Chapter 3 Salma #7
One night, we found ourselves at the dinner table together.
Since Asma’s absence, our practice of eating together at 8:30 three to four times a week had gradually fallen apart.
Part vestigial practice from Pakistan, where it was normal to eat dinner late after the heat of the day, and part to accommodate Abu’s driving schedule, it was the one time of the day we were forced to be together.
By then, Ami was working a few days a week at the local seamstress’s, and she liked the extra time to either cook or heat up dinner.
Ami asked whether they needed to attend my parent-teacher conference.
Ever since a coach had waylaid Abu at a parent-teacher conference about letting Asma play basketball, the stress of hearing about the expectations put on us by American culture had become too much for them to bear.
I told them there was no need since it was my senior year.
Abu asked about the status of my college applications.
He really had no idea what he was asking.
He had gone to a college for civil servants in Pakistan in the 1950s.
Everything he learned about the American college admission process came from Asma’s experience the year before, which had been guided by Aunty and Mamoo.
I was only going to apply to the four colleges and universities in the city.
Applying to colleges in places like California or New York didn’t occur to me.
That was for the movies, or nonimmigrants.
And then Abu asked, “What about the college in Chester?”
Chester was a town about thirty minutes away and considered a big town relative to the farming community in which we lived. It was where farmers’ lawyers worked and where farmers did their banking.
“That’s a community college, Abu.”
“Yes.”
“A community college is a two-year program for things like being a secretary. College is four years. Like, I get a proper education and can then go to medical school or law school or something.”
Unlike us, kids in my little country high school did not aspire to college.
Community college, for 20 to 30 percent, was the highest level of education they even considered.
Kids commuted there a few times a week to take classes in agricultural science or accounting.
Something useful that could be applied to the family farm.
“Do you need more than that?”
I tried to overcome my annoyance and formulate an argument for why I couldn’t go to a community college, but the only thing I could come up with was it felt unfair.
I wanted the broad, open experience college promised.
I needed to not live with my parents. I deserved that.
My trajectory was not the same as all the other kids in Rosebud.
Not that I knew what my trajectory was, but if I had hazarded a guess, it would have been a life much like Mamoo’s and Aunty’s, in a city or suburb with other professionals.
I was not going to grow up, work at the local post office, and live at home until I got married.
“I’m applying to four-year colleges, Abu.”
“What are you going to study?”
“Uh. Um. Probably English.”
Abu snorted.
My eyes stung. It was so easy for me to forget what it felt like to be the object of Abu’s judgment, because it was so rarely turned on me. I had an unexpected wave of empathy for Asma, who lived in the aura of that gaze.
“It makes sense for your sister. Look at her. Studying to be a doctor.”
I wished Asma had heard him. Obedience was probably the quality my parents valued most of all.
But there were times like this that I realized they were not immune from taking pride in their children’s accomplishments.
Asma was an amazing student, certainly by the standards of our small country school and, if college admissions tests were any measure, also against the larger world.
I didn’t show the same promise, and therefore the idea of me not getting a degree didn’t merit the same sense of injustice.
“Apply to Chester. I can stop by and pick up an application when I go for my shift.”
I forced my face into no expression and glanced at Ami to see if this was something they had discussed or if Abu was speaking only on his own behalf.
She met my gaze placidly, her fingers picking at her eyebrow.
But she wasn’t there. She was lost in her own head, as though she was engaged in some other conversation with someone off-screen.
My body aches. I am wrung out. On the infrequent occasion when the past lets itself in and makes remembering a mandatory event, I feel like I am hungover.
On the way to school, I see a tall and skinny woman with close-cut hair filling her tank at a passing gas station, and I swear it is Ruby.
I pull my car forward to take in her profile or drive away quickly if she turns.
The same medium-dark skin that looks gold and the same impossibly high cheekbones, fine and sharp.
The woman turns. It is not Ruby. I release my death grip on the steering wheel and fall back in my seat.
It takes until I have arrived at my destination to recognize the feeling quietly eating away at my insides. Disappointment. I surprise myself.