Chapter Eleven
Eleven
“Are you sure Darcy’s still on for the wedding?” Azar asks over the car Bluetooth.
“Why wouldn’t she be?” I stop at a red light. I’m on my way to Khala’s to get the jewelry set to go with my sari.
“I’m just saying, I can be there.”
“I thought you broke up with me.”
“Fine. I can admit that I’m jealous. Darcy getting to eat all that amazing food? How’s that fair?”
“You turned it down!” I make a right onto Long Island Drive. Sunlight wanes through the trees.
“Sometimes you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”
“I’m fine, Azar.”
Besides, I think, I’m pretty sure Zayna would not approve.
“And you have the Mace?” he asks.
“For the thirteenth time, yes.” This is the real reason he’s calling. The real reason he’s allegedly craving wedding food. Like everyone from Borzu to Genevieve to Darcy, he wants to pop me into a protective bubble. “There are ten different cameras around the agency and my house. Pretty sure the neighbors suspect I’m on some kind of reality television show,” I say. “Borzu made sure my phone and car were clear of trackers. I’m okay, really.”
“Have there been any more cat sightings?”
“None.” My voice breaks. “I don’t know how to live with myself, Azar. Khala trusted me with her cat, and I lost her.”
“Nur. Don’t do that. Beating yourself up isn’t going to make it better.”
Even if I deserve it? Hoping to change the subject, I ask, “What are you up to tonight?”
“Not much. I might go for a run, but other than that, it’s a television and chill kind of night.”
“A run ?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Since when did you pick up running?”
“I run sometimes!” he protests.
“That 5K I dragged you to sophomore year does not count.”
“Well, forgive me for wanting to be a little more physically active.”
“I can swing by after I’m done at the wedding. I’ll see if I can finagle you a doggy bag. Running can build up quite the appetite.”
“Uh, yeah. Sounds good.”
I arch an eyebrow up. When you know someone as long as we’ve known each other, you know when they’re not saying something.
“Is Zayna coming by?”
“Zayna? Not sure. Maybe.”
Which means definitely yes. He’s probably fluffing up the couch pillows and preparing a carpaccio dinner for two as we speak. Zayna’s probably the reason behind his recent interest in running too. I think back to her photo holding up a marathon medal. I’ve been on him to run with me since middle school, when I begged him to join me on the cross-country team. I guess running wasn’t a priority until he found the right person to make it one.
“I’m almost at Khala’s,” I tell him. “Talk later?”
“Have fun, and, Nur? Stay safe.”
We hang up and I yank down the sun visor to avoid the sun’s glare. I need to get my head in the right space—and trying to figure out Azar’s love life is the exact opposite of the right headspace.
As soon as I pull into Khala’s driveway, my pulse ticks up. What do I say if she asks about Gertie? It’s been ten days since her cat went missing. I wake up multiple times a night at the scraping of a tree branch against my window. Hoping it’s her. Hoping I can put this nightmare behind me.
I need to get it together. Get my game face on for Khala. It will be good practice for the game face I’ll need for Lena and Tanvir’s mehndi. For a few hours tonight I’ll slip into the welcome relief of work mode. Darcy’s coming to babysit me, but she knows how to have a good time too. It’s not every day she joins me at weddings, and given her upcoming sabbatical and marriage, who knows how many more events like these she’ll have time for. I want to make tonight count.
I park in Khala’s driveway and attempt to maneuver out of the car in my bulky sari. Driving while wrapped in seventeen feet of fabric is more complicated than it may seem at first glance. Or maybe—I look down—it’s exactly as complicated as it looks. Approaching the house, I check my watch. Even for someone who’s usually on Desi Standard Time, I’m running a tad behind, but Khala’s platinum set inlaid with diamond-shaped sapphires will match perfectly. Days when I feel the most vulnerable are when I need my armor most ofall.
“You look like a princess,” Lilah announces when she seesme.
She hops up from the couch where she was sitting with Nina, a puzzle splayed out on the coffee table. Nina barely acknowledges me.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
I peek at the wall; to my relief, the stain from the ill-fated mural is completely gone.
“I don’t like princesses,” Lilah clarifies.
“Oh yeah?” I tickle her. “But you like this one, don’t you?”
“No!!! Yessss!!!” She squeals with laughter.
“Mom’s in her room,” Nina tells me. Her eyes are on her phone. She’s in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. Her hair is rumpled. “It’s…it’s not the best day for her.”
“What happened?” From the looks of it, it’s not the best day for Nina either.
She hesitates, then turns to her daughter. “Want to go watch TV?”
“Really?” Her eyes widen.
“One episode.”
Lilah races upstairs—moments later, I hear the familiar opening notes of her favorite Pokémon show.
“Mom forgot to pick up Lilah from school,” Nina tells me. “She left the house and came home an hour later without her. She was foggy and confused. I have no idea where she went.”
My heart sinks. This is the biggest memory slip she’s had. “Was Lilah okay?”
“She didn’t even notice. The teachers put her in with the aftercare kids, so she was on the swings with her buddies when I got there. I had to pry her away. It’s not like she was remotely in danger, but of course Mom’s beating herself up over it.”
Khala had been having a streak of good days, so many that I’d let myself be lulled into thinking that maybe—just maybe—her mind was recalibrating. That the memory lapses would soon become a thing of the past, and not an inevitability like the doctors have spelled out time and again. But moments like these are only going to increase. This is one of the hardest things to accept with Khala’s decline: Whether I like it or not, I am going to lose her.
“Let’s look into getting a mother’s helper for you to get Lilah from school,” I say. “A housekeeper a few hours a day can’t hurt either.”
“Thanks, Nura.”
I’m grateful that despite the mess I made of things last time I was over, we’re able to have a conversation where I don’t feel like I’m walking across a minefield.
“Normally, I would have noticed that it had been a while since she’d been gone,” Nina says. “I’ve been distracted because I got served a few hours ago.”
“Served? As in a process server came by?”
She holds up a manila envelope that had been resting on the coffee table. “Divorce papers. He beat me to the punch.”
“Nina…”
“Want to know the best part? He didn’t ask for custody. Even as a backhanded way to fuck with me.” Her voice cracks. “He wouldn’t have won, but he couldn’t be bothered to try. Guess he wants to start over new and pretend this part of his life never happened. That kills me for Lilah. He does want the house, though. I know how to pick them, don’t I?”
She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands.
“If it helps you feel better, Khala and I never liked him.”
She looks at me, then lets out a laugh. “That does help, actually.”
“We can figure out a way to make him back off without putting up too much of a fight.”
“Like what?”
“We have private investigators at our disposal at the office,” I remind her. “You already know why he wants a divorce. We can see what else is going on with him. If there’s anything that can help you, count us in.”
Nina doesn’t say anything.
“Not everyone wants to dig deeper—it can get ugly,” I quickly add. “I know you don’t like what we do at the agency. But—”
“Let’s do it. I want to pin that fucker so hard he won’t be able to move. I’ll be damned if he takes my house.”
“That’s the spirit.” I’ve seen people in the midst of breakups like hers. I know there will be ebbs and flows to this journey—but it’s good to see her in fight mode right now, as opposed to the teary-eyed, exhausted version from moments earlier. If she lets me, I’ll support her however I can.
Khala’s in bed when I enter her room. The tangerine bedcovers are draped over her. She pauses the Pakistani drama on the television—the actress freezes mid-pout.
“Don’t you look like a movie star?” Khala smiles at me, but her smile does not reach her eyes.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
“I abandoned my granddaughter. Surely Nina told you what happened.”
“You didn’t abandon her. Lilah’s fine. She was never in danger.”
“She was my responsibility.” Her voice wavers. “Yet even this simple task was beyond me. If I can’t even look after my own grandchild, I’m no help to anyone.”
“Khala.” I squeeze her hand. “It was one time. Things happen. You’re a huge help to us just by being you.”
I give her my most comforting smile. Inside, though, I am unmoored. My cool, calm, and collected khala—it’s hard to reconcile her with the frail woman lying in this bed. I’m not accustomed to having to help her feel better. There’s no way I can tell her about Gertie even if I wanted to.
She clears her throat. “You are here for jewelry, not to hear me prattle on and on. You see? My head is not set on straight lately.”
I accompany her to the dresser, where she slides open the top drawer and runs her fingers over the varied boxes inside. The more expensive sets are in the bank—as are many of the heirloom necklaces and rings she brought over from Pakistan—but even the ones in this drawer are easily worth thousands of dollars.
She pulls out a velvet box. There it is: the platinum set. I trade out my silver bracelets for the chunky bangles. She unclasps the necklace from its brackets and hands it to me. “I must say, this one looks tailor-made for your sari.”
“It’s even more perfect than I remember,” I marvel. “I’ve never seen anyone with a collection like yours, Khala.”
“My trinkets pale in comparison to the sorts of jewelry our clients have.”
“They may have higher-valued possessions, but they can’t match your taste.”
Even when I was a little girl, she’d indulge me with these rings and bangles. Let me slide open these drawers anytime I liked. She’d fasten a necklace around my neck and applaud as I modeled it in front of the vanity. These were among my earliest memories of moving here, when this home was too big. Too sprawling. The ceilings too high and echoey. The heft of the solid-gold bangles clinking against my wrist as I turned the pages of a book on the couch soothed me. Khala never stopped me. Never chided me or warned me not to handle them too roughly. Which I never did anyhow. Even then, I knew them for the special pieces they were.
I hold up my hair and she clasps the necklace around my neck. “I think I might have followed you into the family business just so I can have an excuse to wear these.”
“Bilqis…”
A lump grows in my throat. I turn to look at her, to tell her I’m Nura, but her eyes are fixed on my reflection in the mirror.
“Your mother, she loved this set.”
I trace the delicate platinum along my collarbone, now all the more precious. “Was this one from Pakistan?”
Khala nods. “I pawned many of the expensive ones early on, but I worked with everything I had to get this one back. It was her favorite. It will be yours someday.”
Had my mother ever worn this necklace around me? Pictures only help so much for memories I was too young to hold on to properly. It astonishes me sometimes, how connected I feel to a woman I barely knew. Do I really miss her, or am I missing what could have been? The other life that could have existed with her as a part of it?
“Whose wedding are you attending?” Khala asks.
“It’s Lena and Tanvir’s mehndi tonight.”
“Ah. The Karma Cosmetics heiress. She’s the one who was featured in the magazine that spoke disparagingly of our work?”
“That wasn’t her fault. She meant well when she highlighted our agency.”
“Good intentions can only do so much,” Khala says. “But Lena’s praise for you was certainly well deserved. I am not sure if I say this enough, but I am so proud of you, Nura. For all you have done at the agency. I rest easy knowing it is in good hands. You have taken on so many responsibilities without a word of complaint.”
I bite my lip, thinking of Gertie. I don’t deserve her praise.
“Lena gave me a lot of credit in the piece,” I say, “but Darcy was the one who worked with her the most. I’m grateful for her help, because Tanvir has been a handful lately. It’s one of the few cases we worked on side by side from start to finish.”
“Who knew a gori girl would so deftly handle the desi business?” Khala chuckles.
“She sees herself as an honorary desi,” I say. “And she’s my date tonight.”
At this, Khala’s eyebrows furrow. “What about Azar?”
“He said he wasn’t up for being my pretend fiancé anymore.”
“And you did not convince him otherwise?”
“He—he met someone.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. “It looks like it must be serious if he’s pulling back from being my plus-one. That boy loves his wedding feasts.”
“I cannot believe it.” Khala clucks her tongue.
“It’s fine. He’s still my friend. He always will be. But things change. Part of life, right?”
“Nura…”
I give her a hug. “It’s fine, Khala. Really.”
By the time I hurry back to my car, the sun is setting. I’m running late, but still within the respectable window.
Pulling out my keys, I pause. An unsettled feeling washes over me.
I’m being watched.
The sensation bears down on me with an intensity that feels as real as if someone were physically pressing their palms around my neck. Except there’s no one here. No one mowing lawns. No children riding bicycles. The street is deserted.
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Or maybe it’s as simple as a neighbor looking out their kitchen window while they cook dinner. I must make an interesting sight in my sari and six-inch heels.
My phone buzzes with a text from Darcy.
Almost there. Running a little late!
Me too. On my way over now! I reply.
I adjust my sari. The car chirps when I click my key fob. That’s when I see it.
The car.
It’s parked around the bend of a cul-de-sac, four homes down. A gray Mustang. Pulled over next to the curb. There’s a glint inside—a flash of movement. Someone’s in there.
It could be a salesperson writing up a quote for a new roof. A child home from college, catching up on texts before heading inside. It could have nothing to do with me.
I know I’m jumpier than usual. Even the sound of the air conditioner sparking on in my house makes me flinch. Even though I’ve repaired the door, I still triple bolt it and check the locks multiple times throughout the night. I am the proverbial hammer who looks around and sees only nails.
But what if this time I’m right?
I stare at the parked car. There’s movement again. Whoever is inside is watching me. A wave of fury swoops over me. I’m tired of this jump-woman crap. Enough. I march toward the parked car. If it’s a kid texting, they’ll be irritated and move on. And if it’s my stalker—I think of that hooded man—well, he won’t be my stalker anymore. My victim, maybe. They’ll realize they poked the wrong bear. I unzip my purse. Grab the Mace tucked beneath my makeup bag. I rap my knuckles sharp against the driver’s window. No movement. Then, slowly, the window lowers. My heart pounds, the stupidity of my actions fully hitting me. Before I can do anything, the window lowers completely. I stare at the unexpected person looking back atme.
“Genevieve?”
She eyes the Mace in my hand with a bemused expression. “You know that’s the worst one on the market, right? Takes twenty seconds to kick in. I swear, you never consult me on these things.” She takes a long sip from a Styrofoam soda cup. “It’s hurtful, really.”
“What are you doing here?”
“House hunting. What do you think I’m doing? I’m surveilling you.” She rolls her eyes. “Car’s in the shop. Like my rental?”
“Genevieve—”
“Nura, I’m keeping an eye out.”
“Did you see anything suspicious?”
“It’s been a dull evening.”
“Are you planning to follow me to the mehndi as well?”
“You got it.”
“You could have told me that you were going to be following me, Genevieve!”
“I told you that you needed coverage. So, I’m covering you.”
I have competing impulses to hug her and strangle her.
“For someone so proud of their work-life boundaries, you have a funny way of showing it,” I tell her.
“What can I say? I’m partial to you, Nura.”
“Well, I’m partial to you too.” I smile. “They’ve got restricted entry at that mehndi,” I remind her. “I’d say it’s one of the safest events I’ll ever attend.”
“Restricted doesn’t mean impossible to get into,” she says. “I’ll chill in the parking lot and make sure things stay as boring as possible for you and the cosmetics heiress.”
“I can’t talk you out of it?” I appreciate her concern, but it’s a Friday night. Knowing she’s sitting out here is touching, but I also feel bad.
“Once you agree to a bodyguard, I’m gone.” She pulls a long sip of soda from her straw, and the ice whistles. “Until then, consider me your shadow.”
There’s no arguing with her.
She turns on her car, the ignition rumbling. “After you.”