Chapter 18 Salma #5
Ami waited, and when it appeared Asma was going to say nothing else, she patted Asma’s shoulder and walked out.
Asma and I cleaned the kitchen in silence, giving each other a wide berth.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye in case she looked like she wanted to talk.
She walked by me in small, mincing steps and put a container away in the fridge.
I softly touched her arm. “Come on, the show is going to start in just a few minutes.”
She turned on me. “There are pictures? There are actual people? You knew?”
I hesitated, unsure of what or how much to say. We were so close to my parents’ bedroom. “Yes.”
Asma looked straight at me and shook her head in disgust. She straightened the dish towel on the oven door until it hung precisely and, instead of following me to the stairs, walked to our parents’ room.
I could see Ami sitting on the floor, settling down to sew a button on one of Abu’s shirts while Abu lay on the ground propped up against a round pillow, watching commercials on the television with the volume off.
“Did you ask Abu if I can go to Chicago to visit my friend over break?” Asma asked Ami.
Ami stole a glance at Abu.
“Who is this friend?” Abu asked, without turning away from the television.
“Just a friend from school.”
“Things are expensive right now . . . ” Ami trailed off.
Asma’s voice rose, urgent and quick. “I can get a train ticket. I have money, and it’s supercheap.”
Ami put her mending down in her lap and gave Asma a long, appraising look, like she’d seen something she recognized. “Let your father and I talk about it,” she said in a slow, deliberate tone.
The commercial had ended, and Ami turned the volume back on.
I followed Asma downstairs, and as she was about to reach for the phone, I asked, “Don’t you want to watch Charlie Brown?”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“It’s only on once.”
“Jesus.”
“What? I’m sorry, okay? What did you want me to do?
It’s not like you returned my calls. How was I supposed to tell you?
” My disappointment was elastic in my voice.
Being on the outside of Asma’s orbit felt like I was floating in the black of space, devoid of light and air.
“What? You’re going to never talk to me again? ”
Her features relaxed, and she looked at me bare of any affect. For a brief moment, I thought she was going to break into a wide, sarcastic grin. But then the look passed, replaced with a new, hardened expression I wasn’t used to. “They’re not trying to marry you off, Salma.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to scare you,” I said meekly.
She pulled me into her room and sat down heavily on the floor cross-legged. I mirrored her, and it felt like we were in elementary school again and about to play Go Fish.
We looked at each other defeatedly. I could see she wanted to say something, but she held back.
“What are you upset about?” she finally asked.
“I haven’t talked to you in weeks, and you come home and treat me like Ami and Abu. And I’m probably going to have to go to a community college. And by the way, I’m the one who brings in the mail. I see and hear everything. I’ve seen the pictures of these men and read their letters.”
“You’ve seen them?”
I nodded.
She shuddered.
“Has it occurred to you that whatever happens to you also happens to me?” I asked.
“The whole thing will be different for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
There was a secret lurking behind her expression. But what came out of her mouth was, “You’re the model child.”
“Why do you keep saying that? I’m just like you!”
Asma held her knees and tilted her head back so she was staring at the ceiling and took a deep breath. Slowly she said, “No, you’re not. And that’s okay.”
“Then, what?”
“Listen. It’s just really hard for me to be here. I’m trying to not be reactive and get in a lot of fights.” She said it like she meant it, but her eyes were begging me to stop pushing.
“What? Say it. Say whatever you want to say.”
“I can’t just turn it on and off.”
I looked at her blankly.
“When I lived at home before, it was . . . different. I was different. No matter how hard it was living with them, we had our own thing. How I felt with them and how I felt with you could coexist. But now, I can’t do that.
I have to have my guard up in this house all the time or have it down all the time.
I can’t do both. And all this stuff.” She shook her hand in the direction of upstairs. “I don’t know how to handle it yet.”
The half window at the top of her wall was covered with snow. Even then I knew that if the world ended, this is where I would want to be. With Asma, in her room, the dark-purple hood of snow coming to tuck us in.
“You realize that I do this on purpose, right? I could argue with them about the restrictions they put on me, all the ways they misjudge everything about this society. But I don’t want to.
I want some peace. You think because I don’t get into it with them, I’m going to somehow be immune to this rishtha crap?
” Even as I said it, I wondered how true it was.
I knew that I would handle the situation differently than Asma, but not specifically how.
On its face, I would be more compliant and go through the steps, again, to keep the peace.
But what would I do when it really came down to it?
Would I choose my parents’ happiness over my own?
I got up and started to walk to the TV room. I’d already missed most of my show, but it was worth it if we’d cleared the air. “Wait. What do you mean you’re different?”
But she had already pulled the phone into her room, dialing and quickly hanging it up, using our callback code with someone else.
Later, in bed, I heard her still speaking softly on the phone. I listened intently, trying to decipher what was being said, but all I could hear were the buzzing bees of her words.
In early December, Marlene tells me with a heavy brow that Ruby will be discharged from rehab by the end of the month.
I want to ask if she will be returning to Chicago, but instead I ask, “How do you feel about that?”
Marlene is no fool. She says tenderly, “I think she’s going to come here. There’s more support.”
“That’s good,” I lie.
“Salma. Nothing needs to change with us.”
“What about the divorce?”
Marlene shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I have no business asking, but I do anyway. “What don’t you know?”
“I don’t know if that’s what we’re going to do.” She reaches out and takes my hand. “We’ve been doing weekly counseling sessions via phone. I understand Ruby better. I think there’s a path for us.”
I see the happy little mirage I’ve stumbled into the past six weeks break up and dissolve like steam in cold air.