Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Asma remembered the first week after her college breakup with Farooq as calm. She had so convinced herself that she had done the right thing that she went about her days as usual. But the numbness wore off in the second week. Her regret mounted each day that passed and with each unanswered call and emailed apology to Farooq. The rest of the semester passed by in a lonely fog before the end of the school year brought some relief—the end to daily reminders of him around campus. She spent her summer days volunteering at the local hospital and her summer nights crying into her pillow at her father’s house.
This time, the first week was the hardest. For the first time in her life, she called in sick to work and spent her days in bed. Lucky for her, she had the house to herself and didn’t have to contend with unwanted questions from Maryam or the twins. Lubna had regained consciousness after a few days in the hospital, with thankfully no detectable brain damage although her hip was still in bad shape. Farooq had stepped in with the generous offer to house the entire family at the Fairmont until Lubna’s doctors cleared her to come home. Maryam had jumped at the offer like she’d won an all-expenses-paid vacation to an exotic locale.
Asma rolled over and hit her phone. It had been ringing nonstop all morning. The latest call: her father. After weeks of silence, he was the last person she wanted to speak to. She ignored the call.
It was 11:48 a.m. She should go back to sleep. She had earned it. Even a week straight of sleep would barely make a dent in the deficit she’d accumulated over three years of residency.
More ringing. This time it was the doorbell. She ignored it, but when it continued—over and over—she realized it must be the twins. The family was back earlier than Maryam had predicted. Maybe Lubna’s recovery had taken a turn for the better. Asma crawled out of bed, threw on a ratty bathrobe, and shuffled downstairs.
It wasn’t the kids.
“Hey,” Fatima said, her sad eyes filled with an understanding that Asma knew she couldn’t find from anyone else. At the sight of her best friend, Asma burst into tears.
“Oh, Asma.” Fatima wrapped her arms around her, rubbing her back. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said.
Fatima led Asma into the kitchen and sat her down as though Asma were a visitor, not the other way around.
“I made you some soup.” Fatima took out a Pyrex bowl from the tote she was carrying and placed it on the table in front of Asma with a spoon. “My mom used to make it for us when we were sick.” Fatima took a seat next to Asma at the table.
“You want to talk?”
“Nothing to talk about. It’s over. Again.” Asma’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away, then took a spoonful of the soup.
“And that’s what you want?” Fatima asked.
Asma shrugged, as if she were indifferent. A week of bed rest had brought Asma some clarity.
“It’s not really about what I want,” she said. “I’ve thought about it from every angle, and either way, it’s better that he’s with Lubna.”
“Even if he really wants to be with you?” Fatima asked.
“Then why was he with her in the first place?” Asma countered. “Was it just to get back at me for dumping him all those years ago?”
“Or maybe to get close to you again,” Fatima said. “To figure out if he could get past his anger and hurt from all those years ago by being around you. It’s not so outlandish, really.”
“But what about Lubna?” Asma said. “If that’s true, and he’s just been using her to get close to me again, doesn’t that make him just as devious as Salman?”
Fatima bristled at the sound of her estranged husband’s name. She was still staying at her cousin’s apartment in Oakland, where her days were spent fielding calls from her parents and relatives who were distraught that she had left Salman and were trying to convince her to come home. Salman, meanwhile, had taken a leave from work and disappeared. He was nowhere to be found.
“The difference is, he never made any promises to Lubna. He didn’t stand in front of God and their families and swear to be faithful and loving for the rest of their lives.”
“So it’s just okay for me to be the other woman in their relationship, as long as they’re not married?” Asma asked.
“I think you’re trying to take a very complicated situation and make it black and white,” Fatima replied. “I love you, Asma, but it’s what you do. Things are either good or bad. People are right or wrong. You’re a good person, but you never allow people to mess up or do the wrong thing, even if they’re well intentioned. And you’re not good at admitting your own mistakes either.”
“What does that mean?” Asma asked, feeling a prickle of annoyance that her friend was being so ruthless—if accurate—when all Asma wanted was a compassionate shoulder to cry on.
“It means, it took you eight years to admit that breaking up with Farooq was a mistake,” Fatima replied. “You broke his heart, and you believed you were justified in doing it because it was what your mother would have wanted. You were wrong for hurting him—and yourself—back then. And maybe he’s wrong for using Lubna to get close to you again, or for thinking he’d teach you a lesson, or whatever it was he was doing. But at the end of the day, he shouldn’t be with her just because you’ve decided it’s the right thing to do. That’s not fair to Lubna either.”
Fatima went quiet, a pensive look on her face.
“Maybe this is an opportunity for you to disentangle yourself from Farooq once and for all,” she finally said. “You used to be so focused on work and talk about your patients nonstop. But since Farooq reappeared, it’s like you’ve lost yourself.”
Asma was silent then, unsure of how to counter Fatima’s argument.
“You know I’m right,” Fatima said, sitting back, a self-satisfied smile crossing her face.
“Possibly,” said Asma, unable to fully admit defeat. “Maybe.”
“So, are you going to stop wallowing and actually try to take back control of your life?” Fatima asked.
“Possibly,” Asma repeated, begrudgingly.
“When are you back at work?”
“Monday. Mainly because everyone is coming back from San Francisco this weekend.”
“Do they know why you’ve been calling in sick?”
“Only Jackson,” Asma replied. “I told everyone else about the accident. I think they assume I’m in shock, or having some sort of breakdown.”
“All of the above,” Fatima said with a grin.
“Jackson has been keeping me up to date on what I’ve missed,” Asma said. “There was another gender reveal snafu. Explosion. Shrapnel. The whole bit.”
“More exciting than private practice in Sacramento, I gather.”
“Yes,” Asma said with a smile. “Just opioid overdoses and tractor injuries out there.”
Fatima laughed.
“And I made a decision,” Asma said, wanting to prove to Fatima that she wasn’t planning on simply wallowing forever. That she’d already taken steps to move forward with her new life, the one that involved neither moving to Sacramento nor reuniting with Farooq. And, as heartbroken as she was, there was some excitement there. The promise of uncharted territory.
“I’m renting an apartment.”
Fatima raised an eyebrow.
“Really? Not just looking, considering, pondering…?”
“My application was accepted yesterday,” Asma said, leaning into her own smugness. “Two bedrooms, close to the hospital.”
“You got the job?”
“Not yet. Dr. Saucedo said they’re making a final decision right after graduation. But, Fatima, I know I got it—I feel it. And I’ll be all ready to go when I do. But I’m going to need some help decorating my apartment.”
“Well, you’ve got the right woman for that,” Fatima replied. They sat in amiable silence for a moment, just as they had in the bathroom all those years ago.
“Thanks for coming, Fatima.” Asma held up her bowl of soup, her eyes filling with tears—this time out of love for her friend who had reached out to comfort her in the midst of her own heartache. “This is just what I needed.”
—
Asma stared at the black-and-white instructions for a few seconds before realizing they were upside down. She righted them, then made a new life resolution: no more furniture from IKEA. How had she been able to complete complicated surgical rotations but couldn’t figure out how to put this dining room table together? After a few more minutes struggling to insert a screw into a hole clearly not big enough, Asma gave up. She balled up the instructions and aimed for the trash can across her new living room. She didn’t need a dining room table. She wasn’t planning on having anyone over for dinner anyway. She’d be eating most of her meals at the hospital cafeteria.
She’d unpack her books instead. An easy decision to make as the bookshelf, a hand-me-down from Maryam, was already assembled.
Asma had told Maryam about her new apartment the night she came back from San Francisco. At first, Maryam had protested and begged Asma to stay, promising that they’d clean out Hassan’s office so that she could have her own space. But Asma was one step ahead.
“Don’t you want a place to escape when everyone is driving you crazy?” Asma countered. “I’ll give you a key.” Maryam was so delighted by the prospect that she gifted Asma her wedding china and took her on an IKEA shopping spree.
“What did Abu say?” Maryam asked.
“He doesn’t want to talk about it,” Asma responded.
Asma’s father had called her nonstop for two days after Lubna’s accident before she finally relented and answered the phone. She was bracing herself for the conversation to pick back up from where they left it last—him reprimanding her for trying to live on her own—but he changed the subject the minute she brought it up, inquiring after Lubna and the Qureishis. Genuine concern in his voice.
“He only started talking to me again because of Lubna’s accident,” Asma told Maryam.
Now Asma took her medical school textbooks from the box closest to her and kneeled down to put them on the shelf. She lined them up in the chronological order in which she had studied the topics in medical school, then leaned back in satisfaction. The apartment was starting to take shape. After months of living out of boxes at Maryam’s place, it felt good to be able to stretch out and fill the expanse of her living space. Her bed would be delivered later that week, the morning of her residency graduation. An auspicious start to this new phase of her life.
Asma reached out to grab the open flap of another box. She dragged it toward her, then reached in without looking, her hand feeling not the familiar outline of her books but a shoebox.
She pulled the box closer and peered in, stopping at the sight of it: the shoebox filled with mementos of her time with Farooq. What had once seemed like a talisman now seemed like a curse. Farooq’s reappearance in her life had brought nothing but heartache, an old wound reopened. And sentimentality would only impede her progress in moving on with her life. Asma propped open the door of her apartment with an old magazine and took the shoebox down the stairs to the garbage bins at the back of her building.
She stood in front of them for a minute, trying to figure out whether she should recycle everything in the box or send it to the landfill. She finally decided on the landfill; she couldn’t risk any of this stuff reappearing in her future like Farooq.
She opened the garbage bin, then remembered the book of Rumi poetry. She couldn’t throw it away—books were too precious to end up in the garbage, especially her favorite poet. She’d donate it to Goodwill after redacting all the comments in the margins. She pulled it out, then tossed the shoebox into the dumpster without hesitating. The lid opened and out spilled old cards, concert tickets, pictures, and cheap college-age jewelry, settling into a sticky pile of slime some kid had thrown away.
How fitting.
Asma slammed the garbage lid down, the last image she saw before it closed: the photo booth picture of her and Farooq, covered in goo.
—
Asma studied her hair in the bathroom mirror. She turned the faucet on and wet her hand, just enough to smooth down a flyaway on the side of her head. Tucking it behind her ear, she silently wished that caps were worn at residency graduation ceremonies. She could have really used a hat today.
Asma spent the morning in her new apartment, waiting for her bed delivery and putting the finishing touches on her décor. The plan was to bring everyone here after the ceremony to show them the place, including her father and Iman, who were driving in from Sacramento for her graduation. When her father saw how close the apartment was to the hospital, he would understand that it was just like when she was on campus at Berkeley. She took it as a good sign that he was even coming—what would people say if he didn’t show up for his own daughter’s graduation?
Asma drove to the hotel by herself and sat in the parking lot, feeling sadness as she watched her fellow residents pass by her car accompanied by their families. Asma felt a small lump in her throat seeing a few of her classmates walk by with their mothers—another big occasion in her life without her mother by her side. Also not present: a partner. There was a small part of her that had been hoping, when things were beginning to thaw between her and Farooq, that he might have been here with her today. At the thought of him, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away and pushed the thought out of her mind, grabbing some tissues from her glove compartment. She chided herself for getting upset about something that was clearly never meant to be. No more Farooq. All of it was in the past; even her mementos of the relationship had been taken away with last week’s garbage. This was the beginning of a new chapter. She would only look forward.
She got out of her car, plastered a huge smile on her face, and congratulated the residents she passed. The smile became genuine when she saw Dr. Saucedo. After giving her a congratulatory hug, Dr. Saucedo looked around behind her.
“Your family’s not here?”
“They’re on their way.”
But they had still not arrived by the time Asma and the other residents were ushered onstage in the hotel ballroom. Asma scanned the audience as various members of the hospital faculty and administration took their places on the stage next to their small cohort.
“Your family on CPT?” Jackson asked, looking around the room with her.
Asma couldn’t believe it. Her family was never on time for anything, but she thought they would make a special effort today. They were going to miss her graduation.
The hospital’s president was the first of the speakers, and then Dr. Saucedo rose to address the graduates. She started with general congratulations to the group, then remarks that seemed directed to Asma.
“Some of you will be faced with tough decisions, forced to choose between what someone else thinks is right and what you believe to be the truth. Will you stand firm in your convictions? Or will you allow yourself to be persuaded?”
Dr. Saucedo’s comments were like a beacon call, a clear sign to Asma that she was on the right path. For her entire life, she had been so worried about her family—making decisions based not on what she wanted or needed but on what she thought they did. And here she was, on one of the biggest days of her professional career, and they weren’t even here. She felt completely and utterly alone.
“Enough from me,” Dr. Saucedo wrapped up. “And now, what these doctors have all been waiting for—the end of residency!”
Dr. Saucedo shuffled the name cards on the lectern and read out the name of the first graduate. But before he could take his diploma, there was a commotion at the back of the room. The door swung open.
“I’m being quiet!” a little voice yelled.
“Shhhhhhh!” screamed another little voice. “You have to whisper!”
Dr. Saucedo stopped talking as the audience tittered. Asma instantly recognized the voices. And, sure enough, in stumbled Zaki and Zayd, followed closely by the rest of the Qureishis, her father, and Iman.
Asma was torn between relief at seeing her family and embarrassment at the disruption. The latter emotion took stronger hold when Zayd caught her eye and yelled, “Asma Khala! Asma Khala!”
Hassan clamped his hand over Zayd’s mouth while the audience erupted into laughter. Sorry! mouthed Saba, as Maryam ushered the boys toward empty seats. Bushra waved from behind her iPad, with which she was filming the events on the stage. Mr. Ibrahim and Iman took their time walking to the front of the room in search of seats instead of slipping into the back like normal people.
The family settled, Dr. Saucedo again began to call out the names of the graduates. As they lined up to shake hands with Dr. Saucedo, the hospital president, and the other administrators onstage, the audience cheered and clapped, ignoring the request to save applause for the end. And, as embarrassed as Asma had been by her family’s entrance, she choked up as she crossed the stage to shake Dr. Saucedo’s hand, realizing she had the loudest cheering section of all.
—
The minutes after the graduation ceremony were a frenzied cacophony of hugs, flowers, and balloons. Asma scanned the crowd of graduates and their families and saw hers standing in a corner of the lobby talking to Dr. Saucedo. As she approached, she overheard her father:
“She’s always been so responsible. I knew, even from a young age, that she would do whatever it is that she set her mind to.”
Asma wondered if her father was telling the truth or if this was just for Dr. Saucedo’s benefit. Either way, she was relieved he had come around. And she could hear the pride in his voice.
Someone grabbed her from behind, and she turned to find Jackson, looking a bit teary-eyed. Very uncharacteristic.
“This isn’t the great Dr. Jackson Wong getting mushy on me, is it?” Asma asked, giving him a nudge to the shoulder.
“Of course not. I just don’t know what you’re going to do without me,” Jackson said gruffly, hugging Asma.
“Me neither,” Asma said, suddenly holding back tears once more.
By the time she’d said goodbye to her friend, her family was no longer in the lobby. She picked up her phone to call her dad. There was a text from Hassan: everyone was waiting in the parking lot. To Asma’s shock, Iman had made dinner reservations at Golden Panda.
Golden Panda was the only halal Chinese restaurant in the area. Bustling and chaotic, it was nestled between a nail salon and a dollar store in a Chinese strip mall. Its sprawling dining room walls were decorated with Chinese calligraphy and gold-lettered Quran verses on black velvet. The restaurant was filled almost entirely by non-Chinese patrons—mainly South Asian Muslim families who made the pilgrimage from all over Northern California for halal moo shu beef.
“I thought about putting together a real graduation party,” Iman said as they arrived, “but I know you like this place even though it’s so crowded and run-down.”
Once seated, the twins immediately started spinning the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and poking each other with wooden chopsticks. As Hassan and Bushra tried their best to keep the kettle of green tea and saucer with hot sauce from flying off the table and injuring someone, Iman and Mr. Ibrahim directed the waiters—arms piled high with Asma’s favorite dishes, which Iman had ordered before their arrival—to their table. Asma turned to Saba and Maryam for an update on Lubna, still at her physical therapy appointment. Asma felt guilty that she hadn’t seen Lubna since the accident—a fact that no one seemed to notice given Asma’s hero status within the family. She knew she couldn’t yet handle the chance of running into Farooq with Lubna.
“She’s sooo much better,” Saba said. “She can’t remember the details of the accident, but otherwise she’s okay—she’s almost able to walk unassisted.”
“She’s back to her old self,” said Maryam. “You should see how she’s bossing everyone around.”
“She’s not bossing anyone around,” Saba said, annoyed. “She just asked you to get her a cup of water because, you know, she can’t walk.”
“Well, I don’t know why I have to hang around all her appointments anyway. She has Farooq and Naveed ready to wait on her hand and foot.”
“Naveed is helping out too?” Asma asked.
“He’s like Farooq’s little sidekick,” Maryam replied. “Always following him around.”
“Don’t be judgy,” Saba said. “They’ve both been so awesome. Naveed’s been helping Ammi by bringing us food, and Farooq keeps sending her these beautiful bouquets of flowers.”
Saba held out her phone so Asma could see a picture of the Qureishis’ living room, filled with elaborate arrangements.
“I guess he made the move Lubna was waiting for,” Saba said with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
Asma spun the lazy Susan around to help herself to a slice of the puffy sesame seed bread the waitress had placed on the table. She focused on chewing. She didn’t want to hear anything else about Farooq and Lubna. Even listening to her father and Iman drone on about their social life in Sacramento was preferable.
“You wouldn’t think it, but people there appreciate a good party,” Iman declared. “Although it’s like they didn’t know what luxury was until I showed up.”
Iman’s event planning business had taken off. Probably because she had less competition in Sacramento, and she flagrantly encouraged the people she knew to celebrate even the smallest of life’s milestones in a valiant attempt to keep up with the proverbial Khans. Iman had already arranged a baby sprinkle, a sweet sixteen, and a divorce party.
“The circle of life,” said Asma.
Mr. Ibrahim also found the company in Sacramento much to his liking.
“The people are healthy without spending too much time outside,” he said. Mr. Ibrahim hadn’t much cared for the Bay Area lifestyle—hikes, bikes, and running outdoors. Asma noticed that her father’s hair was once again completely jet black and the wrinkles around his mouth had diminished. She wondered if he’d started using Botox but was afraid to ask.
“It’s been so nice to reconnect with Gulnaz Bhabi,” Mr. Ibrahim said. “You remember Gulnaz Dadabhoy?” Mr. Ibrahim asked Bushra. “She’s one of our most distinguished relatives.”
Mr. Ibrahim’s discussion about the lives of their extended family was interrupted by a waitress walking toward their table with a cake. She placed it in front of Asma with a hearty congratulations and handed Iman a book of matches.
Asma peered at the cake, a giant 3D fortune cookie. A fortune was scrawled in black icing on a white chocolate fondant scroll: You will find much success in your medical career.
Asma was as touched as she was surprised—both that Iman had actually taken the trouble to organize a graduation dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, and that she knew Asma well enough to keep it as subdued as Iman could probably manage.
“Thank you, Iman,” Asma said.
Iman smiled. “You did it!”
What a way to end the roller coaster of the last couple of weeks. After her first breakup with Farooq, Asma was completely alone. At the time, she had wondered if she’d ever feel happy again. She could never have imagined what would await her all these years later. Another heartbreak related to Farooq—but also love and support. She had deep friendships and was surrounded by family. For the first time in her entire life, she felt seen and appreciated by them. This was how it was supposed to be, how she’d always wanted it to be, when she first set her sights on med school.
Asma leaned over to grab her phone from her purse. She wanted to take a picture of the cake and memorialize the moment so she could look back on this day when she was feeling down.
As she rummaged through her bag, she heard dishes clattering.
“Nana?” said Zaki.
“Uncle?” Hassan sounded worried.
“Abu!” Maryam screeched.
Asma sat up to see her father, head planted, face-first, in a bowl of egg drop soup.
—
Kimberly Westerland. The name kept moving through Asma’s head, over and over, to the rhythm of the ambulance’s siren. Asma was in third grade when the girl down the street, Kimberly Westerland, told her that her parents were going through a divorce. Asma didn’t know anyone who had divorced before. Kimberly tried to put a positive spin on it—she said she’d have two rooms and get double presents for her birthday and Christmas. Asma had thought at the time that parents splitting up was the worst thing she’d ever heard in her life. Of course that changed when she lost her mother years later.
And on the evening of her residency graduation, as Asma sat in the ambulance clutching the hand of her father, who had just suffered a massive heart attack, she thought back to third grade and how she would’ve never known then that there was something much worse than her parents not living together. Losing them both.