Chapter 7 Salma #3
The sense of shell shock that had hung over us in the car after Pippin had vanished as fervent preparations for the return to Pakistan got underway.
The speed with which my parents moved on from the events of that night sickened me.
Yes, there were a ton of details to work through before leaving for two and a half weeks.
But how could they just move on so quickly?
It felt like an added betrayal on an already long list of them.
I was angry at Abu for crossing a line that should never have been crossed.
I was angry at Ami for her passivity. And I was angry that, once again, I was left to pick up the pieces.
This is all true. But it is also true that something was affecting Ami profoundly. I have visited and revisited this time period in my mind, and I have no words for it other than she was unsettled, swinging maniacally.
Mamoo and I took Ami and Abu to the airport in the middle of that week. I watched Mamoo closely for signs that he might know how the night had unfolded, but there were none. If anything, he was even more upbeat and cheerful than his usual self.
At the drop-off curb, Abu patted me on the shoulder. He met my eyes fleetingly and pressed some money into my hand. “Be good. I know you won’t give them any trouble.” And then, so softly I thought I might have missed it, “Keep an eye on your sister.”
A family in the adjacent parking space was saying a tearful goodbye.
A grandmother held two young children to her while her adult daughter freely wept.
The sound of jet engines taking off whooshed overhead.
Cars jostled for a spot in the drop-off lane.
Whistles punctured the air with yells of “Keep moving.”
My nose started to sting, and I felt the advent of tears.
I don’t know if it was because of the tumult of the week, my father’s assumption that I was his stand-in, or because I wished I had a grandmother who doted on me, someone who was always in my corner and believed I could do no wrong.
Or maybe it was because I am the kind of person that observes people and measures the shortcomings of my own against the perception of theirs.
I stood there with tears running down my face, embarrassed for Abu and myself, and mumbled a thanks. We weren’t used to goodbyes.
Mamoo lifted the suitcases out of the back of his SUV and gave rapid-fire instructions in Urdu to Ami, who didn’t take her eyes off him.
“Visit Cathedral. Go to our old house and see if anyone’s living there.
Take pictures. Check to see if Chachi and Chacaji are still alive.
Give my salaam. Visit Ami’s and Abu’s grave site.
If there’s still no gravestone, get one. I’ll pay for it.”
Hearing Mamoo speak Urdu was jarring. I had never really thought about the fact that it was also his native language.
His Urdu, so natural and so awkward at the same time, was brusque and quick with no hesitations or pauses signaling a search for phrase or expression.
He used the informal tense but spoke in a formal tone.
I thought about all the times growing up when Ami said something to Mamoo in Urdu and he responded in English.
He did that to not exclude Aunty. The failure to speak his first language must have cost him something.
And at the same time, on some level of my brain, I could tell that there was a complete story behind every one of Mamoo’s directives.
I wanted to drill into each and figure out what he meant.
I needed to understand our family history.
What was in Pakistan, and how did it relate to what we were living in America?
An airport traffic guard blew his whistle at the car next to us, waving his arm. The car behind Mamoo’s pressed closer and closer, waiting for our parking spot.
I opened my palm and found a wad of one-dollar bills and a single twenty-dollar bill. Even now, when I pay someone in cash, I feel slightly embarrassed. I can still feel the crumpled bills, warm and slightly damp from Abu’s hand.
I must approach certain memories from the side. Just in case. After everything, I still have unguarded moments of empathy and appreciation. Even tenderness.
Abu called, “Sadia, challo!”
Ami gave me an awkward side hug. She had drawn in her right eyebrow with pencil that was now smudged. It had been a stressful week for everyone.
Eyes wide, she nodded her head at Mamoo’s quickening instructions. “Don’t offer your in-laws help with money or immigration. We don’t need to be dealing with constant requests.”
Mamoo held Ami’s arm in one hand and pulled her along.
He carried her suitcase across the walkway to Abu and continued whispering intensely in her ear.
I wonder what he was saying to her. If I were to ask him now, would he remember that drop-off the same way I do?
Would he remember what he was saying to her?
Then they were off, walking through the sliding-glass doors into the brightly lit interior, their figures receding into silhouettes.
Ami looked over her shoulder at us and gave a small wave.
When I think of my mother, that is one of the images that comes to mind.
A small woman in a big building unsure of who she is or where she’s going.