Chapter 19 Asma #4
That’s not exactly how she wanted to describe Ruby, but it was the first thing that came out of her mouth.
She wanted Salma to know. She needed her to know.
She needed to be honest with someone, unload her secrets to someone who loved her.
She waited for Salma to say something, knowing she was probably silent because she didn’t want to misinterpret anything.
Finally, Salma said, “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
There were limitations to their telepathy, apparently.
She would have to be more clear. Asma’s head flushed cold, and it felt like ice was dripping down her neck, to her shoulders.
“I love Ruby,” she whispered in a rush. The darkness in the room seemed to take on dimension and shape, moving and fluctuating with their breath.
Asma’s vision faded, and she felt like she was falling backward through space.
“What do you mean by ‘love’?” Salma whispered.
Her hand fiercely gripped Salma’s shoulder. “I like-like her. Is that clear enough?” She breathed out and relaxed her grip. “I’m not letting someone pick who I’m supposed to be with for the rest of my life. And I’m never getting married. At least to a man.”
“They can’t make you marry someone. It’s just that simple.”
“They could kidnap me.”
“And then what?”
“Smuggle me back to Pakistan.” Even as she said it, she knew she sounded paranoid. But the thought haunted her relentlessly.
After a long silence Salma asked, “Have you told Mamoo and Aunty? About Ruby?”
“No, Sal. You’re the only one I can tell.”
After that, Asma seldom went upstairs. She stayed in her room or watched television with Salma in the TV room.
Her father was gone every night and slept the majority of the day, working double shifts again.
The televisions were on nonstop, the one upstairs in their parents’ bedroom and the one downstairs in their TV room; reruns, sitcoms, news, commercials, it didn’t matter.
The phone rang two times. Asma heard her mother answer it, say something quietly, and then hang up.
Salma took to bringing Asma lunch in her room.
Once, their mother opened Asma’s door and drew back, as though the sight of them playing gin rummy and eating PB and J’s was scandalous. “What are you two doing?”
“I just made lunch,” Salma said quickly.
Asma fought the impulse to hide her cards and asked, “Who was on the phone?”
“It was a wrong number,” her mother said with a set jaw. She walked away, leaving Asma’s door open.
On New Year’s Eve, she called downstairs, “I’m going to Aunty Marianne’s to borrow a cup of sugar.”
Asma waited a few moments and then ran upstairs, looking out the window to see if she had really left.
She did her usual, dialed a phone number, waited a second or two, and then hung up.
The phone rang back almost immediately, and she snatched it up.
Asma collapsed against the counter and spoke rapid-fire, head bent, hiding her face with her right hand.
Deep sobs shook her, relief, anger, mournfulness. Salma lay her head against Asma’s back.
“I can’t talk long. My mom just went to the neighbors for a second . . . I have to get out. Okay. Okay . . . they took my phone.” She nodded to what Ruby said. “I told her everything . . . she’s here with me . . . I don’t know . . . he’s still in Wisconsin . . .” She spoke through hiccupping tears.
Salma stood at the window looking out. She had locked the front door as an extra precaution.
“But what if . . . okay. Okay.”
The screen door opened, and feet stomped on the outside mat, shaking off the snow.
Salma said, “I have to unlock the door for her. Get off the phone.”
“Are you sure? . . . Okay . . . when?”
By the time her mother walked into the kitchen with the sandwich bag of sugar, Asma was off the phone and rummaging through the fridge, hidden by the door.
Asma stayed in her room that day with the door closed. Shortly before dinner, she emerged from the closet into Salma’s room and said, “We’re going to go upstairs for dinner, and I’m going to talk to them about rishthas.” She had cleaned up and no longer looked like she’d been crying.
“What are you talking about?” Salma asked.
She was attentive and calm. “Trust me.”
“Asma. Don’t do it. Whatever it is you’re planning, don’t do it.”
“Sal.”
“I’m serious. Don’t give them false hope. I . . . don’t make me say it.”
“Say it.”
“Don’t put the burden of their unmet expectations on me.”
Asma walked slowly to the stairs and turned, “I’m sorry, Sal.”
Asma asked her mother if she needed help with dinner. When she didn’t respond, she walked to the kitchen table and sat down. “Do you have any other rishthas you wanted to show me?”
Her parents looked at each other as though they knew this day would come.
The day they would finally break her. It was difficult to believe that they couldn’t see through her act.
But maybe desperate people see what they want to.
Once again, her mother got out the envelopes and letters.
Asma sat facing forward with her legs under the table and carefully handled each of the photos that were passed to her. Salma snuck away downstairs quietly.