Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Khala begins to speak, and I don’t move. I scarcely let out a breath.
“Our matchmaking began in Lahore years before my birth. Though back then, it was hardly a business. Matchmaking was simply what people did for one another,” Khala says. “We kept an eye out for suitable matches for people in our lives, but my mother’s uncanny ability to make auspicious ones drew attention quickly. I helped her as the work steadily grew, and when the time came that it grew to be too much for her, I took over.”
I know all this. Our origin story is hallowed family lore. But I don’t dare interrupt her.
“After Nina’s father passed away, I threw myself even deeper into our work to escape my grief,” she continues. “Business was thriving, we were fielding requests from people from all over Pakistan, and when your mother came of age, I was elated to find her a match.”
My mother? I sit up straighter. This is new.
“One should never do matches for those we cannot be objective about,” Khala says. “I could not be objective about my sister. The Usmani family came to us. They were seeking a match for their son. I had never met them before, but their reputation preceded them, and they were wealthier than I could comprehend. They had lavish homes on practically every continent. Private jets. I saw in them security for my sister.”
My father came from money? I don’t know much about him other than the hazy memories of what my mother had shared with me. His photo is still tucked in the top drawer of my dresser: a man with striking eyes, in jeans and a short-sleeved polo, leaning against a Corvette.
“It turns out that money is not enough to buy happiness,” Khala says softly. “But money can certainly protect you from consequences. The Usmanis were part of the zamindar class. They owned practically a quarter of the farmlands of Punjab. They had their hands in everything from the government to the police. Billi shielded me at first. She made excuses for the broken arm, the sprained ankle. Her growing distance. It was once you came along that things changed.
“She finally came to me. She showed me her bruises. The cigarette burns. She asked me for help.” Khala shivers. “You were not the son he had wanted, and she feared it was only a matter of time before his anger turned to you. Unfortunately, leaving is not simple when you are enmeshed with someone with limitless resources. I was the one who had made this mess. I was the one who had ignored the red flags. I needed to fix things. I sold everything I had. The cars. My house. We made a plan and waited until the right moment. When he was away on a business trip, a few weeks shy of your first birthday, we left for the United States.”
The room is spinning. My head hurts. I’d known I was born in Pakistan. I was told that my father had died before we ever arrived on Western shores. From the look on Khala’s face, it’s clear this story is far from over.
“Your father, Fiaz, harassed our parents relentlessly, demanding to know our whereabouts. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment off Buford Highway, but we never told your grandparents where we had gone. To do so risked our safety. I tried as best as I could to stay under the radar, but our savings ran out quickly, and I could not provide for all of us on a receptionist’s salary. I began matchmaking again. I visited mosques and mandirs. I put up flyers to advertise my services. My skills were even more in demand here than they had been back home. Your mother was livid. She did not care that I had new rules in place, procedures to prevent a situation like hers from happening again. She was afraid my work would make it easier for him to find us.” Khala’s voice quivers. “She no longer felt safe, so she moved you both to the other side of the continent. She kept her head down and did her best to go unnoticed. But—” Her voice breaks.
“It’s not your fault, Mom,” says Nina. “You’re not to blame for what he did.”
Khala looks at me. Her eyes water. “So many years had passed. I truly thought the threat was over. I began to let down my guard. But men like Fiaz know only revenge. He never gave up looking for your mother. With my name passing around people’s tongues, it was only a matter of time before he found her.”
Khala looks at her lap. Clearly struggling to say what comes next. My phone rings in my lap, but I barely notice it. I’m filled with an inexplicable dread. Like what she’s about to say will serve as my dividing line. Before, when the world was a known quantity, and after, when the chessboard flipped on its head.
“He trailed your mother to her place of work one evening.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “You were so young. Barely seven.”
“Seven.” Seven was when… No.
No.
No.
“He stalked her. Waited outside until her shift ended. He killed her, and when he saw the police cars approaching, he turned the gun on himself.”
“She died in a car crash,” I say numbly.
All these years I believed her car had skidded off the highway on a particularly wet night. All these years I believed my father had died of a brain aneurysm while she was pregnant with me.
“My name is…Madiha?” I ask shakily.
“It was. Nura was your middle name, and we changed it legally when we came to the United States to protect you,” Khala says. “It means ‘light,’ and that is what you were to your mother during that very difficult time. To all of us.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I should have told you sooner. It has haunted me for decades. But how to say the words?” asks Khala. “I kept telling myself, what good was there in saddling you with this?”
“It’s my life.” My voice rises. “I’m entitled to know about it.”
“You were so young. It took so long for you to adjust and settle in,” Khala says. “As time went on, I did not know how to bring myself to tell you.”
“After everything else I’ve had to deal with, now this?” I look at my hands. I’ve been clutching my keys so tight they’ve formed indentations on my palms. It feels like a million pins are stabbing my insides. I graze my fingers over my silver bracelet. This was the reason my mother hated our work. Matchmaking had destroyed her life. She’d moved us to the other end of the continent to put as much distance between it and herself as she could. To keep us safe from a man who was hunting her. It hadn’t been enough. Tears well up. I feel Khala’s gaze on me. I move to speak, but nothing comes out. What can I say, anyway? My chest hurts. My stomach hurts. Everything hurts. I can’t be here anymore. I can’t sit here for a second longer.
“I…I have to go.”
“Nura. Please wait,” Khala says.
“Mom’s right. You shouldn’t drive like this,” Nina says.
My lungs are burning. I have to get some air.
“I need space,” I manage to say. “I need to…not be here.”
“You are angry,” Khala whispers. “I am so sorry, my child.”
“I’m…I’m not…”
I want to deny it, but I am angry. I’m furious. I think back to the countless evenings sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, or at the agency when we worked side by side. She had a million opportunities to tell me the truth. She kept it to herself.
“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” I say. “I need…I need to be alone.”
She moves to reply, but I brush past her. Into the foyer. Out the door. The cool night air presses against my face as I stumble onto the front porch. I let out a ragged breath. With trembling hands, I unlock my car, then pause. I forgot my purse. But going back into the house? I’d rather swallow broken glass.
The phone rings in my pocket. Borzu.
“I can’t talk,” I tell him.
“Wait! Don’t hang up!”
“Borzu, I don’t—”
“Listen!” His voice is frantic. “We know who it is. The person stalking you.”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Are you still at the office? I’ll be right over.”
I hear him typing. He goes silent. Then—“Nura, are you at your aunt’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go outside. Stay where you are. Call the police. Now.”
“I’m already outside. There’s no one—” I hear the crunch of feet over gravel.
I turn.
“Hello, Nura.”