Remember Me Tomorrow

SEVENTEEN

I n the morning I have a text waiting for me.

Gracie: Manal agreed to meet me!

Aleeza: Oh my god, yay!

Gracie: I said it’s just to give her Jay’s stuff. I have no idea if she’ll talk. You’ll come, won’t you? We’re going to meet at a coffee shop near her college at four.

Aleeza: I’m absolutely coming. I have somewhere I need to go first, but I can meet you there. I’ll bring some of Jay’s stuff to give to her.

It looks like I won’t be going to class at all today, but I should be done in Scarborough in time to meet Gracie at four. I check ResConnect—Jay isn’t there. I know he has an early class. I’m glad he’s not here because I don’t want to tell him I’m going to be digging up information about his family today.

I reluctantly get up. Even though Jay’s not in it anymore, I still love being in his bed. It feels warmer, cozier than mine. Even though it’s got my sheets and blanket on it, there’s a subtle scent—cologne or deodorant, or laundry detergent—that’s not mine. I’ve never really been close enough to smell Jay, but still, it smells like the most comforting memory.

But now, despite what’s happening between Jay and me, I’m keeping something from him, and I feel terrible about it. He would not be happy about me going to his family’s house today. But this might be the only way to save him.

Before I leave, I sit on the floor near my closet to pick out some stuff from Jay’s box to give to his cousin. There’s no way I’m giving everything to Manal—partially because this is a lot to lug around all day, but also, I don’t want to give away anything that might be useful evidence. I tried not to look too closely at the stuff when I packed it because it seemed like such an invasion of privacy, but now things are different. I’m getting desperate to solve this.

There are clothes, toiletries, books, and some mail in the box—nothing of value. His mother must have taken his computer and anything important right after he first went missing. I put together a tote bag of things for Manal—some clothes and a few books.

All the mail is postmarked after the date he disappeared. The don probably brought it up and left it in the room. Most of it doesn’t look important: some junk mail, a holiday postcard from a dental office, a letter from the school registrar. That last one I saw the day I moved in. I put the mail in the bag to give Manal.

I get dressed, shove the tote bag full of Jay’s things into my backpack, then head to the subway station. The weather is finally not brutal ... in fact, the sun is even shining. Most of the snow from the last dregs of winter melted, revealing the mud and dirt of early spring. But it’s still cold. I’m glad I have a warm sweater under my puffer jacket.

It takes me two subways and a long bus ride to get to Jay’s neighborhood in Scarborough. My grandmother’s sister lives in Scarborough, so I’ve been here a bunch of times before. Scarborough is the farthest east and the biggest of the six districts in Toronto. The whole city is considered to be one of the most multicultural cities in the world, and Scarborough is the most diverse part of Toronto. As I sit on the busy city bus, I wonder what it would have been like to grow up here instead of in Alderville. Here, where there are more nonwhite people than white. Where I would blend into the crowd instead of always being the odd one out. The food would certainly have been better.

Jay’s part of Scarborough is very flat, with strip malls and plazas lining the major streets. Most of the housing is old low-rise rental buildings, with some townhouses and small bungalows too. After getting off the bus, it’s a five-minute walk to Jay’s family house.

Their unit is on the end of a large complex of attached houses clad in faded yellow siding. Instead of a driveway, there’s a courtyard in front. The parking lot for the complex is behind the backyards.

It’s strange to see where he grew up. It feels so ... detached from him. The Jay I know belongs in the huge, crumbling mansion-turned-dorm in the middle of the loud and busy downtown Toronto, not in this small townhouse. Short windows at the base of the house suggest a basement—probably where Jay and his mother lived. Or ... live . Steeling my shoulders, I knock on the door.

A woman opens the door—it’s not Salma Hoque. This woman is older. She’s in a pale-green salwar kameez, and her hair is pulled back. “We don’t need fiber internet,” she says instead of saying hello. Her South Asian accent is strong—stronger than Jay’s mother’s in the press conference.

“Oh, no, sorry. I’m not selling anything. My name is Aleeza. I’m looking for Salma Hoque?”

The woman narrows her eyes. I can see inside the house a bit and catch a glimpse of wood floors and pale-pink walls. The faint smell of spices is in the air. “She’s not talking to reporters.” She starts to close the door.

“I’m not a reporter,” I say quickly. “I’m a friend of her son’s from school.” But the woman, I assume Jay’s aunt, continues to close the door.

“Please,” I say quickly. “I just want to talk to someone about Jayesh!”

She shakes her head angrily. “No one is talking to anyone. Go away.” She slams the door closed.

I have no idea what to do next. If they won’t talk to me, then what else can I do here? I walk around to the back of the house and see the fenced backyard, which is empty. Should I knock on a neighbor’s door? Try to find out if Salma is even here? I have no idea how close anyone in the family is to their neighbors. And if reporters and media are coming around a lot, maybe the neighbors have been told not to talk to anyone. But I’m not a reporter. I really am Jay’s friend.

It occurs to me that I’m in school to be the kind of reporter who’s been harassing this family. I sigh. Maybe now’s not the right time for me to question the ethics of my chosen career. I’m not here for some clickbait headline, anyway. I am here to save Jay. There must be someone nearby who knows Salma. I consider going to her work, but it’s back downtown. And it’s a law office—they’d be even less likely to speak to me.

Has Jay ever mentioned Salma going somewhere else regularly? A library or nearby café? I didn’t see any cafés nearby. Just small takeout restaurants and corner stores. My stomach rumbles then. It’s lunchtime.

I smile. I know exactly where to go—a place that both Jay and Salma went to often. A quick Google search on my phone tells me that Shawarma Delight is only a five-minute walk from where I’m standing.

The moment I step into the tiny hole-in-the-wall shop, the smell of fire-roasted meat and garlic hits me. The place looks like it’s been recently renovated—or at least recently been slapped with new paint and signage. As it’s a bit early for the lunch rush, it isn’t too busy—only two people stand in front of me in line.

When I get to the front, the girl at the counter smiles. She looks to be about my age, and she has a cream-colored hijab on, along with a sweatshirt that says S HAWARMA D ELIGHT on the corner. There’s another woman at the counter making the sandwiches for the people in front of me.

I need to be undercover here, and I’m worried I’m going to mess this up. I smile. “Hi!” I glance up at the menu. “A friend of mine told me to come here! She said it was the best shawarma in town. But I don’t remember if the chicken or the beef was her favorite. She comes here all the time. Do you know Salma Hoque?”

The expression on the girl’s face changes immediately from friendly to one of sympathy and compassion. “Of course we know Salma. She was our best customer. She even helped paint the restaurant last year. Salma always got beef.”

I nod. “Can you make me one like how she used to have it? And I’ll have a bottle of mango juice.”

The girl nods and calls back to the woman preparing the food. “Beef shawarma with everything on white pita. Extra spicy.”

I need to keep this conversation going. While I’m paying with my debit card, I say, “It’s so sad what happened to Salma’s family. I used to work with her. She came here a lot, didn’t she?”

The girl nods. “Yeah, Salma was like family. She hasn’t been here for months, though. Not since her son went away.”

“I know how much her son meant to her,” I say. “I’d love to send her a card—do you know where she is?”

She leans forward and lowers her voice. “She’s gone, too, but apparently her family won’t report her missing. It’s so terrible ... maybe her brother sent her back to Bangladesh because of the scandal.”

My breath hitches. Salma is gone ? Where?

The other woman behind the counter turns sharply. “Amina! Don’t gossip!” She gives me a long stare, like she knows I’m lying.

“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s really so heartbreaking. Salma and Jay were so great. I hope everything ends well for them.”

The girl nods. “I pray for them every day.”

“Thank you,” I say as she gives me my sandwich and drink. I take my lunch to a table, unwrap it, and take a bite. It’s amazing. A little spicier than I normally prefer, but so flavorful. Perfect charred meat, perfect garlicky sauce, perfect toppings, and fluffy pita. And for some reason, this perfect sandwich makes my eyes water.

Will Jay ever have this sandwich again? Will Salma? I can’t believe she’s gone too. Does her family know where she is? Did Salma leave town because she’s heartbroken over losing her only child?

The whole thing is so ... tragic. I feel close to both Jay and his mother here in their favorite restaurant. I have no idea where they are, but I do know that the little family doesn’t deserve the pain they’re going through. And not just Jay and Salma—so many people are hurting. Jay’s aunt and uncle, Jay’s cousins, and all their other family. Even the people here in the shawarma shop are mourning them.

I’m not sure I believe that Jay’s uncle forced her to go back to Bangladesh, though. Jay did say his aunt and uncle were more religious and traditional than Salma and Jay, but from what Jay told me about his mother, she wouldn’t let anyone force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

When I’m about half-done with my shawarma, someone sits down in front of me at my table. It’s the older woman from behind the counter—the one who scolded the younger one for gossiping.

She looks to be in her thirties or maybe early forties, and is also wearing a Shawarma Delight sweatshirt, but with a black hijab. She’s pretty, with fair skin and kind eyes. “You said you’re Salma’s friend?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Ausma. How well did you know her?”

I’m not sure how I should play this. If I’m honest with her and tell her that I’ve never met Salma, I’m afraid she won’t talk to me. But I can’t pretend I do know her because she’ll ask questions I can’t answer. “I know ... the family.” Maybe since I’m Brown, this woman will believe I’m a friend of the family.

She looks at me curiously. “You’re Jayesh’s friend, right?”

I nod. Is it possible that Jay told this woman to trust me, too? Like he told his mother and cousin?

“He’s such a good boy,” Ausma says. “He was good to his mother.”

“You and Salma were . . . are . . . close?”

The woman nods. She exhales. “I haven’t seen or heard from her in a long time. But ... Jay was here. That day, I mean. When he went missing. I think he knew . He told me that if something ever happened to him to make sure I’m there for Salma.” Her eyes get a little glassy with tears. She shakes her head. “But I failed her. I wasn’t there for her. I’m working so hard. I have my own kids and a busy restaurant. And now Salma’s gone too. That day, I asked Jay if he had a girlfriend yet. I haven’t forgotten what he told me. He said there was a girl he’s close to, and that he hoped one day they could be even closer. He told me she was helping him. And that he hoped his family and friends would help her in the future. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Jay did tell her about me. I can feel my eyes well with tears. He said if something happened to him away from the room, he would get a message to me. Is this that message?

I nod, wiping my eyes. “Did he say anything else? How was he? Did he seem upset?”

She shakes her head. “No, there was nothing else. He was ... cheerful, in fact. The way he talked about you ... I remember thinking, This girl makes him very happy . I wish I had more to tell you.”

I exhale. When he spoke to this woman, he didn’t know yet what was going to happen. Or he would have told her more.

“Are you trying to find him? Is that why you are asking questions?” she asks.

I nod. “I’m trying to find them both.”

Ausma hands me a plastic bag. I peek inside. It’s filled with envelopes. I know what this is. Ausma must be the friend who’s been collecting Salma’s mail.

“Her mail,” I say.

“Can you use this to find them? I didn’t want to give it to her brother. I don’t know what she was hiding from him ... but ...” She sighs.

I peer into the bag. It looks like it’s mostly bank statements and junk mail. “I don’t know. Maybe ...”

“I wish I could help more. Salma was private about a lot of things. We were friends, but she never talked about anything big, you know? Not about her past.”

I nod. She’s telling me she doesn’t know who Jay’s father is.

“What was ... is Salma like?” I ask.

The woman smiles sadly. “She was like the sun. I didn’t realize how bright she made everything until she was gone. Find them, okay? I put my number down in there, call me if you need any help. Anytime.”

I nod and thank Ausma, and she says a prayer for me, Jay, and Salma before going back behind the counter. I’m not sure if what Ausma told me, or this mail, will help at all, but it’s clear that Ausma misses Salma. And Jay.

If Jay told Ausma about me the day he disappeared but didn’t leave me a significant message, then it’s clear that when he was here at lunchtime, he didn’t yet know what was going to happen that night. I shove the bag of mail into my backpack. I’ll talk to Jay about it before opening any of it.

When I get back downtown, I see Gracie waiting for me at the subway station near the College of Art. She’s wearing baggy jeans and a bright floral button-up, along with her signature cardigan—this one in yellow. While we walk to the café near the campus, I tell Gracie what the woman at the sandwich shop said.

“Oh wow,” Gracie says. “That’s so sad . His mom is gone too. No wonder she hasn’t spoken to the media recently. Do you think she even knows that they found Jay’s coat and phone on the weekend?”

“Probably. Unless ... I don’t know. Jay’s aunt really, really didn’t want to talk to me today.”

“Hopefully Manal will be more talkative. What information do you want to get from her?”

“Where Salma is. And what Salma was hiding from her brother and sister-in-law.” I exhale. “Anything, really. Mainly, does she know of anyone who would want to hurt Jay or Salma?”

“Are you going to give her that mail the shawarma lady gave you?”

I shake my head. “No, Salma didn’t want her brother seeing it. I’m not going to give it to her brother’s daughter.”

“What’s in the mail, anyway?”

I shrug, then grab the plastic bag out of my backpack and look through the envelopes. It’s all addressed to the shawarma shop’s address, and it looks like mostly bank statements. But ... there is one interesting envelope here. Interesting, because it’s for Jayesh Hoque, not Salma Hoque. And it’s from a lawyer’s office: Choi, Patel, and Associates, Attorneys. Why would a lawyer write to Jay?

“Didn’t Jay’s mother work at a law office? Is this the same one?”

I shake my head. “No, that was ...” I don’t remember the whole name of that firm. “Featherington and Grant something.”

Gracie looks at the envelope. “It’s postmarked after he disappeared. It’s a federal offense to open someone’s mail. We should give it to someone.”

I exhale. I’ll ask Jay what to do with it tonight. “I’ll figure it out.”

When we get to the small café near the Ontario College of Art and Design, it’s easy to find Manal Hoque in the crowd of art students. She has the exact huge brown eyes as Jay. Her skin is a bit browner, and she’s about as short as I am, but the family resemblance to Jay and Salma is unmistakable.

Manal looks like an art student, though. She’s wearing wide-legged white pants and a bulky orange sweater and sits at a table near the back of the café working on an iPad. Behind her hangs a large print of the Toronto skyline painted in bright colors. The whole café has art prints all over the walls—probably because it’s so close to the art college.

Gracie goes right up to her. “Manal? I’m Gracie Song. Thank you so much for meeting me. I am so sorry for your loss.”

Manal stands and looks at Gracie, suspicion in her eyes, then glances at me. I see then that Manal’s sweater is cropped, with a gray shirt underneath.

“I’m Aleeza,” I say. I hand her the tote bag filled with Jay’s things.

Her expression falls immediately. She takes the bag from me and drops it on her table. “ Aleeza? You’re the one who messaged me on Instagram. Jay’s friend ?” There is a lot of angry accusation in her voice. The barista glances up at us.

Gracie looks at me, confused.

“Yeah ... I mean, I didn’t know him that well, but—”

Manal raises an annoyed eyebrow. “That’s not at all what he told me. He told me you two had become very close.” She looks me up and down. Lord knows what she’s thinking about me. The barista is still watching us, concerned.

Gracie grabs my arm in surprise. Her eyes are wide as saucers. “Jay told you he knew Aleeza?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I promised Gracie weeks ago that I’d never met Jay. Which was true—then. I look at Gracie, hoping my expression is telling her that I’ll explain it all later. I have no idea what I’ll tell her, but I can’t explain it now, in front of Manal. Or in front of everyone else in the café. It feels like they are all staring at us.

“We weren’t that close. I mean ... not really,” I stammer.

“He had a massive crush on you,” Manal deadpans as she crosses her arms. “Shocking too. You don’t seem his type.” Her voice is dripping with condescension. Does she think I had something to do with Jay’s disappearance? Maybe her mother even told her I was at his house today. Maybe she thinks we had a chaotic relationship that somehow ended with him dead.

Coming here was a bad idea. I should have let Gracie do this alone. Clearly Manal doesn’t trust me. And I don’t blame her at all.

Gracie is clearly also pissed at me. She lets go of my arm and turns away, giving Manal a sympathetic look. “Can I buy you a coffee? I’m gutted about Jay. If there is anything at all I can do to help.”

Manal shakes her head. “My family is grieving . There’s nothing you can do to help us. Tell your friend you’ll never win ... so stop harassing Jay and my family.”

Manal starts packing up her things from the table like she’s going to leave.

“Wait,” I say. “I’m trying to find out who hurt Jay. Don’t you want justice?”

She looks at me while putting her iPad into a messenger bag. “There is no justice. Don’t you see?” She shakes her head.

“Manal, you know Jay trusted me,” I say. “This is what he’d want ... me to find out who hurt him. There’s something you’re not telling us.”

Manal looks up to the ceiling, and I see tears in her eyes. Finally, she looks at me. “He mentioned you only once to me. He said he trusted you more than anyone else at that school.” She shakes her head. “He said you were special. And that things felt different with you. I remember thinking, Wow, he’s like a whole new person with her . It was such a change for him. And then, weeks later, he’s gone. So don’t blame me for not trusting you. You’re like the rest of them—sucking him into their world only to suffocate him.”

I want to put my hand on her arm to comfort her, but I know she wouldn’t want that. “Manal, if you think I’m one of his wealthy friends, I’m not. I promise, I barely know those people. I really am just a friend who wants to know what happened. Jay would want me to help him. You know that.”

She exhales, and the hostility finally leaves her face. “I honestly don’t know what happened to him. Nothing makes sense. But I think ... I know it shouldn’t be this hard to figure it out. People don’t disappear into thin air. Only people with buckets full of privilege can make that happen.”

“You think Jay’s rich friends are responsible?” Gracie asks.

“Of course, it’s obvious they are,” Manal says, still cleaning up her table.

“I’m not one of them,” I say. “I only want to help you. Jay told me how much you meant to him—he said you were like his best friend and his sister.”

Manal finally looks at me with teary eyes. “You are not at all what I expected Aleeza to be like. And somehow”—she looks me up and down again—“I’ll take you at face value. Honestly, good for Jay for liking someone real instead of his revolving plastic door. So I’ll tell you this. If I were trying to figure this out, I’d start with who was paying Jay’s tuition.”

“He had a scholarship,” I say.

She shakes her head. “A very strange scholarship, if you ask me. One that usually doesn’t go to people who grew up where we did. Or to people who look like us.”

Clearly, I need to find out more about the Bright-Knowles Award.

“Have you heard of a law office called Choi, Patel, and Associates?” I ask. I’m grasping at straws here, but she’s finally talking, and I don’t know how long we have with her.

“No, never heard of it,” she says. I believe her.

“Have you seen the police report about his disappearance?” Gracie asks. “We’ve been trying to figure out who saw him last.”

Manal shakes her head. “No, but remember this—some people are so powerful that they can buy witnesses. Even buy their own justice. I have nothing else I can tell either of you.” She resumes packing up her things.

“Where’s your aunt?” I ask quickly before she can leave. “Is Salma missing, too, or did she leave on her own?”

She shakes her head. “Salma Aunty spent her whole life trying to escape her past. And her past still came and took him. I don’t blame her at all for escaping this damn city. People like us? We can’t ever, ever win here. They own it all. They will never let us forget that.”

Somehow, I know she’s including me and Gracie when she says people like us . She means us —newcomers, immigrants, and the children of immigrants.

Manal walks away. And there’s nothing I can do to stop her.