Chapter 23 Salma #2
He closes his eyes and takes a shallow breath.
When he opens his eyes, they are full of vigor and intensity.
“It was my fault. Everything. I did not go there to hurt Asma.” His voice cracks.
“I don’t know if it was your Ami’s intention.
What I do know is that we came to this country, and we were wrong.
I was wrong to expect you to follow the old ways.
Ways you didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.
You were children when we brought you.” He closes his eyes and says with a ferocity that reminds me of Asma, “That was our choice, not yours. You were—you are—children of this country.”
He slumps a little. The effort has cost him something. From next to his leg he brings forth a My Little Pony thermos, lifts it to his mouth with two hands as though it is heavy, and slowly drinks from the soft, rubbery straw.
I am raw with emotion and surprise, and the thermos threatens to undo me.
“All I’ve had for these years is time to think. I understand Asma loved someone. It doesn’t matter . . . didn’t matter . . . whether we approved. We brought you here, and these were the risks.” He sighs heavily and leans his head back on the chair.
I don’t know what to say.
But he isn’t done yet. “Listen. I want to tell you something.” His voice drops.
“There were women like this at home. Who preferred each other. My Amaji. She lived in our village. Her childhood friend whose entire family died in a fire lived with us. We thought of her as another grandmother. They slept on the same charpai. One summer, in the middle of the night, I woke up and saw them.” There is a long pause.
“It was a shock to see Asma and Ruby. That’s all. ”
My heart thunders. It is uncanny hearing him say Ruby’s name. He rolls the R extra long. If Asma could hear this now.
“But, baitay, no matter how shocked I was, no matter how angry I was, that was not what I thought would happen when we went to the dorm room. My father had just died. I was feeling my age, my mortality, for the first time. I knew things needed to change because I didn’t want to drive you girls away.
When I think about the night of the play . . .” He starts crying again.
I shift in my chair. I do not want to feel sympathy for him. I am not here to absolve him. That is between him and his God.
“Which is the second thing I want to tell you.”
I am strangely touched that he has an enumerated list. I wonder how many things are on his list. I pass him a tissue.
“Your mother was not okay. I knew that. Something was going funny in her head. I don’t know how else to say it.
I should never have taken her back. I think she was hearing voices because I’d hear her talking to herself as though there was someone in the room with her.
It was . . . it was uncomfortable. But I never thought she was capable of .
. . what she did. I don’t know if she meant to do it or if it was an accident.
I play those minutes again and again and again in my mind.
I look for clues, anything to tell me if she meant it or if it was a mistake. ”
We are alike, after all.
He blows his nose, weakly. “We married when she was just sixteen. I didn’t understand that back then.
But every time she tried to grow up . . .
do small things . . . I . . . I . . . expected her to be my wife and your mother.
I didn’t think about her being a person that was still growing.
I am ashamed. Maybe that’s all who she could be. ”
We each stare out the glass patio door. It has become almost unbearable to look at each other.
He shakes his head softly. “It doesn’t matter if it was on purpose or not. She took her own child, our child, from us. She, me, we, destroyed our family.”
I stay silent. What is there to say? I am grateful that I have no children. This history will end with me.
He brings his eyes back to lock on mine and says softly, his voice weak, “And the third thing. Your name means ‘peace.’ You are the one thing that kept me going all those years. You never judged us. You were always trying to find ways to bring us together. You loved your sister, and all we did was do this to your life. I didn’t want to be a burden to you.
But now . . .” He looks around helplessly.
“None of what happened was because of you. There was nothing you could have done to stop it. I am sorry, baitay. The only thing I have left to give you is the truth. I just pray for you to find peace.”
He does not bother to wipe his face. It doesn’t matter.
Bodily fluids are for the living, and in its own way, the tears and snot must feel good.
The small pillow next to his leg has fallen from his chair.
I bend down to pick it up and tuck it back in place.
I see his legs are thin as twigs under the fabric of his pajamas.
I stay still. I could say something, but what is there to say?
What words do I possess that could express the full magnitude of my grief?
My loss. For Asma. For my family. For this man, whose growth and change are unimaginable.
He is not the man I know. He is someone else, someone with the same shaped memories, but someone different.
We are eye to eye. My insides vibrate, and I think that, after all these years, I might actually crack and lose it.
I don’t want to say anything that may sound like forgiveness.
But I am also cursed with empathy. I wipe his face with a Kleenex and hold his hand for a fleeting moment.
I raise the thermos to his mouth for a final sip.
At the door, I turn and look back. His eyes—Asma’s eyes—linger on my face. I remind myself that I was still a child when it happened. I brace myself against the doorframe. My sister is gone. My mother is gone, and soon, my father will be gone.
The wind murmurs in the trees. The room is afloat. We are all in the midst of movement.