Chapter 5 Salma #5
Ami hung her head, and for a moment, I thought she was going to cry. And then in that slow, hesitant way she spoke when she was unsure of herself or trying to drive the listener crazy, she said, “They think we should find a rishtha for Asma when we’re home.”
So much was happening so quickly. I was still reeling and couldn’t take in this new dilemma. “Who is ‘they’? She’s only nineteen!” I blurted out.
The entire week had been off-kilter, so maybe Ami’s offering the bold idea of marrying Asma off should have blended right in.
But it didn’t. It horrified me. I don’t know if it was a spontaneous moment or a premeditated one.
But either way, it was a peace offering, a way to get back into my father’s good graces.
I thought of the girl Abu had told me about in the car.
This was not how things were supposed to go.
This was not how our lives were supposed to look.
Abu took a long, slow drink from his glass of water and looked at me over the lip of his glass but didn’t say anything.
“You’re a good girl. You understand this,” Ami said flatly and started clearing the table.
After lunch, Mamoo called to talk to Abu. I crept downstairs and picked up the extra phone quietly, depressing the hang-up button slowly so as not to signal my presence.
“Yar,” Mamoo was saying. “This is important. You can’t let this opportunity to see your father one last time pass by. Trust me.” Mamoo sounded so sad.
Now it was Abu’s turn to consider what Mamoo was saying. He was clearly anguished. “No gift.”
“Fine, it’s not a gift. It’s a loan that I expect you to pay back. You can do it over time.”
Abu grunted.
“But”—Mamoo spoke quickly, reminding me of Ami, trying to press her advantage when she sensed an opening—“I feel very strongly that it would be good for my sister to go back. She needs to visit. She’s missed home.”
“We can’t afford even one ticket,” Abu started to say.
Mamoo cut him off. “Musharraf, let me finish. Your ticket you can repay. My sister’s ticket is a gift. I insist on this.”
It is the day of curriculum night. It will be a long day.
I rouse myself to get out of bed. Increasingly, in that moment right before I wake up, when I become aware that I have a body and I am arriving back into it, I find myself trying to place myself into when I am.
My sleep, such as it is, is not restful.
After school is over, we will prepare rooms for visitors.
School provides a hot dinner catered by the company that provides the food service to the school.
I usually don’t go to that dinner, afraid I may burp or throw up in the middle of the parent presentation.
Plus, it’s not any good, and after a lifetime with Mamoo, I enjoy a good meal.
It is Emil’s and my tradition to go for a quick dinner after curriculum night is over.
I inflate the hot-air balloon and direct a floor light to illuminate it. I organize the books in the Nook and fan out a few on the floor, like for a photo shoot. I arrange the potted plants I brought from home to make the room look warm and inviting.
Parents arrive and enter the room shyly, appropriately impressed with the magic of the room.
I welcome them and smile through my awkwardness.
The bell rings for the first session. Thirteen parents sit in the small chairs I have arranged mimicking morning meeting.
This group is usually full of parents of only children and oldest children.
They sit straight up in their seats, somber and serious.
At the end of the session, the bell rings again, and there is a ten-minute passing period for parents to go to a specialist’s class or leave.
The bell rings again to mark the beginning of the second session, largely consisting of parents who have been in another class for another child or parents who couldn’t get away early from work.
The bell rings to mark the end of the second session.
I nibble a cracker and sip a little bit of water, not too much. I don’t want to have to go to the bathroom. Ever since the call, I have not been eating well, but tonight, I am ready to eat. I wonder where Emil is going to want to go.
The next set of parents starts filtering in.
This is the third and final session and is filled with parents who have multiple children and a better sense of the forgiving arc of childhood.
They have all known each other a long time and don’t take themselves or school too seriously.
There are no difficult or annoying questions at the end of the talk.
No alphas that want to tell me what or how I should be teaching. They are simply appreciative.
Marlene walks in and appears to be as jittery as I feel.
She is overly enthusiastic. I feel her arms have the shakes as she hugs me.
She is acting falsely happy and keeps running her hands over her freshly washed head of hair, as though she is trying to smooth it down or make it not so shiny.
She comes close to me and says, “The room looks amazing!” Her eyes dart around.
The bell rings again to signal the start of the last session.
People settle in their seats. I start my rote talk.
Only one more time to do this and then I can shut off the lights.
I might beg off dinner with Emil. I am starving and feel like home cooking.
Mamoo has a woman that makes him prepared meals, and he always has some extra made for me.
I think it is a vegetarian lasagna. It’s funny that Mamoo has stayed vegetarian after Aunty passed, even though he grumbled about it for so many years.
Only two more minutes before the Q and A.
I turn my back to the classroom and am demonstrating the map software and point to the countries that we’re going to “visit” in our hot-air balloon when something solid and big hits my metal desk.
I hear an “Oof,” followed by a collective gasp.
I turn to see a woman splayed on its surface.
She must have tripped. I walk toward her to help.
Her arms flail, messing up my perfectly ordered desk.
I am irate. She is about to push my books and papers onto the floor.
We are less than two feet apart when she lifts her head.
Before the room falls away, I think, Man, Ruby has really let herself go.