Chapter 10 Salma #3
I had always thought that Asma just felt things too strongly.
When she was unsettled, because of friends or school or our parents, she projected her inner turmoil into the world, which my parents interpreted as a direct confrontation.
My mother referred to it as “Asma’s moods.
” But from what I could see, Asma was pretty normal in her reactions.
If she received a grade lower than she expected, she was disappointed.
If she wasn’t allowed to play basketball despite the basketball coach calling my parents to get permission, she was angry.
At the time, I was starting to consider if Abu was right after all.
Maybe Asma did always think of herself first. The way she had suddenly decided to go back early to school with no regard to Mamoo, Aunty, or me felt impulsive and self-centered.
The offer to visit her on campus, a bone thrown to distract me and have me return to my factory setting of loyal, unquestioning little sister.
I couldn’t figure out if I had failed her in some fundamental way or whether she was failing me.
But when I think back on that time now, I wonder whether her attempts at breakage weren’t necessary. She needed to separate from our parents, because that is the way of growing up. But maybe she also needed to separate from me.
Or maybe, she had just been consumed by thoughts of Ruby, in the thrill and torment of new feelings. Maybe she didn’t want to burden me with what she was carrying. Maybe it was too much for her to reconcile the knotty thread that had always bound us with all that was new.
As my time at Mamoo’s drew to a close, I was desperate to talk to someone about what had happened in the parking lot. I needed to unburden myself of what I’d witnessed and mistakenly thought that by sharing it, I would be freed. Alone, it ran circles around my brain.
Mamoo was making French toast for brunch. He handed me a carton of eggs and a bowl.
I broke egg after egg. “Sorry if I’ve been difficult. I know you don’t like talking about the past.”
“Don’t say sorry, Sal. These are my own issues. I figured your mother told you some of these things.”
It reminded me of what Abu had said so cruelly to Mamoo in the parking lot. That Mamoo could tell his future children whatever he wanted. Mamoo assumed our parents told us certain things. Meanwhile, we, the next generation, received no information about our history of culture.
Mamoo heated up the flat griddle and slapped a piece of battered bread on its surface.
I shook my head. “Did Asma tell you about what happened after Pippin?”
“No,” he said, elongating the o. The rising smell of caramelized sugar and cinnamon filled the kitchen.
I didn’t say anything.
“It was terrible the way the night ended. I regret that we left without seeing Asma. Did you give her the flowers?” he asked, flipping the French toast.
I saw them spilled on the dark pavement and grunted noncommittally.
“Did she see your parents?”
I wiped down the counter.
He lifted the toast from the griddle and tucked it in the foil-covered plate. “So are you going to tell me, or do I have to keep guessing?”
“Asma hasn’t told you anything about that night?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I knew I was about to cross a line but figured that if Asma was already upset with me, what was one more thing? I blurted out, “She came out to the car, and Abu punched her.”
Mamoo made a strangled sound, part gag and part cry. The toast fell off his fork on the floor.
“He hit her. In the stomach,” I whispered. I violated our primary rule—never break each other’s confidence—and it felt sickening.
Mamoo leaned heavily against the stove. The muscle at his jawline undulated like a monster was just below the surface. His mouth worked trying to find words. The griddle had been forgotten, and the acrid smell of burning batter filled the air.
“What are you saying? Why?”
“The sex scene.” Now that the dam was broken, I felt clinical. I turned the stove off and moved the griddle off the stove. “He hit her in her stomach. She bent over clutching it. And then she ran back inside.”
Mamoo gripped his head with both hands. “No, no, no.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I picked up the slice of toast on the floor and threw it away.
“He punched her? He didn’t slap her?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“And your mother. What did she do?”
I had to think about it because in the auto-loop of my memory, it was only Abu, me, and Asma. Ami was in the background somewhere muttering nonsense that no one paid any attention to.
“Nothing. You know her. She just stood there and kept suggesting that Asma should come home to talk about it.”
“Did she see what happened?”
“Yeah, she was right there.”
“She didn’t, I don’t know, step in the way or something?”
“No. But, Mamoo, it came out of nowhere. Asma and Abu were having their same old argument and then, oof. That’s the sound she made.”
Mamoo leaned against the kitchen countertop. His head hung between his arms like it was too heavy to hold up.
I wiped off the floor and convinced myself that it was Asma’s fault that I was forced to tell Mamoo.
She refused to talk about it, so what was I supposed to do?
As much as Asma was an open book in one way, I knew she couldn’t face negative emotions.
She would rather pretend like nothing had happened and was resentful of being forced to confront difficult things.
Mamoo needed to know, and it was down to me to tell him.
Mamoo turned his head, his face bright red.
Was I wrong to have said something? He pulled me into him, holding me tight.
I exhaled and let myself go limp. Through the scratchy wool against my cheek, I could hear his heart hammering.
Would Mamoo say something to Ami and Abu?
Would he have not lent them money to return to Pakistan if he’d known this?
I had unleashed something I didn’t fully understand and outed Asma.
But sitting side by side with my doubt was the unmistakable sense of relief that I was no longer the only one who knew.
“Mamoo? Don’t tell Asma I told you. She refuses to talk about it, and every time I try, she gets mad at me.”
He took the twisted towel from my hands gently and nodded.