Chapter 22 Musharraf
Musharraf
We went to talk. There was hardly anyone around.
We just walked through the turnstile because there was no one at the security desk.
I was holding a can of paint. The pale purple she’d wanted at the beginning of the school year but we’d rejected.
Why? Maybe we thought it was too frivolous.
Maybe we wanted to show her we had control.
We went only to talk. I thought it might be different this time.
I wanted to tell her that we knew what was best for her.
That I had seen her. That she should trust us.
That she needed help. I wanted to tell her that I loved her even though what she was doing was bad.
I only wanted to make her understand how she was supposed to behave.
How could she not see what she was doing?
To us, to her family? That she was supposed to respect and honor us?
That we did everything we could to make more opportunities in this country?
That it was for her? For both of them? But it wasn’t opportunity at any cost. It wasn’t freedom.
Her door was cracked open. I knocked, and Sadia pushed the door open and peeked in.
Small white lights hung all around the room, like an open-air wedding in Pakistan.
The window was cracked, and the curtains moved slightly.
There was a seating area on the ground, a mattress with pillows everywhere, and a low table with a candle on it.
The dresser had a vase of sunflowers. I looked up to see if she was still in her loft bed.
But the bed was neatly made. We shuffled inside slowly.
I looked behind the door. What did I think? That she was hiding?
Sadia stared wide-eyed all around her. “It’s beautiful.”
Sadia opened the closet and brushed her hand tenderly through the clothes, and a sharp, clean fragrance wafted out.
She didn’t need to say it. She didn’t know where these clothes came from.
They were new. This room belonged to someone we didn’t know.
For a moment, I was afraid we were in someone else’s room.
I turned to leave, and there she was in the doorway. She didn’t move, just stared at us.
“What are you doing here?”
Sadia turned around. “We’ve been worried.”
Going there, I had intended to try again. Start over. Be different so she could hear me differently. But what came out of my mouth was my same old voice in the same old tone. Harsh. Hard. Accusing. “Where have you been? You can’t just leave.”
She said nothing. Just stood still.
“What is all this?” Sadia asked, moving her arm around.
“Why are you here?” She didn’t step any farther into the room.
“Where did you get all of these decorations? You wear short skirts now?” Sadia sounded confused.
“I need to get my backpack. I have class.” She pointed to her backpack at our feet.
“We brought you that paint you liked at the beginning of the school year,” Sadia said, pointing to the can of paint I was holding.
I had forgotten about it and could then feel the thin wire handle cutting into the soft underbelly of my finger pads.
She looked at it with a sneer, with disdain. For the paint, for the lateness of the gift, for us. “Look around. I don’t need it now.”
“How? How are you living like this? Why didn’t you tell me?” Sadia asked.
“Where did you go?” I yelled.
“Keep it down.” She glanced into the hall behind her and shut the door. She sounded tired, like an old woman.
“Tell me.” Sadia stepped close to her.
“I went to a friend’s house. Okay? I should have probably told Salma or you.” She glanced down at her feet, hands shoved into her pockets.
“Why did you decorate your room?” Sadia asked.
We stared at each other over Sadia’s head.
“Who is this friend?” I asked.
She jutted her jaw out. “Ruby.”
“Where did you get the money? To do all of this?” Sadia’s voice was rising.
“Calm down. Mamoo and Aunty, okay?”
Something came over Sadia’s face then. Her face went funny. “What does she look like?”
“What?”
“Is she Black?”
“Why?” she said, drawn out, slowly, suspiciously.
Sadia grabbed her arms and looked up into her face. “Is she? Is she?”
She pulled back. “Yes! Yes. What is your problem?”
“I saw something yesterday that I don’t understand.” I was calm. I believe I was very calm.
She pushed past us to grab her backpack. “There’s a lot you don’t understand. That’s not my problem anymore.”
I don’t remember Sadia taking the can from my hand.
“This, this, woman . . .” I faltered. I didn’t have the words.
I couldn’t say out loud what I’d seen. I doubted myself.
I was embarrassed and self-conscious. Confused.
Old memories. Passion between people is clear, whether it’s on television or in the back seat of my taxi.
But this was two girls. “What were you doing?”
She wheeled around. “What?” Eyes squinted. “Where did you see me?”
I said nothing.
“Are you spying on me? Jesus Christ!” Her face was splotched. I had expected denial and shame. Not this fury and defiance. “What do I need to do to get some privacy? To live my life? To get away from the two of you?”
She knelt on the floor to load her backpack.
“What were you doing? I don’t understand,” I said.
“What do you mean, ‘What was I doing’? I was kissing her! I love her! Is that so bad?” She looked up at me, her eyes bulging with anger. She turned around and leaned over to get her keys.
And then. My eyes registered Asma slumped forward over her backpack before my brain could understand what the sharp cracking sound was. Oh that sound. My God. Metal on bone. I sunk to the floor.
Sadia screamed. “Who does she think she is? Talking to you like that! She has no respect for us.” She turned away from her daughter’s fallen body and paced in circles talking to herself.
“It’s okay. She just needs to learn a lesson.
She brought this on herself. What would people say? She brings shame down on our heads.”
Asma started moaning. I saw the blood oozing from the base of her neck, through her thick, shiny hair.
My hands shook. I turned her over. I pulled a pillow from the floor and placed it under my child’s head, as gently as I could.
I thought that maybe she would be okay but could already recognize the limpness of her body.
I am not unfamiliar with death. I called out, yelling her name.
The door pushed open, and a girl came in and started screaming.
I held Asma’s warm, limp hand. I bent over her, in supplication, and begged forgiveness. I smelled the citrus of her shampoo. I could see her on her bike, face tilted up to the oncoming wind, her hair a ribbon of iridescent black, fully alive.
Later, paramedics rushed in and pushed Sadia and me out of the way.
They put Asma on a gurney. And then the police came in with pistols drawn.
And still later, I sat in the back seat of the police car and watched them wheel the gurney by with a sheet completely covering it.
And Sadia kept rocking to a rhythm all her own, keeping pace with the madness in her head.