Chapter 6 Asma #3
“What? How?” Asma imagined a sixteen-year-old Mamoo with a full head of hair. She had been nervous when her parents left her at school an hour away. What kind of terror must Mamoo have felt boarding that plane? It was good to have moments where she felt lucky for her life.
“To go to university. Surely you know this.”
“I know he went to college in England, but I didn’t know he was so young.”
“Oh, he was very young. Maybe you should talk to your uncle about this family history.” But the way she said it didn’t sound like she thought it would be such a good idea. “What about you? Is there a special boy?”
Asma dropped her piece of garlic bread into her spaghetti. “Me? No, no, no.”
“I’m not asking if you’re dating someone. I understand the, er, difficulties such a situation would create. But is there someone you like?” Aunty leaned over the table, wide-eyed, like a girlfriend waiting for a juicy bit of gossip.
Again, Asma wanted to tell her about the thoughts racing circles in her head, but what was there really to say?
That she pined for Ruby, not really knowing what she was pining for?
Her attention? Her conversation? Her presence?
That she was doing badly in school and risked her scholarship?
Her father had punched her? If she were to start talking her heart, she was unsure of what would come out and what would happen next.
Mamoo came home just then, tie askance. “The house smells great,” he said and plopped down at the table. “Mari jan, did you tell Asma?”
Here it was. Asma’s shoulders drew up. They were going to talk about the aftermath of the play.
She would have to deny it or say it was no big deal and pretend like everything was okay, and then what?
Would Mamoo call and yell at him? What would her father do?
Come get her from school? What would happen to her?
“No, we were waiting for you,” Aunty said, putting a plate of pasta in front of Mamoo and rubbing his head.
“Did you hear about your parents?”
“No.”
“They’re going to Pakistan.”
It was so not what Asma had been expecting. “Huh?”
“Your grandfather is sick, and he wanted to see your father one last time,” Aunty said.
“Oh.”
“Salma’s going to stay with us while they’re gone.” Mamoo’s voice rose in excitement even though he was trying to keep his face somber.
Asma nodded.
“Won’t that be great?” Mamoo asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“We wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You know. It’s so sudden, and we didn’t want you to be upset.”
Asma stared at Mamoo and Aunty, both of whom studied her expectantly across the table. My God. They really are that sweet and naive. They had no idea the weight that was lifting off her shoulders as they spoke. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes,” both Aunty and Mamoo said, in unison.
“Okay.” Asma was so relieved that she didn’t really care what they were saying. They didn’t seem to know about the night of Pippin, and she had nothing to answer for.
Mamoo stammered. “So will you come here on the weekends so we can all hang out?”
“Sure. Of course.” Asma nodded. She wanted to quickly get off the topic of her father just in case more questions were coming.
“Aunty and I were just talking about when you two met.” She would never have asked this question in her parents’ presence.
There was no concept of how you met someone. Marriages were simply arranged.
“Uh, well, okay then.” He seemed surprised. “We met at the end of my residency.”
“But how?”
“Well, um, my attending was scheduled to give a talk on cardiomyopathy to the afternoon shift nurses over lunch. He couldn’t make it last minute, and he asked me to go on his behalf.
I thought I would be speaking to a handful of nurses.
But when I walked in, there must have been at least seventy-five of them. ”
Aunty grinned.
“I didn’t have notes because I just thought it would be conversational.
More like a discussion, you know? But with a group that size, there was no way that was going to work.
In those days, I was still pretty self-conscious about my accent.
All I could think about was whether this throng of people, all young women, by the way, would be able to understand me. ”
“You don’t have an accent, Mamoo,” Asma said defensively.
“Darling, he does, and it was much heavier back then.” Aunty was unsparing.
“They were clearly expecting a lecture while they ate their lunch, and I’d managed to forget everything I’d ever known about the subject. I felt like I was going to pass out. And then, out of nowhere, this woman walked towards me, slowly, almost floating.”
Aunty rolled her eyes. “I put a glass of ice water in his hand and told him to take a drink because—and this is not just me saying this to make the story better—he was swaying like a cartoon character.”
“I’ve since learned that it’s best to look around the room while giving a talk, looking at a point just above people’s heads, without meeting their eyes.
” Mamoo demonstrated by looking at the top of each of their heads.
“But that day, I looked only at your Aunty in the front row. I really have no idea what I said. But she found me after the lecture and said, ‘Thank you. That was great.’”
It was clear that this wasn’t the first time they’d shared this memory. It was their origin tale, passed back and forth and burnished like a talisman that still carried some remnant magic.
Aunty looked up at the ceiling, like she was trying to remember something, and grinned slyly. “He said, ‘Thank you for making me feel good.’”
“I’m lucky that I didn’t blurt out, ‘I love you,’” Mamoo said sheepishly.
Asma was dreamy. She could feel the slow, languid movement of the porch swing and the shared heat of their body under the quilt. How would Ruby and she think back on that night?