Chapter 13
No one was at the workstations. A single candle lit the room by a fraction, casting fragmented shadows of the flame.
“Baba?!” she called into the silence, wondering if it would give anything back.
A beat passed, before the faint voice of Fouad filtered from the hallway. “Na’am?”
A weight lifted from Aicha’s shoulders, and a sigh of relief deflated her chest. She realised this feeling was something she would have to become familiar with over the following days.
Her encounter with Duarte had made Aicha feel that every moment with her family might be her last. With a hand trailing across the concrete wall, feeling through the darkness, she slowly walked towards Fouad’s study.
The curtain pulled back, light emanating through the slit and indicating his study was brightly lit with lanterns.
When Aicha walked through, she turned to Fouad at the table, facing her directly with his forearms resting on the old wood.
Aicha’s eyes flickered to either side of him, finding that both Rachid and Samira flanked him, like always.
Rachid stood, leaning against the wall and eyes focused on the open window.
The soft breeze tousled strands of his hair.
It created an air of tranquillity around him, presenting him as the gentlest he had ever appeared to be.
Despite the obvious damage to his face, the evident pain he must have been in, Fouad looked relaxed, though boredom crept up beneath that as he gazed out to the streets.
Samira seemed less relaxed, and her hands leaned heavily onto the table from the small stool she sat at.
She appeared ready to pounce, though Aicha was unsure of what she would be pouncing at exactly.
Her short hair was tied back, to the base of her neck, though strands framed her high cheekbones, and her brown eyes remained narrow towards Aicha.
It appeared Samira was still angry with her.
“I suppose your mind is already made up.” Fouad’s voice cut through the obvious tension in the room, and his expectant look to his youngest daughter did not come paired with anger or irritation.
“It is.”
He nodded, briefly raising a hand to rub at his chin, and released a sigh. “And even forbidding you would not stop you from sneaking out and doing so anyway.”
Aicha waited for a beat, feeling the eyes of her sister on her, waiting for her response. Although Rachid did not look directly at her, she could almost feel the tenseness in his folded arms. His lack of movement was the only indication that he was listening intently.
“I’m sorry, Baba,” Aicha said, choosing words that would not appear as if there were room for him to forbid her. Instead, she feigned a confidence she did not feel, because usually—in a scenario such as this—Fouad would raise his voice until she relented.
He paused to stare at her for some time, and Aicha was unable to detect what he might have been thinking at that moment.
Fouad was gifted in that regard; retaining any emotion or indication of his thoughts from his expression.
The room suddenly felt small, closing in on Aicha and producing a tightness in her chest as his gaze lingered on her.
Fouad’s head shifted to the side, just perceptible enough for Aicha to notice that he was directing his next words to the people beside him.
“Leave us.”
Rachid made to leave first, brushing past Aicha, his hand ghosting her back with the lightest of grazes.
Gripping onto the curtain, he pulled it backwards, looking back towards Samira—who had not moved.
His gaze was hard, without a hint of anger or irritation.
By far the more stubborn of the two, he waited for her to stand.
It eased some of the tension in Aicha’s shoulders to know that—even if he might not be pleased with it—he supported her decision.
He could have stood there all evening, Aicha surmised, without his gaze breaking, until Samira relented.
She stood with a scoff, the force of it pushing her stool back with a jarring screech against the floor.
As she began to stalk towards the door, her glare collided with Aicha’s, and the younger sister once again found herself feigning a confidence she did not feel.
Maintaining eye contact until her sister passed her, Aicha heard the fall of the curtain as Rachid and Samira stepped out, leaving her alone with her father.
“When your mother died, you and Samira were so small. She cried for her mama, and you cried over everything.” Fouad remained still, his swollen eyes focused on nothing, but Aicha managed to locate a small sad smile on his lips. He played with the necklace at his collarbone. It was her mother’s.
“I was lost in my grief, and the joy of you was so hard to indulge in because I could not give you all the things you needed from your mother.”
He paused, a deep sigh escaping from his lips before his head dipped low. As if he were cloaked in shame. “I went to Ilham for help.”
“You did?” Aicha could not keep the surprise from her voice, and her brows rose.
“I begged her to bring your mother back, and do you know what she said?” A sound similar to a laugh escaped from between his lips. “No! She refused.”
A rueful smile settled on Aicha’s face. “She knows you fear Allah.”
A beat passed when he was silent, before he cleared his throat.
“That is correct, and she would not allow me to make decisions based on my grief. Instead, she brought a wet nurse, and had you cared for until you were old enough to no longer need nursing.” Fouad allowed a moment of silence to rest between them once more, noting his daughter’s hesitancy to speak as the information settled in the silence.
“I… did not know this.”
“Samira does not remember either,” he mumbled, only raising his head for a moment for his eyes to catch Aicha’s. “It saved me, made me a better father than I was able to be.”
It appeared—to Aicha, at least—that it pained Fouad to admit such weakness. And that Ilham, of all people, was the person who had aided him so heavily. Had pulled him back from the darkness that had threatened to consume him until he lost himself.
“There are things I will never be able to repay Ilham for, many things. And so, this is why I will allow you to help.”
He finally looked at her, and Aicha’s breath halted for a moment as she took in the resignation in her father’s face. Her heart clenched, guilt wrapping a tight fist around her throat as the melancholic smile settled into her father’s features.
“Thank you, Baba.”
“Listen to me, shanewla.” His tone shifted, sounding closer to urgency than sadness.
Fouad stood, taking a few steps towards Aicha, until he placed his hands upon her shoulders.
She felt them tighten slightly, as if he intended to emphasise the importance of his words without causing pain.
“I need you to understand the gravity of this decision. I am forever indebted to Ilham, but… but don’t linger in the darkness she is comfortable in.
I need you to be watchful, and trust your instincts if something feels awry. ”
Aicha felt as if there were pieces of the puzzle missing.
Her baba’s words did not make sense, but when she thought of her dreams, of the fact she had found herself in Ilham’s quarters countless times, that darkness she had carried all her life felt connected.
But something was still missing, making her question if it were all just in her head.
So she nodded in understanding. “Yes, Baba.”
She heard him mumble under his breath, though she was unable to decipher his words.
His hold did not waver, and they stood together in silence.
Long enough for Aicha to ponder over her mother, and the way Fouad’s shoulders always shifted when she asked him questions.
“You do not talk about her often… Mama.”
Aicha watched the shuffle of his shoulders, loosening into a hunch as he dropped his hands from her.
Fouad took a step away from her, and the sudden loss of contact produced a feeling of hollowness within her.
She missed her father’s embrace, and in a moment of vulnerability, it was what she needed.
Fouad turned to look out of the window, hand resting on his hip while the other gripped his chin, rubbing at his beard.
“It is difficult to speak of someone that was half of your heart, and to remember you held their hand as you lost them.” His words were raw and ragged, as if his heart were being squeezed. A lump formed in Aicha’s throat, while her stomach released a weight, creating the sensation of falling.
“I—”
“It is not because of you, habiba,” he corrected, turning towards her.
Anticipating the thoughts that would have inevitably plagued her mind.
Ones that always pointed towards her as the cause of her mother’s death.
But Aicha forgot how her father knew his daughters better than anyone, and his eyes, though glassy and indicating unshed tears, were still alight with a softness.
“It will never be because of you. Your birth was the lantern that guided me through the darkness. I would die before I gave you up.”
Aicha’s smile mirrored her father’s, eyes stinging with tears she was not yet ready to release. She remained silent, feeling as if it were not the moment to interrupt.
“Your mother… she was fierce, and protective. Loud.” He laughed. “Whispering was not something she was familiar with. You get your temperament from her.”
They shared a quiet chuckle, and Aicha momentarily looked to the ground as he continued to talk wistfully. “But her heart was so soft; all that aggression protected such vulnerability. It is surprising how much you have become a pain in my backside without her influence.”
“It just comes naturally to me,” Aicha quipped on instinct.