I can see is how casually fuckable he looked at the winery the other day. He’d stormed over and I swear there was a red tinge of jealousy in his eyes. With his sleeves rolled up and the way he leant against the bar in the most nonchalant way, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And now all I can think about all the time, is how maybe fake wasn’t what I wanted from him after all.
I fill my lungs, push my lips into a smile, and hope my moment of silence won’t give away the lie. “He’s … great. More than great. He’s kind and caring, he puts everyone else first, all the time, and I know he will never let me down.”
After I say the words, I realise I’m not lying. Noah is all those things and more. I may not know him all that well, but it’s clear from the time we have spent together.
My mother doesn’t miss a beat as she gets the glass cups ready for our tea. “I wish I got to speak with him at the wedding, but no matter. Did you hear Sadik is getting married? I’m sure I will meet this Noah boy then.”
I clench my fists in an attempt to hold in my groan. Another family wedding. Another cousin, however many times removed. My memories of Sadik are vague at best. Big family events we attended as children, when we could run around to our hearts content and our biggest worries were how many fizzy drinks could we sneak before one of our parents noticed we were all a little too sugar high. I can’t remember the last time I saw him, or cared enough to want to see my third or fourth cousin. I doubt if I would even recognise him if he came into the shop.
But that’s how my family goes. Massive weddings and everyone you’ve ever thought about being related to gets an invite. If I want to keep my father off my back, I’m going to have to keep up the charade a little longer. I’ll probably have to beg Noah to come to this one with me. And this time I won’t go overboard on the cheap house wine.
“How did you meet him?” My mother stays by the stove, leaning her back against the pantry door. Behind her head, small lines mark my height as I grew each year.
“He’s Cassidy’s cousin. We met a few times, hung out a bit. For a while, I didn’t think he liked me, he barely spoke to me. But I was wrong.”
Another truth. Noah said no more than a few words to me for months after he moved down from Sydney. ‘Hello’ here and ‘gosh these are delicious’ there. I always thought it was because he couldn’t stand me, even though I’d done nothing to make him feel that way. It bugged me more than I care to admit. The niceties pestered me to no end, so much so I started with the playful jabs that have become our signature communication style.
Things seem … different … now though. Like maybe being forced to spend time together was exactly what we needed to form a friendship of our own.
I do my best to ignore the way that word stings against the inside of my temples. Friendship. Ugh. I don’t want this. Relationships and I don’t mix, but pretending to be in one with Noah has all the lines crossing inside my head.
“Ahh Cassidy,” my mother chimes as the kettle begins to whistle. With a rag over the handle, she pours hot water into the double-layered teapot, letting it steep a minute before pouring the hot drinks into two tulip-shaped glasses. “She’s moving out soon, yes?”
My face drops. Taking my steaming cup of tea, I cradle it in my hands. The heat seeps through the glass and over my fingers. The sliver of confidence I had left in this conversation begins to dissipate. “Yeah,” I mumble before taking a sip of the spiced tea.
It burns my tongue and scorches my throat, but I savour the familiar blend of flavours. I focus on pinpointing each one, trying to prepare myself for the inevitable catch to my mother’s question.
It’ll be the same concern laden with control she smothered me with when I first moved into the apartment. Overbearing worries about how a young woman shouldn’t be living on her own ‘in the city’ and persistent requests to find me a nice young man to live with. Only, they never really meant a ‘nice young man’. They meant a preapproved husband.
The hounding settled only slightly when my roommate before Cassidy moved in, only to reappear like a lion in the grass when she moved out again. It’s no surprise they’re ready and waiting to begin the tirade again. Unless I succumb to the pressure and get married, I doubt the cycle will ever end.
Which is why I’m not surprised at her follow-up statement.
“I don’t like the thought of you alone, Amira. What if something happens?”
“Nothing will happen.” I roll my eyes at her, but she steps forward and reaches her arm across the counter to place a hand on my arm.
“Well, no. Because I have the perfect plan.”
I pause, taking a slow sip of my drink. It’s cooled down just enough to not burn every inch of my mouth. “If your plan involves trying to set—”
“No, no. Your Baba might not like the fact you’re with someone he didn’t choose for you, but I at least respect you enough not to try anything while you’re still seeing him. Your cousin, Ella, wants to move from Adelaide, and since you’ll be on your own, I told her mother she could stay with you.” She steps back and stands tall, puffing her chest out with pride. Even as she takes a sip of her own tea, her overconfident grin is prominent on her face.
I’m caught off guard by her plan. I was ready to go to battle in Noah’s defence, to stand my ground against my right to be alone. The mental checklists of comebacks I’d been preparing vanishes, because none of them are relevant here. There are worse things than having Ella as a roommate for a while, but that doesn’t mean I want her to move in.
We got along well enough at the wedding, and okay, she is family, but … I don’t know. Maybe as sad as I am about Cassidy moving out, I’m also kind of looking forward to having the space to myself for a bit. With the reduced rent I can comfortably get by, and if I’m up late baking or leave the mixer out when I’m finished or want to watch trashy reality TV all night, it won’t matter. Having my own space will be freeing. Would be freeing.
Cradling my glass mug between my hands, I’m know I need to respond. I need to come up with a quick retort to my mother’s grand plan. Because I want all that space to myself. And I’m a grown woman. She has no right to offer up my space to other people.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to gain a little clarity. And it works, almost.
“I won’t have space.” The words spill out quickly as I try to make up for the seconds I spent thinking.
“Don’t be silly, you had space for Cassidy. You have a whole empty room now.”
Fuck. She’s right. Of course I technically have space. The only way I wouldn’t is if someone else was already lined up to take Cassidy’s room. And so, I blurt out the first name that comes to mind. The name that feels sealed across my lips even though it has no right to be there.
“No, I won’t. Noah is moving in.”
As soon as I say it, I know how ridiculous it seems. I blurted out to my father that I love Noah the other day, and I’ve just told my mother how happy we are together. And now he’s apparently moving in … to the spare room. Shit .
“Oh.” Her mouth presses into a firm line and shakes her head. “But you’re not … well.”
I’m ready for her to blow. To snap with anger. I wouldn’t be surprised if she slapped me across the cheek. It’s one thing to date someone my parents don’t agree with and hardly know. It’s another altogether to be apparently moving in with him. Before marriage! There’s no doubt in my mind that’s what my mother was about to comment on. My Nene would be turning in her grave.
With her eyes closed, my mother tilts her head to the ceiling and sucks in a deep breath.
“Your father will not be happy.”
“Respectfully, I’m thirty. It’s not really his choice.” I snap my mouth shut, a little shocked at myself, and a little proud too. It’s not often I have the courage to stand up for myself, and I doubt I’d be doing it if my father was here, but hey, little steps.
She pauses for a moment, processing the conversation and how it no doubt went far off the track she had planned.
“Even so, I disagree with your choices. But I assume you will still have a spare room? I promised Ella, and she is family. We make space for family.”
And there it is, the other boot slamming down on my toe. Because that’s what my big grand extended family does. They’re too much, always. But they are always there for you. And by default, that means I’m expected to always be there for them.
My on-the-fly plan of Noah ‘moving in’ doesn’t fill the empty bed in my apartment. Which means my cousin will still be coming to stay.
The story I keep telling my family is expanding, and if I want to keep up the charade I’m going to need more help from Noah than either of us bargained for. And all I can do now is hope he plays along.