Chapter Ten
Ten
If there was one thing their short conversation in the kitchen had given Asma, it was time. Hours and hours in that special form of insomnia that seemed to always follow humiliation. Asma spent her days going through the motions at work and her nights turning the interaction over and over again in her mind. Farooq had moved on. She had not.
She was grateful that Jackson had pried her history with Farooq out of her because now he was there to make her feel better, gently disparaging Farooq as a fool and bringing her donuts and coffee from the stand in the hospital lobby. “Who cares if he has hundreds of millions,” Jackson muttered. “Money can’t buy you a good woman.” Fatima searched for the silver lining, convinced that this would give Asma the closure she needed to move on once and for all. But every time Asma thought about Farooq’s face—removed and indifferent—as she made her pathetic attempt at an apology, she felt a wave of embarrassment so strong that she wanted to curl up into a fetal position and wait for the end of time.
She finally pulled herself out of her self-flagellating funk by focusing her attention on another problem—her father and Iman. They’d been suspiciously quiet since their move. Asma decided to spend a long weekend checking in on them in Sacramento. Though the drive was only two hours, it somehow seemed longer to Asma. By the time she exited the freeway in Sacramento, Asma felt like she was in a different world. It had been years since she’d seen the little house her mother had insisted they purchase early on in her parents’ marriage—her mother, a visionary, even decades ago. Asma barely recognized the streets she took to the house—the vast stretches of open and vacant lots in the sleepy state capital in the middle-of-nowhere-California of her memory paved over by generic strip malls and gated housing communities that all looked exactly the same.
She checked her phone as she pulled into the driveway.
Ran to the store. Side door is open , Iman had texted.
The house was smaller than Asma remembered when she stepped inside. She’d only been there once or twice as an adult, as the family had been renting it out for most of her childhood. She walked through the living room and into the kitchen, where swatches of wallpaper and paint samples lay strewn across the table. Of course Iman was already planning a remodel. Asma rifled through the stack of unopened mail on the island. She slid open her father’s credit card bill and winced at the charges Iman and her father had managed to rack up in the few weeks they had been in Sacramento. She carefully closed the envelope, not that anyone would notice it had been opened in the first place—her father and sister didn’t pay attention to bills until envelopes threatened collection. Old habits, already resurfacing.
She stepped through the glass sliding door into the backyard, a small patch of grass fringed on three sides by flower and vegetable beds. Over the years their various tenants had done a decent job of taking care of the little yard that Asma’s mother had set up when they first moved into the house, but Asma could see that Iman and Mr. Ibrahim had ignored it since they arrived. Moldy oranges littered the ground near the orange tree, and overripe figs rotted from their branches. Asma surveyed the damage before settling down in front of the rosebushes against the opposite fence, carefully navigating the thorns to remove the weeds.
Asma’s mother had loved spending time outdoors, in nature. She spent hours in their Palo Alto garden, tending to the array of fruits and vegetables that she’d planted to remind her of home—everything from pomegranates and mulberries to okra and eggplant. She was so proud of her bounty, gifting bags of fruit to anyone who stopped by for a visit and leaving baskets of vegetables on the front stoops of their neighbors’ homes. Asma was the only one who ever joined her in the garden—her father and sisters preferring the entertainment of the flat-screen TV in their air-conditioned home—and who enjoyed the family road trips her mother insisted they take to national parks. Asma always felt the presence of her mother when she was in nature—the scent of the earth, the greenery, the rustle of the wind through the trees.
And then she had met Farooq—the only person in her life who shared her mother’s love of the outdoors. Their meeting in Yosemite was kismet—he fit so easily into the piece of her that had been missing since her mother’s passing. The time they spent together hiking and exploring the outdoors was a balm to her soul.
Asma was so focused on her gardening—and batting away memories of her mother and Farooq—that she lost track of time, looking up almost an hour later at the sound of voices coming from inside the house. Iman and her father must have gotten home from shopping.
She brushed the dirt off her hands on the side of her jeans and stepped back through the glass patio door into the kitchen, stopping midstep at the sight in front of her. There, sitting at the kitchen table with her family, sipping a cup of tea, was one of the handsomest men Asma had ever seen. She was so taken aback that she stumbled when she stepped inside, looking from the man to Iman to her father, and forgot to greet anyone.
“Omar, you remember Asma,” Mr. Ibrahim said, with no shortage of amusement at Asma’s clumsy entrance.
Omar—Asma couldn’t remember ever knowing someone this good-looking named Omar. She looked desperately at Iman.
Iman furrowed her brows at Asma, incredulous. Omar Khan , she finally mouthed.
Omar Khan? Asma looked at the man in amazement as he stood to greet her. Recognition flared almost immediately. How had she not made the connection? Because the Omar Khan of her memory had undergone some sort of radical transformation. He towered over her, well over six feet tall, with a wide smile, perfect teeth, broad chest, and a full head of carefully tousled jet-black hair. Had he always been this good-looking?
“Asma, so great to see you!”
He greeted Asma like a long-lost friend, a fact that stunned her even further as they had barely spoken two words to each other in all the years their fathers had known each other. She had written him off as intended for Iman, not bothering to get to know him any further. No wonder none of Iman’s prospects after him had ever caught her fancy.
Omar handed Asma a cup of tea. “You take sugar?”
Asma nodded, noting that this may have been the first time in her life she’d ever been served tea in her family home. Omar took the cup back from her to add the sugar, then pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit down.
She did. Then blurted out, “What are you doing here?”
“I heard your father and sister had moved out here,” Omar said smoothly, patting Mr. Ibrahim on the hand. “I came to see if there was anything I could do to help.”
“He’s introduced us to so many people in the local community,” Mr. Ibrahim said, returning Omar’s look of affection. “He’s in finance, you know.”
As Mr. Ibrahim began listing their social engagements since arriving in Sacramento—the reason, Asma realized, they’d been so quiet since the move—Omar looked at Asma. Catching her eye, he winked and smiled. Asma, still unsettled by the sight of him in her family’s kitchen, didn’t smile back.
—
“What does he want?” Asma asked Iman the minute the front door closed behind Omar.
“Anything is fine, really,” Mr. Ibrahim said, padding toward the kitchen in his house slippers. “I’m not that hungry.”
“Me neither,” said Iman.
“Not for dinner, you guys! I mean Omar Khan!”
“What do you mean?”
“His father swindled you out of a lot of money, he cut us off, and you’re just welcoming him back?”
“That’s not what happened,” Mr. Ibrahim said.
Asma was exasperated. “That’s exactly what happened.”
Unbeknownst to the Ibrahim daughters, Omar’s father had convinced Mr. Ibrahim to take a loan out against his business, ostensibly to invest in a high-return investment fund. Mr. Ibrahim was excited that the investment would result in a windfall and hasten his retirement—which it did, just not in the way Mr. Ibrahim had anticipated. The money disappeared, along with Omar’s father. The family later found out that Omar’s father owed a significant gambling debt and had betrayed his longtime friend and client in a desperate attempt to save himself. Despite Asma’s exhortations and Mr. Shafiq’s pleas, Mr. Ibrahim refused to press charges. He said it was no use because the money was gone. But Asma knew the truth—Mr. Ibrahim didn’t want news about the fraud to get out. What would people say if they knew how he had been duped?
“Omar didn’t have anything to do with his father’s business,” Mr. Ibrahim said. “And now that his father is sick, he wants to make amends to the family.”
This was the first Asma had heard of Omar’s father since his disappearance.
“They found Uncle?” Asma asked. “And he’s sick?”
“A stroke, a few months ago. In Pakistan,” Mr. Ibrahim replied. “They brought him back here. You know Sacramento is where we first met. He’s basically a vegetable, Allah tauba.”
“So sad.” Iman shook her head.
“Omar’s back and forth most weekends from San Francisco to take care of him,” Mr. Ibrahim continued. “He’s working for a venture capital firm. Very successful, I hear.”
“His father is literally a criminal!” Asma said. She was shocked that Omar’s family disgrace didn’t seem to register with her father, who judged other families for lesser infractions, such as a working-class background or a son dropping out of college.
“Wow, Asma, so judgy,” Iman said. Then, with a pointed look, she added, “We can’t help who we’re related to.”
“Yes, beta, you can’t hold a son responsible for a father’s sin,” her father added.
“So that’s it?” Asma asked. “He’s our best friend again?”
Mr. Ibrahim smiled at Iman. “InshAllah.”
“Abu!” Iman waved her hand at her father. “That ship has sailed.”
But now Asma understood. Her father had chosen to forgive Omar—or at least chosen not to ask him the hard questions—because apparently his father’s illness absolved him of his sin. And because he was rich and good-looking, Omar was once again a marriage prospect for Iman. The idea turned Asma’s stomach.
Iman walked past her father to the fridge.
“Actually, I am kind of hungry,” she said. “I think we still have food from Bombay Express—or we could order out again?”
As Asma watched her father and Iman discuss dinner plans, Iman scrolling through her phone trying to figure out what they should eat even when there was a fridge full of leftovers, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things didn’t add up. She could sort of understand her father’s motivation for forgiving Omar, even if she didn’t agree. But Omar hadn’t cared enough about Iman to continue their relationship after the financial scandal had severed their fathers’ friendship. Why would he want to be back in touch with them now?
—
The next morning, Mr. Ibrahim informed Asma and Iman that Mrs. Gulnaz Dadabhoy—one of their most influential and distinguished relatives in Sacramento—had extended an invitation for lunch that weekend. Asma, of course, had never heard of her before, nor had she heard of Zubayr Dadabhoy, Gulnaz’s son, who was apparently the richest Desi man in all of Sacramento. Mr. Ibrahim had set to work on reconnecting with that particular branch of the family tree since they’d moved to the state capital. So he and Iman jumped at the chance for a visit, particularly while Asma was in town.
The Dadabhoys lived in one of Sacramento’s wealthier suburbs, their home accessible only by a road winding past gated-off properties with bold no trespassing signs. Mr. Ibrahim and Iman gasped at the appearance of the mansion at the end of a gravel path, beyond the elaborate fountains in the front yard and driveway where multiple luxury cars were parked. But Asma found the porcelain-white columns rising to a huge balcony and the huge front porch distasteful. They reminded her of the antebellum South.
The front door was opened by a maid. They took off their shoes and walked on cool marble floors past two spiral staircases and a formal dining room with plastic-covered furniture into a less formal sitting room where the furniture was also covered with plastic. The maid excused herself, telling them that Mrs. Dadabhoy was on her way down. As they waited for their host to arrive, the Ibrahims took in their surroundings.
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” said Mr. Ibrahim, looking around the room.
Iman also seemed impressed by the backdrop, unbelievably even more ostentatious and over-the-top than the Ibrahims’ Palo Alto house. Intricate Persian rugs adorned the floor, and the walls were covered by gold-plated frames and embroidered hangings of verses from the Quran. Everything was framed by gold filigree. Asma couldn’t help but note that they had been in the house for over ten minutes and Mrs. Dadabhoy still had not made an appearance. She couldn’t imagine leaving expected company waiting for so long on plastic-covered furniture.
When she did appear, it was clear that Mrs. Gulnaz Dadabhoy may have been a handsome woman in her youth, but time and a sour disposition had done a number on her face. The frown lines across her forehead and on her cheeks were accentuated by the generous dusting of face powder five shades lighter than the skin color on her neck. Mr. Ibrahim leapt to his feet, heaping his warmest salaams and praise upon her as she settled on the couch across from the Ibrahims. She interrupted Mr. Ibrahim’s lavish praise with a curt wave of her hand and a nod toward Iman sitting on the couch.
“This is the girl?”
Asma couldn’t help but hold back a smile. Clearly the excuse of visiting long-lost relatives was just a ruse to get Iman in front of this matchmaking aunty. She wondered if Iman was in on it too, but when she glanced at her sister, Iman appeared just as surprised as Asma. That is, until her father cleared his throat.
“No,” Mr. Ibrahim said, then looked pointedly at Asma.
Mrs. Dadabhoy turned her attention in Asma’s direction. Oh no.
“How old are you?”
Asma felt annoyance prickle along her skin, her former amusement evaporated. So it turned out Iman wasn’t the target of this little consultation. Perhaps Omar’s renewed presence in their lives made her less of a marital concern for their father, and he was turning his attentions to his other—equally single—daughter.
“Twenty-seven.” Asma was terse, hoping that she conveyed she wasn’t interested in whatever her father had arranged here. She wasn’t going to go from Farooq to a match made by her father and Mrs. Dadabhoy.
Mrs. Dadabhoy clucked her tongue.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked Mr. Ibrahim. Asma sat, silent, anger toward her father rising.
“She’s been in medical school.”
“She should have married and then gone to medical school.” Mrs. Dadabhoy turned her attention back to Asma. “How tall are you? Stand up.”
Asma’s eyes widened at the gall of Mrs. Dadabhoy. She settled into her seat and crossed her arms as Mr. Ibrahim raised his eyebrows and nodded at Asma to stand up. It was one thing to be polite while visiting distant relatives. It was quite another to submit to this woman’s inspection under false pretenses, and after being made to wait like they’d dropped in unannounced.
Asma was saved from having to make a scene by the appearance of a heavily made-up young woman in leggings and an oversized cashmere cardigan. At the sight of her, Mr. Ibrahim jumped up from his seat.
“Salaam, beti,” he addressed the young woman, before turning his attention to Mrs. Dadabhoy. “That’s your granddaughter, right? We’ve heard so much about her.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dadabhoy said, without a glance at the girl. “That’s Shagufta.”
Asma watched in disbelief as Shagufta walked by without even acknowledging the guests in the house. She passed through the room and toward the front door, eyes glued to her phone and seemingly oblivious to Mr. Ibrahim or her grandmother. Asma could only imagine what Rehana—or worse, their mother—might have done if any of the Ibrahim girls had behaved so impolitely as teenagers.
“She’s nineteen and we’re already looking for her,” Mrs. Dadabhoy continued. “If you wait too long, no one will want them.”
“I have another daughter too,” Mr. Ibrahim offered. “My youngest. She was engaged at nineteen.”
Mrs. Dadabhoy looked vaguely interested.
“Where is she?”
“Near San Francisco. She has two children. Boys.”
“What does her husband do?”
“He’s a doctor,” Mr. Ibrahim announced proudly.
“What kind?”
“A dentist.”
Mrs. Dadabhoy snorted. “That’s not a real doctor.”
It was then—and only then—that the group received its first acknowledgment from Shagufta. A loud snicker, before the young woman left the house and slammed the door behind her.