Chapter 15
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 37 min read
utumn got as cold as winter on some nights. In fact, the only
differences between autumn and winter, I’d found, were better colors
and picturesque backgrounds. As the green leaves turned orange and the
brown ones covered the wet grass, every outdoor picture I took looked like
something out of a magazine. It was still too early to bring out the big guns,
and by that, I mean the heavy duck feather-filled winter jackets that
remained locked up in the closet, so instead, the lighter warm woolen ones
were all I wore.
Cashmere sweaters and artisan scarves add splashes of color to the
University hallways that smelt of pumpkin spice latte and red bull.
The semester felt like it was getting progressively shorter as I found
myself buried in final drafts and submission deadlines, begging for Monday
not to come so quickly. After the weekend, it was like a race through time;
days blurred into each other until it was Friday again.
On Friday, Ahmad and I finally went on our date. A proper date. We
hadn’t had one of those in a while, mostly because we hadn’t been hanging
out much. But we talked on the phone all the time; I knew that he was
moving at my pace, and I liked it. It felt easy. But I had missed him and the
simple things we did together – watching shows with him, picking up
coffee and Timbits from Tim Hortons.
My phone beeped a message: Coming up. It was already dark outside
my windows when I leaned towards the mirror in the bathroom to apply the
second coat of mascara to my already darkened and curled eyelashes. There
was a knock on the door. I quickly rummaged around my make-up bag until
my fingers picked up a Dior sheer lip gloss and threw it into the black
clutch I was taking. I glanced at my reflection as I walked past the mirror –
the white sweater with pearl details on the wrists and neckline over the
black satin slip dress I got from Hudson’s Bay created a flattering
silhouette.
I opened the door, and he looked up from his phone. He was wearing a
white shirt and dark pants. He had gotten a haircut, and his beard had grown
out a bit since the last time I saw him.
“Um. Why are you wearing my colors?” I smiled as I held the door open
for him to come in. He was looking at me in a way that I never knew that I
wanted to be looked at – like he could not stop looking at me, like he saw
more than what I saw in the mirror.
“Hey, beautiful,” he walked in, letting the door close behind him. He
smelled good. He always smelled good.
“We’re wearing co-ordinating outfits.”
He nodded slowly as his eyes moved to the bracelet he got me.
“See? All this time apart, yet our minds are on the same frequency,” his
eyes settled on mine. I had almost forgotten this feeling, the way I felt when
we were in the same space.
“I’m gonna get my things,” I walked into my bedroom and heard his
footsteps gently behind me. “Where did you say we were going again?” I
asked when we got to the room. He was standing by my reading desk,
looking at the various post-it notes with references for papers that I was
researching and a phone number for a pizza delivery place cluttering my
computer screen, and the textbooks that had whole pages covered in green
and pink highlighters which sort of defeats the purpose of highlighting the
important information, now that I thought about it.
“I never said where we were going,” he answered.
“Okay. So, where are we going?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, babe.” A smile tug the end of his lips as
he chuckled.
I sighed and knelt down in my closet to look for shoes to wear.
“This is new,” he said from behind me. I turned around and saw him
looking at a green and black painting that hung over my desk.
“Yeah. Remember the show the Humanities department put up? I got it
there.” Claire and I had joked about how it would be the greatest investment
I ever made if the artist became famous in the future because I bought it for
only twenty dollars.
He nodded slowly, his hands in his pocket as he studied the painting of
two horses in the prairies.
“Yes, you told me you got a painting,” he squinted his eyes as he tilted
his head to the side. “I just didn’t expect it to be this… hideous.”
I turned my head around as I looked at him. He was trying hard to stop
the smile tugging his lips. “Show me the last thing you painted,” I grabbed
my Vince Camuto block-heeled sandal with a high ankle strap and my
Amina Muaddi suede pumps.
“You might not approve of it,” he said. Of course, he had dabbled into
painting, too, to add to his long list of talents. I turned around and raised
both shoes. “Which should I wear?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable in,” he folded his arms and leaned back
on my table. “There’s valet parking so you won’t be walking for too long,
anyway.”
I sat down on the carpet. “Which one do you think goes better with my
outfit?”
He took a deep breath as he considered the question. “The crystals on
that suede look…” he shrugged, “but I’m partial to open-toed sandals.”
I slowly shook my head, “None of that was helpful.”
“I’ll have to see them on you to decide.”
Before I could say anything, he knelt in front of me, picked up the Vince
Camuto and gently tugged my leg from beneath me and placed it on his
thigh. My dress gave way just a little bit as my feet rested on his thigh, my
calf exposed. He was concentrating as he slipped the shoe onto my feet and
took his time fastening the delicate strap. I caught a whiff of his cologne,
and I held my breath. He raised his head and looked straight at me, his
expression hard to read. If he had any clue that his being this close to me
was taking my breath away, he showed no indication.
He looked away as he dropped my right foot gently to the carpet, then
replaced it with the left and covered my toes with the shoe as he slipped it
on. This one was harder to get into, so his hand went under my feet, and his
index finger grazed my heel. Four weeks, I thought to myself. Four weeks
of restraint, of intentionally not being around him, four weeks of convincing
myself that I was in control of my feelings – all shattered within the first
five minutes of seeing him again. What a complete and utter waste the time
apart was.
“Are you okay?” his voice was almost inaudible in the quiet room.
“Hmm,” I answered with a slight nod.
“Is this shoe comfortable?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” I nodded again.
“Can you stand up?” he stood up first and then reached for my hands
and helped me up. I stood up straight despite the height difference. He was
looking at my feet, his fingers absentmindedly stroking his beard.
“The pumps, for sure,” he leaned back again on the table.
“Cool, thanks,” I took off the sandal and wore the other pair of pumps.
“Where’s Claire?” he asked as we headed out of the room.
“At a Halloween party.”
As we made our way down the elevator and through the lobby
decorated in pumpkins and ghouls, I knew we looked good together, not
just from the way people stared as we walked past but also from the smiles
we got. I tried hard not to stare at our reflection as we walked outside the
residence. His car was already warmed up, so I didn’t have to worry about
the cold. As I sank into the plush white leather seat and wondered how long
it’d been since the last time I was in the car, the familiar scent of amr black
oud enveloped me. His phone was charging on the wireless pad, and its
screen display was on his dashboard.
“Why are you being so secretive about where we’re going tonight?” I
asked after we got the usual out of the way—questions about Uni, his work
and Inn From the Cold. “I just wanna make sure that I am not overdressed,”
I added.
“Overdressed looks great on you.”
“Am I overdressed?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” I really liked the outfit I was wearing and was excited to
dress up for the first time in a while.”Got my ticket today,” I said, changing
the topic. I was leaving for Abuja right after my exams.
“Excited?” His sentences were very brief this evening.
“Yeah, I am,” I beamed. I was finally going home after a year and a
half, and I hadn’t been able to stop counting down the days.
“What have you missed most about home?” He turned into the busy
downtown core, slowing down to match the posted speed limit.
I thought about everything I missed – Abba, Umma, the call to prayer
five times a day from the masjid at the entrance of our house where most
men on our street prayed, Eid celebrations, my brothers, unannounced visits
from my cousins – I missed them everything. “My bed,” I said as the car
started to slow down in front of a tall building that already had Christmas
lights on.
“Lucky bed,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. As the car came to a
halt, a young valet came to my door and pulled it open. I stepped out. It was
a little colder than I had anticipated. My woolen coat was warm but not
warm enough against the chill evening wind. I looked over the hood of the
car and saw Ahmad giving his keys to the valet, his brown woolen peacoat
was now buttoned up. When we locked eyes, he swiftly ended the
conversation and started walking toward me.
A bellman ushered us into the lobby, and only then did I realize that we
were at the Hilton. Thanks to the logo on the floor as we walked past the
grand foyer, which was surprisingly not busy, and he led us towards the
elevator. Why are we going up the elevator?
“I’ve missed spending time with you,” he said.
“We talk every single day.”
“But it’s not the same.”
The elevators took us to the glass-enclosed rooftop. There was a fire pit
burning with oak and birchwood warming up the space. In the middle of the
rooftop was an already set dinner table set for two. It had a black cast iron
candle holder with three prongs holding flames burning lightly on the black
and grey table runner. As we approached the table, I noticed a short bunch
of pastel carnation flowers in the middle of the table. He pulled out a chair
for me, and he helped with my coat. From my seat, I could see the CN
Tower and its pointy needle end reaching into the dark sky. Then he
removed his coat and hung it on the wrought iron standing coat rack and he
sat down opposite me.
Before I could say a word, a waiter came to attend to us. I chuckled to
myself as I took note of the waiter’s white short-sleeved shirt, black pants
and black bow tie. He filled our glasses with sparkling water and adjusted
his bowtie as he addressed Ahmad: “Ready for the appetizer, sir?”
“Appetizers?” Ahmad asked me, “or should we dive into our first
course?”
“Surprise me,” I reached for my glass and took it to my lips, slowly
taking a sip of the water as he spoke to the waiter.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said once we were alone again.
“Thank you,” I smiled, “I thought we were going to a restaurant.”
“Yeah, there’s a restaurant on the main floor, but I wanted something
more private,” he looked around us, then back at me, his eyes scanning my
face. " I wanted us alone and since you’ve made it clear that my apartment
is out of bounds for –”
“I never said your apartment was out of bounds,” I got defensive.
“Well,” he leaned back into his chair, “you haven’t been there in
months.”
“Weeks,” I corrected.
He was about to say something when the waiter returned with two
plates. He set one in front of me and the other in front of Ahmad. “Here you
are, miss. Specially made for you, smoked salmon bites with shallot sauce
and asigao cheese on crisp arugula,” he had an Australian accent.
This was art – pink and orange-hued swirls of fish in a cream-colored
sauce with black oil garnish. I finally understood why people took pictures
of their plates in restaurants. I said thank you and looked up at Ahmad, who
was unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. I mirrored his
movements and when I was done, we looked up at each other and reached
for our forks at the same time. The first bite was sweet and salty at the same
time.
“How’s your food?” he broke the silence.
I nodded, giving him two thumbs up as my mouth was full.
“I might have some things to do in Abuja in December,” he paused a
little, and I felt the little flutter in my heart start again.
“Nice,” I said as our main course was being wheeled toward us by the
chef.
Ahmad and he exchanged a brief nod as he set my plate in front of me.
“Excuse the flames, miss,” he warned, and almost immediately, my plate
was set on fire as the top layer of my already cooked steak was grilled to
slow perfection with a brown glaze over it.
“Okay that was a surprise,” I said, watching the leaping flames.
“The flambe was achieved with sugared cubes in flavored extract, not
liquor.” he said reassuringly.
“And the steak is –” prompted Ahmad.
“100% halal, as you requested,” the chef completed.
“Thanks, Chris,” Ahmad said. The chef nodded in Ahmad’s direction
again and left as quickly as he’d arrived. Ah yes. Chris Shaften from Top
Chef Canada. No wonder he looked familiar. I’d seen him on TV a few
times.
So far, the evening was better than I had anticipated. It was all roses and
daisies until after dessert. I was enjoying my sweetened oolong tea when
the waiter returned to the table. He brought a tray with an old-fashioned
glass with ice and a dark liquid in it.
“Compliments from the bar, sir,” he said as he set the drink in front of
Ahmad.
“No, Leo,” his eyes darted quickly at me, “I won’t be drinking tonight.”
Leo apologized and hurriedly took the drink away, leaving an awkward
silence. I tried to think back at the times we’d spent together, and nothing
indicated that he drank alcohol – not his apartment, and definitely not when
we ate out or ordered in. I knew he ate things that were not explicitly halal,
but he never ate pork. But alcohol? There’s no excuse for that. I was
shocked. Appalled, even. When a Muslim drank alcohol, their prayers were
not answered for 40 days. FORTY whole days!
He sighed and leaned forward towards me, while I leaned back into my
chair. He noticed my movement away from him, and his eyes clouded with
something I could not decipher. Pain? “You drink?” I finally asked.
“No, Fa’iza. I don’t drink. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?” I asked, “so you used to drink alcohol?”
“Only socially. After meetings with the guys, sometimes we would hit
the bar,” he looked at me, and when I didn’t respond, he added, “I know it’s
not okay.”
“It’s not just “not okay,” it’s… haram,” I said, my voice was shaky.
“I haven’t even had a drink in a year, not since I met you.”
I looked away. The tattoo, the haram relationship with his ex, the non-
halal meals, And now, alcohol. What else is there? Are these all signs that
he’s not the one for me? What am I doing with someone who lives like the
laws of our religion don’t apply to him? My head throbbed with questions.
The air was still, and all that could be heard was the crackling of the
firewood in the air as yellow gusts of fire dust enveloped in the air and flew
further and further away from the fireplace into the dark sky. Ahmad took
his eyes off me for the first time, signaled to the stand-by waiter who
walked to our side and requested he took the teacups and dessert plates
away. I looked down at my fingers and clasped my hands on my thigh,
willing them to stop shaking. Why am I shaking? A slight breeze that
brushed past us took the flame off one of the candles between us. I watched
as the ghost of smoke swirled upwards and wondered, like the candle, if our
flame had gone away, if the relationship had now ended.
“Well, are you gonna say something?” his voice broke my thoughts,
almost as if he could tell the direction my train of thought was taking.
Maybe we should take a break from this relationship, I thought as I
steadied my hands and looked up at him. “I’d like to leave, please.”
A forlorn look settled in his eyes, and he slowly blinked as he took in
my words and the underlying meaning behind the formality of it. He
chuckled sadly to himself, a dejected half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes as
he nodded slowly, agreeing to my request.
“Ready?” he asked, after collecting his card from the waiter, even
though I was already standing up. He walked to the coat holder and was
back shortly with our coats. He helped me into mine, draped his jacket over
his left arm, and we walked towards the exit. He held the door open for me
as we got into the empty elevator and pushed the L button for the lobby, his
hands in his pockets as he leaned back. He looked up and his eyes caught
mine. I looked away.
The gentle whir of the descending elevators started and I could feel his
eyes piercing my skin. My eyes had run out of corners to look at and I
mistakenly looked at him. The back of his head was slightly thumping on
the elevator wall like he was deep in thought. Very lightly, but the thump-
thump sound it made – especially without breaking eye contact –made the
elevator seem too small for both of us. You were never really aware of how
slow the gradual descent from floor to floor of elevators was until it was the
last place you wanted to be.
“Fai’za, I…” The lights in the elevator suddenly went off. I felt a
rumble shake the floor like a mini-quake, and I lost my balance. Ahmad
was swiftly by my side, his hands on my waist, stopping me from falling. I
felt him reach for my hands in the dark, steadying me back to my feet. “Are
you okay?” His voice was just above my face.
“What – what’s happening?” my voice sounded breathless in the
darkness.
“Hold on,” he was still holding onto me. I heard him rummage through
something. His pockets, maybe? His jacket? I had no idea. The screen of his
phone lit up; he’d turned on the flashlight, and the brightness was now
brightening the dark elevator, casting tall shadows and adding to the already
eerie feel. He hit the elevator’s emergency button, and a call started ringing
from our end. It felt like forever as I listened to the ringing continue. I was
beginning to feel lightheaded and my head was beginning to ache with an
impending migraine.
“Hello, what’s your emergency?” a female voice answered.
“Hey, we’re stuck in an elevator,” Ahmad said.
“Would that be elevator B at the Hilton?” the voice asked.
Ahmad used the light from his phone to check the buttons on the panel;
there was a letter B in yellow at the bottom. “I believe it is,” he answered
calmly.
“The front desk informed us just before your call came in and we’ve
already dispatched a technician,” the voice said. There was a break as static
broke the conversation. “Are you alone, sir? Are there children, seniors or
persons with mobility needs with you? "
“There’re two of us here,” he said, looking back at me then back at the
speakers. “How long until the technician gets here?”
“Should be a few minutes. An hour at most to get you out –” more
static, then the line went dead.
An hour? I brought out my phone from my clutch; there were zero
service bars. “There’s no service,” I said. How long will we be stuck here?
What if we run out of oxygen? I thought anxiously as my head began to
pound.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked. I looked up to see his eyes peering into
mine, filled with concern. “You’re sweating.”
“I am?” I touched my forehead and my palms were immediately wet.
“My head hurts,” I said, as I swayed slightly. I couldn’t keep my balance.
“Hey, hey…” he caught me again. “Zauna. Sit down,” he instructed
gently as he lowered me to the ground. He unbuttoned his top buttons,
rolled up his sleeves and sat next to me.
“Are you claustrophobic?” he asked as he set his phone on the floor
between us, the shadows that the luminescent light cast were now above us.
“What?” I asked. The elevator seemed to be spinning slightly.
“Fear of enclosed spaces,” he explained. There was a concerned look on
his face.
“I know what claustrophobic means,” I snapped. I felt nauseated. “I
guess this is where we find out.”
“Take deep breaths. It helps,” he urged. “You’re still sweating.” He
looked down at my sweater. Underneath it, beads of sweat rolled down my
neck to my chest.
“You were gonna say something before the elevator got stuck,” I tried to
distract myself from the burning sensation I was feeling.
His white shirt was damp now and was sticking to his skin, his biceps
rippled underneath. As he unbuttoned the remaining buttons, I watched as a
bead of sweat rolled down his face. He reached out and touched my head
with his hand. “You’re burning up.”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I could barely breathe.
“That’s okay,” he answered unfazed, “but you need to get out of that
sweater.”
“What? No way!” I panicked.
“You might pass out,” he said as a matter of factly.
He was right. There was a stiffness all around me, it felt like a third
person. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I couldn’t take off the
sweater. All I had underneath was the slip dress with its thin spaghetti
straps. It showed a lot of cleavage and my bare arms. How could I keep
sitting in an elevator half-naked with a man? What if the technician was
male? I saw his lips moving, but I couldn’t make sense of the words coming
out. I shook my head like I was trying to get past the disorientation. Ahmad,
I can’t breathe. My head fell first and I felt myself falling down a
bottomless pit, yet it felt like I was drowning in water with something
slowly filling up my lungs. Ahmad. The last thing I saw was his face as the
darkness consumed me.
* * *
The thing about dreams is that you find minor details around the peripheral
that try to clue you in that the simulation is not accurate. Still, your
consciousness chooses to ignore it so that you can fall deeper into slumber.
“Wake up, baby,” the voice came from a distance, but I knew we were in
the same room. I thought it was Ahmad’s room but it didn’t look like it; the
walls were devoid of their art, the walls were repainted to white and the
interior decor was remodeled. The room was narrower than I remembered.
It was unrecognizable. As I took in the room, I felt his lips on mine. That’s
when I knew it had to be a dream. Wake up. Wake up.
I opened my eyes to the blinking lights – red, blue and white. They were
all so bright, too bright. I closed my eyes again. What on earth was that
sound? It felt like needles were piercing my eardrums repeatedly, non-stop.
I opened my eyes and looked around me. My neck hurt as I moved. I was
lying, moving on a stretcher. I lifted my hand and saw a blood pressure cuff
around my arm. Am I in an ambulance? I thought as I tried to get up.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to lay back down, please,” a man in a
dark blue uniform said, his strong hands restraining me. He was wearing
medical gloves and a name tag. I squinted as hard as I could, trying to make
sense of the letters, but nothing made sense. My eyes hurt. My head hurt.
Everything hurt.
“Ahmad?” I groaned.
“Baby, you’re awake,” he was by my side. I felt someone gently hold
my left hand.
“Ahmad?” I croaked again.
His right hand went over his eyes: “Fucking hell! You scared me.” I had
never seen him look so out of it. “How are you feeling?”
“Wha – what happened?” I asked, wincing as the ambulance went over
a bump and squinting my eyes because the overhead lights were too bright.
It felt like I was staring directly at the sun. He noticed, and he put his hands
above my face, shielding my eyes from the bright lights. I looked at him.
He looked restless like the whole world had tipped over and fallen on him.
“You passed out,” he said, his fingers gently squeezing mine. I could
remember now – the stalled elevator, the heat, the darkness, the migraine.
He shook his head, “you were burning up, and then you just –”
“How long was I out?”
“I don’t know. It felt like forever,” his hands went through his hair.
“You weren’t responding. I –” he swallowed. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I guess I’m claustrophobic,” I managed a smile as I looked up.
He smiled back.
Behind us, one of the paramedics was announcing “10-16” on the radio.
We heard static, then a muffled response from the other end. A few seconds
later, the ambulance stopped.
“Can we leave now? I feel much better,” I said as the doors opened.
“As soon as a doctor makes sure everything is okay,” the younger
paramedic answered.
“This is so unnecessary.” But I was too weak to fight it.
“It’s okay. I’m right here.” Ahmad said as we all descended from the
ambulance.
I was beginning to feel lightheaded again as I was wheeled into the
hospital with Ahmad by my side. It was a busy day, and there were many
voices around and over me. I heard colours and code numbers called over
the intercom. And if I didn’t feel so ill, I would have found it interesting. A
middle-aged female nurse told Ahmad to wait behind to fill out a form, and
he reassured me that he would be with me in a minute. I nodded as two
other nurses transported me to a private room.
“The EMTs sent off your bloodwork, the doctor should be receiving the
results soon, and she’ll be with you shortly,” one of them said. I nodded.
Under different circumstances, I would have told her she had kind eyes, one
of the most beautiful pairs I’d seen.
Ahmad walked in holding my shoes, clutch and his jacket. He dropped
them on the chair and came to stand by my side. “I gave them your
insurance card from your wallet and filled out a form. Do you need
anything?”
I shook my head.
“Fay-zaa, am I saying that right?” That was the nurse.
“Fa’iza,” Ahmad corrected.
“Thank you,” she replied like she was used to being corrected over
names. “I’m just going to ask you some questions,” she had a tablet in her
hand that she tapped as she spoke.
“Any known allergies?”
I shook my head.
“Any drug use, recreational or prescribed?”
I shook my head again, and she tapped on her screen.
“Have you had any alcohol in the last 24 hours?”
I shook my head.
“Thank you,” she said as she took my blood pressure reading.
“Do you need anything?”
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“Okay, how about water, juice, tea –” he covered my legs with a blanket
as he spoke, carefully tucking the edges around me. “Water, please.”
“Be right back.” He took his jacket and walked out of the room, turning
to look at me as he closed the door.
I smiled weakly. He is caring, kind, sweet – perfect, even. But
Islamically…
“We weren’t able to reach your emergency contact, but we left a
voicemail,” I heard the nurse’s cheery voice. I looked up at her.
As if on cue, I heard an unmistakable voice from the hallway – the
perfect enunciation of English words and the flawless vocalization of my
Arabic name. “I’m Fa’iza Mohammad’s guardian. Which room is she in?”
My heart paused for a fraction of a millisecond, and I had to remind myself,
“I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m not doing anything wrong.” The
cedarwood and jasmine notes of her fragrance wafted into the room as she
did and I smiled weakly; there was something about her scent that just
completed her magical aura, her gait as she walked into the room. Aunty
Mami.
“Fai’za am,” she walked towards me. I tried to sit up, but she gently
urged me back to the sleeping position I was so tired of, “kwanta, kwanta.
Lay down, lay down.” She briefly exchanged greetings with the nurse,
before returning her attention to me. “What happened?” she touched my
forehead, keeping her hands there as she recited a dua, prayer. This was
exactly what Umma would do. “I was at the Iranian ambassadors’ send
forth party when I got the message and came here immediately.”
I tried to speak, but my voice failed me.
She grabbed the chart at the foot of the bed and began to read. “Fainted?
SubhanAllah! Allah ya tsare,” she murmured, her face filled with worry.
The doors opened as a short woman in a doctor’s coat entered the room.
“How’s the patient doing?” she asked. “That was a bit of a scare, ey?”
“What’s going on, doctor?” Aunty Mami asked.
“The blood report just came in. Apart from the low blood pressure and
the vitamin B deficiency, there’s nothing to be worried about,” she said.
Aunty Mami was nodding as she listened to the doctor, asking questions
about what caused everything, what medications I needed to be on, if
another bloodwork was necessary, how to best manage the low blood
pressure. The doctor answered all her questions calmly and when she was
satisfied, she thanked the doctor, who then left to sign my release forms.
We were alone for just a moment when doors opened again. Ahmad was
back with a bottle of water and something else in his other hand. His jacket
was back on, and he was looking at the nutrient sheet on the drink when he
walked into the room, “Bae, I got you Gatorade and some wa –” his voice
trailed off as he looked up and saw his mother standing next to me.
“Ahmad?” There was a surprise look on her face as his eyes moved
from her face to mine.
There was no word to describe the emotion I was feeling, and if there
was, it was definitely not in my vocabulary because I didn’t know how to
articulate it. I had never felt this way before – a weird combination of “God,
please-let-the-ground-open up-and-swallow-me” and “no, this-is-not-what-
you-think-it-is” but then it was what she probably thought it was.
“Mom?” Ahmad walked towards her.
The smile on her face was radiant as he kissed her on her cheek, and
then he looked back at me, unsure of what to do next. He scratched his hair
and dropped the Gatorade on the table next to me. “Oh, did they call you
when they couldn’t reach me?” she asked, watching him unscrew the cap
from the bottled water.
“Who’s they?” he asked, passing the unopened bottle of water to me. I
shook my head.
“The ambulance,” she explained, “I was at Yazdi’s send forth and didn’t
hear my phone ring. You know how these events go – speeches and
speeches and speeches.”
“The Iranian diplomat?” he asked. “The one from the news?”
“That’s him,” she nodded and then turned to look at me, “Fa’iza am,
drink some water. You need it.” She took the bottle from him and helped me
sit up, the hospital pillow serving as a wedge for my back. I couldn’t say no,
so I sat up and took a sip. She looked back at Ahmad. “Thank God they
reached you when I didn’t answer my phone.”
I coughed. The water was too cold. I looked at Ahmad and noticed a
frown forming on his forehead as he tried to make sense of his mom’s
confusion. “Oh no, nobody called me,” he said, leaning back on the wall
and folding his arms.
“Oh?” she asked, looking from me to him.
“I was, um…” he cleared his throat, “we were together when she –
when it happened.”
Is it just me, or is this hospital room cold? I thought. I could see
something hover briefly over her face but couldn’t quite tell what it was
because her attention was now back to Ahmad.
“And where was that?” she asked quietly.
Please don’t say it. Don’t say the Hilton, I prayed silently. There was no
way we could explain our way out of that, and I would die.
He looked at me, then back at his mom. “We were at a restaurant,” he
answered. Thank God! Not a lie. We were having dinner – that part was
true. And Hilton had a restaurant, so it wasn’t a lie.
“Oh,” her reply seemed loaded as she looked at me and then back to
him. I wondered what she thought about us having dinner together. Alone.
“Are you done?” I didn’t realize Ahmad was talking to me until he
added softly, “Fa’iza?” I looked up, still clutching the bottle of water in my
hand. “Are you done?” he gestured toward my hands. I nodded, and he took
the bottle from me, screwed the cap back on and set it on the table with the
Gatorade.
She quietly observed the exchange. You could see from her face that she
had a thousand and one questions running through her mind and was
processing them when the door opened.
“Fa’ee?” We all looked up and there she was – a sight for sore eyes.
Afreen’s presence took away the awkwardness in the quiet room. She
greeted her mom and then, “why is it so hard to find parking here? I got
here about 5 minutes after mom called, but I kept going round and round.”
She squeezed me in a tight embrace, and her voice became a whisper:“what
happened?” I had never been so relieved to see her.
“Low blood pressure,” Aunty Mami answered. I was still finding it hard
to meet her eyes because I was unsure what she thought of the… situation.
But her demeanor hadn’t changed; her tone and attitude were still the same
as they were when she came in.
“You study too much. Don’t be scaring us like this,” Afreen hugged me
again, then she looked up at her older brother. “How did you find parking
quickly?”
“I came with the ambulance,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” Afreen stepped back, properly accessing the situation she
had walked in on, a faint glimmer of a smile dancing around her lips and
mischievous eyes.
The doctor returned with some papers, “Ah, full house. I’ve got your
prescription here and a requisition for another bloodwork in two weeks.”
She was talking to me, but Ahmad took the papers from her. His mom
noticed this and kept an emotionless expression as she adjusted her glasses
quietly.
After a few minutes, we were all set to leave the hospital. “Fa’iza,
you’re coming home with me,” Aunty Mami said.
“Do you need anything from the residence? I can go get it for you,”
Afreen offered.
“No, I left some things at the house the last time I came over. I should
be fine,” I answered.
“Ahmad, are you going to get the prescription?” Aunty Mami asked.
I looked up at him. I couldn’t believe it, but it was hard to miss the
disappointment on his face. Did he think he would be the one to drive me?
Even I knew that was impossible and being alone in the car with Aunt
Mami was the last thing I wanted right now, but luckily Afreen came to the
rescue the second time in one night. “Mom, I’ll come with you, too,” she
said as she threw her car keys to Ahmad, who caught them expertly. “I’m
assuming you need a ride to the pharmacy since your car isn’t here.”
That’s right. His car was still at the underground parkade of the Hilton
downtown.
We went our separate ways. The ride back to the ambassadors’
residence was unexpectedly quiet. Even Afreen was quiet in the car, which
was a surprise. By 10:45 pm, I was tucked into Afreen’s cozy bed instead of
the guest room I usually stayed in.
I was already half-asleep when Aunty Mami came into the room.
“Fa’iza?” she called out gently.
“She’s asleep,” Afreen answered from the bathroom even before I could
even answer.
I heard her drop something on the bedside table next to me. “I brought
zam-zam water for her. She should drink some.” Her footsteps were going
away.
“Goodnight, mummy,” Afreen called out.
“Sai da safe. Goodnight,” Aunty Mami replied as Afreen closed the
bathroom door. Further away, I heard the slight jingle of keys.
“Mom?” I heard the unmistakable baritone of Ahmad’s voice. They met
at the door.
“Did you get them?”
“Yes,” I heard the shuffle of some bags.
“She’s asleep, I’ll give them to her in the morning,” more shuffle, then
“come, we need to talk.” She sounded stern, very unlike her interactions
with him. The door to the room closed and the conversation continued in
the hallway outside. It was hard to hear except for a few sentences here and
there.
“Ahmad, what exactly is going on –” something incomprehensible,
“How –?”
“Mom –” Ahmad’s voice started before it was interrupted.
“You know this girl was entrusted in my care,” she sounded worried.
Not upset, not disappointed – worried. I lost the conversation for a few
seconds, then: “You know I don’t interfere in your life but this one –” I
wish I could hear the remaining conversation. Unfortunately, the sound of
Afreen’s shower drowned their voices as they moved further away.
The following morning, when Afreen woke me up to pray Fajr, the
morning prayer, I saw messages from Ahmad sent after I’d gone to sleep:
I’m here if you need anything and 27 minutes later, Let me know how you’re
feeling. After praying, I sat up in bed and read the Quran.
“Ya jiki? How are you feeling?” Afreen yawned from under the covers.
She’d gone back to sleep after praying and was already dozing off again.
“I’m okay, alhamdulillah,” I folded the hijab and got back under the
covers with her. I replied to Ahmad: I’m feeling better, thanks.
I checked my notifications and saw that I’d missed calls from my mum,
my dad and brothers. They must have heard about my little hospital visit. A
reply from Ahmad came in as I was trying to figure out the time difference:
Can I come see you?
I looked at the time. It was still very early. It might take him another 20
minutes to get here from downtown. I should go say good morning to Aunt
Mami before then, I thought to myself as I typed: sure. As soon as I hit
send, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Afreen answered, her voice was muffled by the pillow over
her head.
Ahmad walked into the room in a white jallabiya and our eyes met
immediately. He smiled at me as he pushed the door close. Afreen was
awake now, and she sat up in bed and looked at her bedside clock as she
scratched her eyes. “Good morning.”
“Afreen,” he walked to her vanity set and dropped her keys by her
mirror. “I filled your tank, and the pressure on your front tires were off, so I
pumped them.”
“Thank you,” she yawned. “Did you sleep here?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and turned around, his eyes finding mine again.
“When last did you sleep here?” she started musing as she looked at me
and then back at him, “Hmm, I wonder why?” she teased as she got up and
went to the bathroom, making a big show of closing the door.
Ahmad moved closer to the bed, pulled out a chair and sat down. His
eyes lingered on my hair and the v-neck of the fleece nightgown I was
wearing. Instinctively I pulled it higher. “You look better,” he observed.
“So, I looked like a mess yesterday?” Between falling unconscious,
being lifted into an ambulance, and being transferred to a hospital bed, I
was glad there was no mirror in sight at the hospital to etch that look in my
memory.
“The prettiest mess there ever was,” his eyes fell to the band-aid on my
wrist from where the needle from the drip had been. He reached out as if to
hold my hand, and then he stopped himself. I looked up at him and noticed
that he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“What is it?” There was something on his mind. Was it regarding the
conversation with his mom the previous night?
“Fa’iza” he leaned closer towards me. I raised an eyebrow. “The whole
alcohol thing,” he stopped to gauge my expression. “I’m going to be honest
with you, like I have always been. It started when I moved to the UK. It was
honestly just a sip here and there.”
I leaned back into the pillow, “still doesn’t excuse it, though.”
He nodded, “you’re right. It doesn’t.”
The door to the bathroom opened, and Afreen walked to the bed,
toothbrush in hand, to get her phone. I waited until the door closed and the
faucet was turned on before I continued. “I just don’t know what else to
expect next.”
“What’s the worst thing you wouldn’t accept?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment, then replied, “honestly, I’ve always
thought that alcohol was the deal-breaker.”
His eyes pierced into mine, then I looked away. “Is there a but?” he
asked.
I couldn’t even look him into the eyes. I glanced up at the ceiling and
sighed, “I couldn’t even break up with you on the spot, like I thought I
would.”
He leaned closer to me, and his scent engulfed my senses. “Listen, I
know this is all too much for you, okay?” He spoke slowly, “You probably
hoped for an ustaadh, someone to teach and move you closer to religion.
Then you got me instead and –”
“I never wanted an ustaadh.” There was nothing wrong with a teacher,
but it wasn’t a huge criterion for me. I just wanted a normal Muslim – one
who didn’t touch women who weren’t his Mahram, didn’t know what
alcohol tasted like and insisted that the kitchen used a different pan to make
his meals at restaurants. Okay, maybe that last part was a bit too much.
“So, are we good?” The room was quiet.
I thought about it and sighed out loud for dramatics, “I don’t know. I
still have questions.”
“Anything.”
“How do I know that you’re not gonna go back to these bad habits in
the future?”
“You never have to worry about that,” his eyes fell to my lips and back
to my eyes. “I promise.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“So, why didn’t you go back downtown last night?” I asked
nonchalantly.
“Because I wanted to be here when you woke up.”
I’m definitely not making a mistake. He’s the one, definitely the one, I
thought to myself, as I felt a flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
Aunty Mami thought it was best to stay over at the house for another
week, while I recuperated. Staying over at the ambassador’s residence had
huge perks – perks you didn’t remember when you were away, like home-
cooked meals, sleeping on something bigger than a twin-sized bed,
breaking my Monday and Thursday fasts with something nice. With a letter
from the doctor, I stayed home all week and attended lectures remotely. I
received lecture notes from Ada and Sara and submitted my questions to the
Professors’ emails.
* * *
Afreen had been busy with her internship at the Mayor’s office coming to
an end, so she was out working for most of the day. When she was gone,
my days started the same, with Aunt Mami asking me if I had taken my
medication whenever I went upstairs to greet her. However, today was
different. She was on the phone when I walked into her room. She smiled
when I walked in in my pink hijab and motioned me to sit down on the bed
next to her. There was a black and white picture of Afreen and Ahmad in a
gold frame by her bedside and I stared at it when she spoke on the phone.
“You’ll see us soon, insha Allah,” she laughed into the phone.
They both looked so much like her. The only thing they got from their
father seemed to be his height. Else, their noses, hair, complexion – it was
all their mom. “She’s here,” Aunty Mami said into the phone, “she just
came in.” She handed me the phone.
“Hello?” I said into the phone.
“Hello. How are you? How are your online classes?”
“Umma, I’m fine, alhamdulillah. Everything’s fine.”
“When is your follow up appointment?” she asked, even though we’d
spoken two or three times daily since I got home from the hospital.
“Tomorrow, insha Allah.”
“Okay, let me know how that goes.”
“Insha Allah. Talk to you later,” I handed the phone back to Aunt Mami
and heard them round up their phone call.
“Fa’iza, must you go back to your hostel tomorrow?” she asked
afterwards.
I had to. As much as I loved staying over at the house, I was missing
crucial evening study sessions and with the final exams approaching, I
needed to get caught up before it was late. But I didn’t say any of this; I just
smiled as she spoke.
She looked at the slight bruise that the needle left on my wrist. “How’s
the hand?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” my voice sounded timid. The dynamics between
us had somehow changed now that she knew that there was something
between Ahmad and me.
She leaned down to open one of her bedside drawers and brought out a
small box. “I got this, but the numbers on the face are too small. I won’t be
able to tell the time without glasses.” She opened it and there was a two-
toned Tissot wristwatch. “I think it would look nice on you,” she passed the
box to me.
“Na gode. Thank you, Aunty Mami,” I said.
This wasn’t just a gift from my mother’s friend; it was a subtle stamp of
approval. Our culture rarely used words to convey what actions could easily
do to show approval or disapproval. She hadn’t discussed Ahmad with me
the entire week; she just based her actions toward me on her conversations
with her son about me.
I
differences between autumn and winter, I’d found, were better colors
and picturesque backgrounds. As the green leaves turned orange and the
brown ones covered the wet grass, every outdoor picture I took looked like
something out of a magazine. It was still too early to bring out the big guns,
and by that, I mean the heavy duck feather-filled winter jackets that
remained locked up in the closet, so instead, the lighter warm woolen ones
were all I wore.
Cashmere sweaters and artisan scarves add splashes of color to the
University hallways that smelt of pumpkin spice latte and red bull.
The semester felt like it was getting progressively shorter as I found
myself buried in final drafts and submission deadlines, begging for Monday
not to come so quickly. After the weekend, it was like a race through time;
days blurred into each other until it was Friday again.
On Friday, Ahmad and I finally went on our date. A proper date. We
hadn’t had one of those in a while, mostly because we hadn’t been hanging
out much. But we talked on the phone all the time; I knew that he was
moving at my pace, and I liked it. It felt easy. But I had missed him and the
simple things we did together – watching shows with him, picking up
coffee and Timbits from Tim Hortons.
My phone beeped a message: Coming up. It was already dark outside
my windows when I leaned towards the mirror in the bathroom to apply the
second coat of mascara to my already darkened and curled eyelashes. There
was a knock on the door. I quickly rummaged around my make-up bag until
my fingers picked up a Dior sheer lip gloss and threw it into the black
clutch I was taking. I glanced at my reflection as I walked past the mirror –
the white sweater with pearl details on the wrists and neckline over the
black satin slip dress I got from Hudson’s Bay created a flattering
silhouette.
I opened the door, and he looked up from his phone. He was wearing a
white shirt and dark pants. He had gotten a haircut, and his beard had grown
out a bit since the last time I saw him.
“Um. Why are you wearing my colors?” I smiled as I held the door open
for him to come in. He was looking at me in a way that I never knew that I
wanted to be looked at – like he could not stop looking at me, like he saw
more than what I saw in the mirror.
“Hey, beautiful,” he walked in, letting the door close behind him. He
smelled good. He always smelled good.
“We’re wearing co-ordinating outfits.”
He nodded slowly as his eyes moved to the bracelet he got me.
“See? All this time apart, yet our minds are on the same frequency,” his
eyes settled on mine. I had almost forgotten this feeling, the way I felt when
we were in the same space.
“I’m gonna get my things,” I walked into my bedroom and heard his
footsteps gently behind me. “Where did you say we were going again?” I
asked when we got to the room. He was standing by my reading desk,
looking at the various post-it notes with references for papers that I was
researching and a phone number for a pizza delivery place cluttering my
computer screen, and the textbooks that had whole pages covered in green
and pink highlighters which sort of defeats the purpose of highlighting the
important information, now that I thought about it.
“I never said where we were going,” he answered.
“Okay. So, where are we going?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, babe.” A smile tug the end of his lips as
he chuckled.
I sighed and knelt down in my closet to look for shoes to wear.
“This is new,” he said from behind me. I turned around and saw him
looking at a green and black painting that hung over my desk.
“Yeah. Remember the show the Humanities department put up? I got it
there.” Claire and I had joked about how it would be the greatest investment
I ever made if the artist became famous in the future because I bought it for
only twenty dollars.
He nodded slowly, his hands in his pocket as he studied the painting of
two horses in the prairies.
“Yes, you told me you got a painting,” he squinted his eyes as he tilted
his head to the side. “I just didn’t expect it to be this… hideous.”
I turned my head around as I looked at him. He was trying hard to stop
the smile tugging his lips. “Show me the last thing you painted,” I grabbed
my Vince Camuto block-heeled sandal with a high ankle strap and my
Amina Muaddi suede pumps.
“You might not approve of it,” he said. Of course, he had dabbled into
painting, too, to add to his long list of talents. I turned around and raised
both shoes. “Which should I wear?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable in,” he folded his arms and leaned back
on my table. “There’s valet parking so you won’t be walking for too long,
anyway.”
I sat down on the carpet. “Which one do you think goes better with my
outfit?”
He took a deep breath as he considered the question. “The crystals on
that suede look…” he shrugged, “but I’m partial to open-toed sandals.”
I slowly shook my head, “None of that was helpful.”
“I’ll have to see them on you to decide.”
Before I could say anything, he knelt in front of me, picked up the Vince
Camuto and gently tugged my leg from beneath me and placed it on his
thigh. My dress gave way just a little bit as my feet rested on his thigh, my
calf exposed. He was concentrating as he slipped the shoe onto my feet and
took his time fastening the delicate strap. I caught a whiff of his cologne,
and I held my breath. He raised his head and looked straight at me, his
expression hard to read. If he had any clue that his being this close to me
was taking my breath away, he showed no indication.
He looked away as he dropped my right foot gently to the carpet, then
replaced it with the left and covered my toes with the shoe as he slipped it
on. This one was harder to get into, so his hand went under my feet, and his
index finger grazed my heel. Four weeks, I thought to myself. Four weeks
of restraint, of intentionally not being around him, four weeks of convincing
myself that I was in control of my feelings – all shattered within the first
five minutes of seeing him again. What a complete and utter waste the time
apart was.
“Are you okay?” his voice was almost inaudible in the quiet room.
“Hmm,” I answered with a slight nod.
“Is this shoe comfortable?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” I nodded again.
“Can you stand up?” he stood up first and then reached for my hands
and helped me up. I stood up straight despite the height difference. He was
looking at my feet, his fingers absentmindedly stroking his beard.
“The pumps, for sure,” he leaned back again on the table.
“Cool, thanks,” I took off the sandal and wore the other pair of pumps.
“Where’s Claire?” he asked as we headed out of the room.
“At a Halloween party.”
As we made our way down the elevator and through the lobby
decorated in pumpkins and ghouls, I knew we looked good together, not
just from the way people stared as we walked past but also from the smiles
we got. I tried hard not to stare at our reflection as we walked outside the
residence. His car was already warmed up, so I didn’t have to worry about
the cold. As I sank into the plush white leather seat and wondered how long
it’d been since the last time I was in the car, the familiar scent of amr black
oud enveloped me. His phone was charging on the wireless pad, and its
screen display was on his dashboard.
“Why are you being so secretive about where we’re going tonight?” I
asked after we got the usual out of the way—questions about Uni, his work
and Inn From the Cold. “I just wanna make sure that I am not overdressed,”
I added.
“Overdressed looks great on you.”
“Am I overdressed?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” I really liked the outfit I was wearing and was excited to
dress up for the first time in a while.”Got my ticket today,” I said, changing
the topic. I was leaving for Abuja right after my exams.
“Excited?” His sentences were very brief this evening.
“Yeah, I am,” I beamed. I was finally going home after a year and a
half, and I hadn’t been able to stop counting down the days.
“What have you missed most about home?” He turned into the busy
downtown core, slowing down to match the posted speed limit.
I thought about everything I missed – Abba, Umma, the call to prayer
five times a day from the masjid at the entrance of our house where most
men on our street prayed, Eid celebrations, my brothers, unannounced visits
from my cousins – I missed them everything. “My bed,” I said as the car
started to slow down in front of a tall building that already had Christmas
lights on.
“Lucky bed,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. As the car came to a
halt, a young valet came to my door and pulled it open. I stepped out. It was
a little colder than I had anticipated. My woolen coat was warm but not
warm enough against the chill evening wind. I looked over the hood of the
car and saw Ahmad giving his keys to the valet, his brown woolen peacoat
was now buttoned up. When we locked eyes, he swiftly ended the
conversation and started walking toward me.
A bellman ushered us into the lobby, and only then did I realize that we
were at the Hilton. Thanks to the logo on the floor as we walked past the
grand foyer, which was surprisingly not busy, and he led us towards the
elevator. Why are we going up the elevator?
“I’ve missed spending time with you,” he said.
“We talk every single day.”
“But it’s not the same.”
The elevators took us to the glass-enclosed rooftop. There was a fire pit
burning with oak and birchwood warming up the space. In the middle of the
rooftop was an already set dinner table set for two. It had a black cast iron
candle holder with three prongs holding flames burning lightly on the black
and grey table runner. As we approached the table, I noticed a short bunch
of pastel carnation flowers in the middle of the table. He pulled out a chair
for me, and he helped with my coat. From my seat, I could see the CN
Tower and its pointy needle end reaching into the dark sky. Then he
removed his coat and hung it on the wrought iron standing coat rack and he
sat down opposite me.
Before I could say a word, a waiter came to attend to us. I chuckled to
myself as I took note of the waiter’s white short-sleeved shirt, black pants
and black bow tie. He filled our glasses with sparkling water and adjusted
his bowtie as he addressed Ahmad: “Ready for the appetizer, sir?”
“Appetizers?” Ahmad asked me, “or should we dive into our first
course?”
“Surprise me,” I reached for my glass and took it to my lips, slowly
taking a sip of the water as he spoke to the waiter.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said once we were alone again.
“Thank you,” I smiled, “I thought we were going to a restaurant.”
“Yeah, there’s a restaurant on the main floor, but I wanted something
more private,” he looked around us, then back at me, his eyes scanning my
face. " I wanted us alone and since you’ve made it clear that my apartment
is out of bounds for –”
“I never said your apartment was out of bounds,” I got defensive.
“Well,” he leaned back into his chair, “you haven’t been there in
months.”
“Weeks,” I corrected.
He was about to say something when the waiter returned with two
plates. He set one in front of me and the other in front of Ahmad. “Here you
are, miss. Specially made for you, smoked salmon bites with shallot sauce
and asigao cheese on crisp arugula,” he had an Australian accent.
This was art – pink and orange-hued swirls of fish in a cream-colored
sauce with black oil garnish. I finally understood why people took pictures
of their plates in restaurants. I said thank you and looked up at Ahmad, who
was unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. I mirrored his
movements and when I was done, we looked up at each other and reached
for our forks at the same time. The first bite was sweet and salty at the same
time.
“How’s your food?” he broke the silence.
I nodded, giving him two thumbs up as my mouth was full.
“I might have some things to do in Abuja in December,” he paused a
little, and I felt the little flutter in my heart start again.
“Nice,” I said as our main course was being wheeled toward us by the
chef.
Ahmad and he exchanged a brief nod as he set my plate in front of me.
“Excuse the flames, miss,” he warned, and almost immediately, my plate
was set on fire as the top layer of my already cooked steak was grilled to
slow perfection with a brown glaze over it.
“Okay that was a surprise,” I said, watching the leaping flames.
“The flambe was achieved with sugared cubes in flavored extract, not
liquor.” he said reassuringly.
“And the steak is –” prompted Ahmad.
“100% halal, as you requested,” the chef completed.
“Thanks, Chris,” Ahmad said. The chef nodded in Ahmad’s direction
again and left as quickly as he’d arrived. Ah yes. Chris Shaften from Top
Chef Canada. No wonder he looked familiar. I’d seen him on TV a few
times.
So far, the evening was better than I had anticipated. It was all roses and
daisies until after dessert. I was enjoying my sweetened oolong tea when
the waiter returned to the table. He brought a tray with an old-fashioned
glass with ice and a dark liquid in it.
“Compliments from the bar, sir,” he said as he set the drink in front of
Ahmad.
“No, Leo,” his eyes darted quickly at me, “I won’t be drinking tonight.”
Leo apologized and hurriedly took the drink away, leaving an awkward
silence. I tried to think back at the times we’d spent together, and nothing
indicated that he drank alcohol – not his apartment, and definitely not when
we ate out or ordered in. I knew he ate things that were not explicitly halal,
but he never ate pork. But alcohol? There’s no excuse for that. I was
shocked. Appalled, even. When a Muslim drank alcohol, their prayers were
not answered for 40 days. FORTY whole days!
He sighed and leaned forward towards me, while I leaned back into my
chair. He noticed my movement away from him, and his eyes clouded with
something I could not decipher. Pain? “You drink?” I finally asked.
“No, Fa’iza. I don’t drink. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?” I asked, “so you used to drink alcohol?”
“Only socially. After meetings with the guys, sometimes we would hit
the bar,” he looked at me, and when I didn’t respond, he added, “I know it’s
not okay.”
“It’s not just “not okay,” it’s… haram,” I said, my voice was shaky.
“I haven’t even had a drink in a year, not since I met you.”
I looked away. The tattoo, the haram relationship with his ex, the non-
halal meals, And now, alcohol. What else is there? Are these all signs that
he’s not the one for me? What am I doing with someone who lives like the
laws of our religion don’t apply to him? My head throbbed with questions.
The air was still, and all that could be heard was the crackling of the
firewood in the air as yellow gusts of fire dust enveloped in the air and flew
further and further away from the fireplace into the dark sky. Ahmad took
his eyes off me for the first time, signaled to the stand-by waiter who
walked to our side and requested he took the teacups and dessert plates
away. I looked down at my fingers and clasped my hands on my thigh,
willing them to stop shaking. Why am I shaking? A slight breeze that
brushed past us took the flame off one of the candles between us. I watched
as the ghost of smoke swirled upwards and wondered, like the candle, if our
flame had gone away, if the relationship had now ended.
“Well, are you gonna say something?” his voice broke my thoughts,
almost as if he could tell the direction my train of thought was taking.
Maybe we should take a break from this relationship, I thought as I
steadied my hands and looked up at him. “I’d like to leave, please.”
A forlorn look settled in his eyes, and he slowly blinked as he took in
my words and the underlying meaning behind the formality of it. He
chuckled sadly to himself, a dejected half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes as
he nodded slowly, agreeing to my request.
“Ready?” he asked, after collecting his card from the waiter, even
though I was already standing up. He walked to the coat holder and was
back shortly with our coats. He helped me into mine, draped his jacket over
his left arm, and we walked towards the exit. He held the door open for me
as we got into the empty elevator and pushed the L button for the lobby, his
hands in his pockets as he leaned back. He looked up and his eyes caught
mine. I looked away.
The gentle whir of the descending elevators started and I could feel his
eyes piercing my skin. My eyes had run out of corners to look at and I
mistakenly looked at him. The back of his head was slightly thumping on
the elevator wall like he was deep in thought. Very lightly, but the thump-
thump sound it made – especially without breaking eye contact –made the
elevator seem too small for both of us. You were never really aware of how
slow the gradual descent from floor to floor of elevators was until it was the
last place you wanted to be.
“Fai’za, I…” The lights in the elevator suddenly went off. I felt a
rumble shake the floor like a mini-quake, and I lost my balance. Ahmad
was swiftly by my side, his hands on my waist, stopping me from falling. I
felt him reach for my hands in the dark, steadying me back to my feet. “Are
you okay?” His voice was just above my face.
“What – what’s happening?” my voice sounded breathless in the
darkness.
“Hold on,” he was still holding onto me. I heard him rummage through
something. His pockets, maybe? His jacket? I had no idea. The screen of his
phone lit up; he’d turned on the flashlight, and the brightness was now
brightening the dark elevator, casting tall shadows and adding to the already
eerie feel. He hit the elevator’s emergency button, and a call started ringing
from our end. It felt like forever as I listened to the ringing continue. I was
beginning to feel lightheaded and my head was beginning to ache with an
impending migraine.
“Hello, what’s your emergency?” a female voice answered.
“Hey, we’re stuck in an elevator,” Ahmad said.
“Would that be elevator B at the Hilton?” the voice asked.
Ahmad used the light from his phone to check the buttons on the panel;
there was a letter B in yellow at the bottom. “I believe it is,” he answered
calmly.
“The front desk informed us just before your call came in and we’ve
already dispatched a technician,” the voice said. There was a break as static
broke the conversation. “Are you alone, sir? Are there children, seniors or
persons with mobility needs with you? "
“There’re two of us here,” he said, looking back at me then back at the
speakers. “How long until the technician gets here?”
“Should be a few minutes. An hour at most to get you out –” more
static, then the line went dead.
An hour? I brought out my phone from my clutch; there were zero
service bars. “There’s no service,” I said. How long will we be stuck here?
What if we run out of oxygen? I thought anxiously as my head began to
pound.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked. I looked up to see his eyes peering into
mine, filled with concern. “You’re sweating.”
“I am?” I touched my forehead and my palms were immediately wet.
“My head hurts,” I said, as I swayed slightly. I couldn’t keep my balance.
“Hey, hey…” he caught me again. “Zauna. Sit down,” he instructed
gently as he lowered me to the ground. He unbuttoned his top buttons,
rolled up his sleeves and sat next to me.
“Are you claustrophobic?” he asked as he set his phone on the floor
between us, the shadows that the luminescent light cast were now above us.
“What?” I asked. The elevator seemed to be spinning slightly.
“Fear of enclosed spaces,” he explained. There was a concerned look on
his face.
“I know what claustrophobic means,” I snapped. I felt nauseated. “I
guess this is where we find out.”
“Take deep breaths. It helps,” he urged. “You’re still sweating.” He
looked down at my sweater. Underneath it, beads of sweat rolled down my
neck to my chest.
“You were gonna say something before the elevator got stuck,” I tried to
distract myself from the burning sensation I was feeling.
His white shirt was damp now and was sticking to his skin, his biceps
rippled underneath. As he unbuttoned the remaining buttons, I watched as a
bead of sweat rolled down his face. He reached out and touched my head
with his hand. “You’re burning up.”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I could barely breathe.
“That’s okay,” he answered unfazed, “but you need to get out of that
sweater.”
“What? No way!” I panicked.
“You might pass out,” he said as a matter of factly.
He was right. There was a stiffness all around me, it felt like a third
person. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I couldn’t take off the
sweater. All I had underneath was the slip dress with its thin spaghetti
straps. It showed a lot of cleavage and my bare arms. How could I keep
sitting in an elevator half-naked with a man? What if the technician was
male? I saw his lips moving, but I couldn’t make sense of the words coming
out. I shook my head like I was trying to get past the disorientation. Ahmad,
I can’t breathe. My head fell first and I felt myself falling down a
bottomless pit, yet it felt like I was drowning in water with something
slowly filling up my lungs. Ahmad. The last thing I saw was his face as the
darkness consumed me.
* * *
The thing about dreams is that you find minor details around the peripheral
that try to clue you in that the simulation is not accurate. Still, your
consciousness chooses to ignore it so that you can fall deeper into slumber.
“Wake up, baby,” the voice came from a distance, but I knew we were in
the same room. I thought it was Ahmad’s room but it didn’t look like it; the
walls were devoid of their art, the walls were repainted to white and the
interior decor was remodeled. The room was narrower than I remembered.
It was unrecognizable. As I took in the room, I felt his lips on mine. That’s
when I knew it had to be a dream. Wake up. Wake up.
I opened my eyes to the blinking lights – red, blue and white. They were
all so bright, too bright. I closed my eyes again. What on earth was that
sound? It felt like needles were piercing my eardrums repeatedly, non-stop.
I opened my eyes and looked around me. My neck hurt as I moved. I was
lying, moving on a stretcher. I lifted my hand and saw a blood pressure cuff
around my arm. Am I in an ambulance? I thought as I tried to get up.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to lay back down, please,” a man in a
dark blue uniform said, his strong hands restraining me. He was wearing
medical gloves and a name tag. I squinted as hard as I could, trying to make
sense of the letters, but nothing made sense. My eyes hurt. My head hurt.
Everything hurt.
“Ahmad?” I groaned.
“Baby, you’re awake,” he was by my side. I felt someone gently hold
my left hand.
“Ahmad?” I croaked again.
His right hand went over his eyes: “Fucking hell! You scared me.” I had
never seen him look so out of it. “How are you feeling?”
“Wha – what happened?” I asked, wincing as the ambulance went over
a bump and squinting my eyes because the overhead lights were too bright.
It felt like I was staring directly at the sun. He noticed, and he put his hands
above my face, shielding my eyes from the bright lights. I looked at him.
He looked restless like the whole world had tipped over and fallen on him.
“You passed out,” he said, his fingers gently squeezing mine. I could
remember now – the stalled elevator, the heat, the darkness, the migraine.
He shook his head, “you were burning up, and then you just –”
“How long was I out?”
“I don’t know. It felt like forever,” his hands went through his hair.
“You weren’t responding. I –” he swallowed. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I guess I’m claustrophobic,” I managed a smile as I looked up.
He smiled back.
Behind us, one of the paramedics was announcing “10-16” on the radio.
We heard static, then a muffled response from the other end. A few seconds
later, the ambulance stopped.
“Can we leave now? I feel much better,” I said as the doors opened.
“As soon as a doctor makes sure everything is okay,” the younger
paramedic answered.
“This is so unnecessary.” But I was too weak to fight it.
“It’s okay. I’m right here.” Ahmad said as we all descended from the
ambulance.
I was beginning to feel lightheaded again as I was wheeled into the
hospital with Ahmad by my side. It was a busy day, and there were many
voices around and over me. I heard colours and code numbers called over
the intercom. And if I didn’t feel so ill, I would have found it interesting. A
middle-aged female nurse told Ahmad to wait behind to fill out a form, and
he reassured me that he would be with me in a minute. I nodded as two
other nurses transported me to a private room.
“The EMTs sent off your bloodwork, the doctor should be receiving the
results soon, and she’ll be with you shortly,” one of them said. I nodded.
Under different circumstances, I would have told her she had kind eyes, one
of the most beautiful pairs I’d seen.
Ahmad walked in holding my shoes, clutch and his jacket. He dropped
them on the chair and came to stand by my side. “I gave them your
insurance card from your wallet and filled out a form. Do you need
anything?”
I shook my head.
“Fay-zaa, am I saying that right?” That was the nurse.
“Fa’iza,” Ahmad corrected.
“Thank you,” she replied like she was used to being corrected over
names. “I’m just going to ask you some questions,” she had a tablet in her
hand that she tapped as she spoke.
“Any known allergies?”
I shook my head.
“Any drug use, recreational or prescribed?”
I shook my head again, and she tapped on her screen.
“Have you had any alcohol in the last 24 hours?”
I shook my head.
“Thank you,” she said as she took my blood pressure reading.
“Do you need anything?”
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“Okay, how about water, juice, tea –” he covered my legs with a blanket
as he spoke, carefully tucking the edges around me. “Water, please.”
“Be right back.” He took his jacket and walked out of the room, turning
to look at me as he closed the door.
I smiled weakly. He is caring, kind, sweet – perfect, even. But
Islamically…
“We weren’t able to reach your emergency contact, but we left a
voicemail,” I heard the nurse’s cheery voice. I looked up at her.
As if on cue, I heard an unmistakable voice from the hallway – the
perfect enunciation of English words and the flawless vocalization of my
Arabic name. “I’m Fa’iza Mohammad’s guardian. Which room is she in?”
My heart paused for a fraction of a millisecond, and I had to remind myself,
“I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m not doing anything wrong.” The
cedarwood and jasmine notes of her fragrance wafted into the room as she
did and I smiled weakly; there was something about her scent that just
completed her magical aura, her gait as she walked into the room. Aunty
Mami.
“Fai’za am,” she walked towards me. I tried to sit up, but she gently
urged me back to the sleeping position I was so tired of, “kwanta, kwanta.
Lay down, lay down.” She briefly exchanged greetings with the nurse,
before returning her attention to me. “What happened?” she touched my
forehead, keeping her hands there as she recited a dua, prayer. This was
exactly what Umma would do. “I was at the Iranian ambassadors’ send
forth party when I got the message and came here immediately.”
I tried to speak, but my voice failed me.
She grabbed the chart at the foot of the bed and began to read. “Fainted?
SubhanAllah! Allah ya tsare,” she murmured, her face filled with worry.
The doors opened as a short woman in a doctor’s coat entered the room.
“How’s the patient doing?” she asked. “That was a bit of a scare, ey?”
“What’s going on, doctor?” Aunty Mami asked.
“The blood report just came in. Apart from the low blood pressure and
the vitamin B deficiency, there’s nothing to be worried about,” she said.
Aunty Mami was nodding as she listened to the doctor, asking questions
about what caused everything, what medications I needed to be on, if
another bloodwork was necessary, how to best manage the low blood
pressure. The doctor answered all her questions calmly and when she was
satisfied, she thanked the doctor, who then left to sign my release forms.
We were alone for just a moment when doors opened again. Ahmad was
back with a bottle of water and something else in his other hand. His jacket
was back on, and he was looking at the nutrient sheet on the drink when he
walked into the room, “Bae, I got you Gatorade and some wa –” his voice
trailed off as he looked up and saw his mother standing next to me.
“Ahmad?” There was a surprise look on her face as his eyes moved
from her face to mine.
There was no word to describe the emotion I was feeling, and if there
was, it was definitely not in my vocabulary because I didn’t know how to
articulate it. I had never felt this way before – a weird combination of “God,
please-let-the-ground-open up-and-swallow-me” and “no, this-is-not-what-
you-think-it-is” but then it was what she probably thought it was.
“Mom?” Ahmad walked towards her.
The smile on her face was radiant as he kissed her on her cheek, and
then he looked back at me, unsure of what to do next. He scratched his hair
and dropped the Gatorade on the table next to me. “Oh, did they call you
when they couldn’t reach me?” she asked, watching him unscrew the cap
from the bottled water.
“Who’s they?” he asked, passing the unopened bottle of water to me. I
shook my head.
“The ambulance,” she explained, “I was at Yazdi’s send forth and didn’t
hear my phone ring. You know how these events go – speeches and
speeches and speeches.”
“The Iranian diplomat?” he asked. “The one from the news?”
“That’s him,” she nodded and then turned to look at me, “Fa’iza am,
drink some water. You need it.” She took the bottle from him and helped me
sit up, the hospital pillow serving as a wedge for my back. I couldn’t say no,
so I sat up and took a sip. She looked back at Ahmad. “Thank God they
reached you when I didn’t answer my phone.”
I coughed. The water was too cold. I looked at Ahmad and noticed a
frown forming on his forehead as he tried to make sense of his mom’s
confusion. “Oh no, nobody called me,” he said, leaning back on the wall
and folding his arms.
“Oh?” she asked, looking from me to him.
“I was, um…” he cleared his throat, “we were together when she –
when it happened.”
Is it just me, or is this hospital room cold? I thought. I could see
something hover briefly over her face but couldn’t quite tell what it was
because her attention was now back to Ahmad.
“And where was that?” she asked quietly.
Please don’t say it. Don’t say the Hilton, I prayed silently. There was no
way we could explain our way out of that, and I would die.
He looked at me, then back at his mom. “We were at a restaurant,” he
answered. Thank God! Not a lie. We were having dinner – that part was
true. And Hilton had a restaurant, so it wasn’t a lie.
“Oh,” her reply seemed loaded as she looked at me and then back to
him. I wondered what she thought about us having dinner together. Alone.
“Are you done?” I didn’t realize Ahmad was talking to me until he
added softly, “Fa’iza?” I looked up, still clutching the bottle of water in my
hand. “Are you done?” he gestured toward my hands. I nodded, and he took
the bottle from me, screwed the cap back on and set it on the table with the
Gatorade.
She quietly observed the exchange. You could see from her face that she
had a thousand and one questions running through her mind and was
processing them when the door opened.
“Fa’ee?” We all looked up and there she was – a sight for sore eyes.
Afreen’s presence took away the awkwardness in the quiet room. She
greeted her mom and then, “why is it so hard to find parking here? I got
here about 5 minutes after mom called, but I kept going round and round.”
She squeezed me in a tight embrace, and her voice became a whisper:“what
happened?” I had never been so relieved to see her.
“Low blood pressure,” Aunty Mami answered. I was still finding it hard
to meet her eyes because I was unsure what she thought of the… situation.
But her demeanor hadn’t changed; her tone and attitude were still the same
as they were when she came in.
“You study too much. Don’t be scaring us like this,” Afreen hugged me
again, then she looked up at her older brother. “How did you find parking
quickly?”
“I came with the ambulance,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” Afreen stepped back, properly accessing the situation she
had walked in on, a faint glimmer of a smile dancing around her lips and
mischievous eyes.
The doctor returned with some papers, “Ah, full house. I’ve got your
prescription here and a requisition for another bloodwork in two weeks.”
She was talking to me, but Ahmad took the papers from her. His mom
noticed this and kept an emotionless expression as she adjusted her glasses
quietly.
After a few minutes, we were all set to leave the hospital. “Fa’iza,
you’re coming home with me,” Aunty Mami said.
“Do you need anything from the residence? I can go get it for you,”
Afreen offered.
“No, I left some things at the house the last time I came over. I should
be fine,” I answered.
“Ahmad, are you going to get the prescription?” Aunty Mami asked.
I looked up at him. I couldn’t believe it, but it was hard to miss the
disappointment on his face. Did he think he would be the one to drive me?
Even I knew that was impossible and being alone in the car with Aunt
Mami was the last thing I wanted right now, but luckily Afreen came to the
rescue the second time in one night. “Mom, I’ll come with you, too,” she
said as she threw her car keys to Ahmad, who caught them expertly. “I’m
assuming you need a ride to the pharmacy since your car isn’t here.”
That’s right. His car was still at the underground parkade of the Hilton
downtown.
We went our separate ways. The ride back to the ambassadors’
residence was unexpectedly quiet. Even Afreen was quiet in the car, which
was a surprise. By 10:45 pm, I was tucked into Afreen’s cozy bed instead of
the guest room I usually stayed in.
I was already half-asleep when Aunty Mami came into the room.
“Fa’iza?” she called out gently.
“She’s asleep,” Afreen answered from the bathroom even before I could
even answer.
I heard her drop something on the bedside table next to me. “I brought
zam-zam water for her. She should drink some.” Her footsteps were going
away.
“Goodnight, mummy,” Afreen called out.
“Sai da safe. Goodnight,” Aunty Mami replied as Afreen closed the
bathroom door. Further away, I heard the slight jingle of keys.
“Mom?” I heard the unmistakable baritone of Ahmad’s voice. They met
at the door.
“Did you get them?”
“Yes,” I heard the shuffle of some bags.
“She’s asleep, I’ll give them to her in the morning,” more shuffle, then
“come, we need to talk.” She sounded stern, very unlike her interactions
with him. The door to the room closed and the conversation continued in
the hallway outside. It was hard to hear except for a few sentences here and
there.
“Ahmad, what exactly is going on –” something incomprehensible,
“How –?”
“Mom –” Ahmad’s voice started before it was interrupted.
“You know this girl was entrusted in my care,” she sounded worried.
Not upset, not disappointed – worried. I lost the conversation for a few
seconds, then: “You know I don’t interfere in your life but this one –” I
wish I could hear the remaining conversation. Unfortunately, the sound of
Afreen’s shower drowned their voices as they moved further away.
The following morning, when Afreen woke me up to pray Fajr, the
morning prayer, I saw messages from Ahmad sent after I’d gone to sleep:
I’m here if you need anything and 27 minutes later, Let me know how you’re
feeling. After praying, I sat up in bed and read the Quran.
“Ya jiki? How are you feeling?” Afreen yawned from under the covers.
She’d gone back to sleep after praying and was already dozing off again.
“I’m okay, alhamdulillah,” I folded the hijab and got back under the
covers with her. I replied to Ahmad: I’m feeling better, thanks.
I checked my notifications and saw that I’d missed calls from my mum,
my dad and brothers. They must have heard about my little hospital visit. A
reply from Ahmad came in as I was trying to figure out the time difference:
Can I come see you?
I looked at the time. It was still very early. It might take him another 20
minutes to get here from downtown. I should go say good morning to Aunt
Mami before then, I thought to myself as I typed: sure. As soon as I hit
send, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Afreen answered, her voice was muffled by the pillow over
her head.
Ahmad walked into the room in a white jallabiya and our eyes met
immediately. He smiled at me as he pushed the door close. Afreen was
awake now, and she sat up in bed and looked at her bedside clock as she
scratched her eyes. “Good morning.”
“Afreen,” he walked to her vanity set and dropped her keys by her
mirror. “I filled your tank, and the pressure on your front tires were off, so I
pumped them.”
“Thank you,” she yawned. “Did you sleep here?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and turned around, his eyes finding mine again.
“When last did you sleep here?” she started musing as she looked at me
and then back at him, “Hmm, I wonder why?” she teased as she got up and
went to the bathroom, making a big show of closing the door.
Ahmad moved closer to the bed, pulled out a chair and sat down. His
eyes lingered on my hair and the v-neck of the fleece nightgown I was
wearing. Instinctively I pulled it higher. “You look better,” he observed.
“So, I looked like a mess yesterday?” Between falling unconscious,
being lifted into an ambulance, and being transferred to a hospital bed, I
was glad there was no mirror in sight at the hospital to etch that look in my
memory.
“The prettiest mess there ever was,” his eyes fell to the band-aid on my
wrist from where the needle from the drip had been. He reached out as if to
hold my hand, and then he stopped himself. I looked up at him and noticed
that he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“What is it?” There was something on his mind. Was it regarding the
conversation with his mom the previous night?
“Fa’iza” he leaned closer towards me. I raised an eyebrow. “The whole
alcohol thing,” he stopped to gauge my expression. “I’m going to be honest
with you, like I have always been. It started when I moved to the UK. It was
honestly just a sip here and there.”
I leaned back into the pillow, “still doesn’t excuse it, though.”
He nodded, “you’re right. It doesn’t.”
The door to the bathroom opened, and Afreen walked to the bed,
toothbrush in hand, to get her phone. I waited until the door closed and the
faucet was turned on before I continued. “I just don’t know what else to
expect next.”
“What’s the worst thing you wouldn’t accept?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment, then replied, “honestly, I’ve always
thought that alcohol was the deal-breaker.”
His eyes pierced into mine, then I looked away. “Is there a but?” he
asked.
I couldn’t even look him into the eyes. I glanced up at the ceiling and
sighed, “I couldn’t even break up with you on the spot, like I thought I
would.”
He leaned closer to me, and his scent engulfed my senses. “Listen, I
know this is all too much for you, okay?” He spoke slowly, “You probably
hoped for an ustaadh, someone to teach and move you closer to religion.
Then you got me instead and –”
“I never wanted an ustaadh.” There was nothing wrong with a teacher,
but it wasn’t a huge criterion for me. I just wanted a normal Muslim – one
who didn’t touch women who weren’t his Mahram, didn’t know what
alcohol tasted like and insisted that the kitchen used a different pan to make
his meals at restaurants. Okay, maybe that last part was a bit too much.
“So, are we good?” The room was quiet.
I thought about it and sighed out loud for dramatics, “I don’t know. I
still have questions.”
“Anything.”
“How do I know that you’re not gonna go back to these bad habits in
the future?”
“You never have to worry about that,” his eyes fell to my lips and back
to my eyes. “I promise.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“So, why didn’t you go back downtown last night?” I asked
nonchalantly.
“Because I wanted to be here when you woke up.”
I’m definitely not making a mistake. He’s the one, definitely the one, I
thought to myself, as I felt a flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
Aunty Mami thought it was best to stay over at the house for another
week, while I recuperated. Staying over at the ambassador’s residence had
huge perks – perks you didn’t remember when you were away, like home-
cooked meals, sleeping on something bigger than a twin-sized bed,
breaking my Monday and Thursday fasts with something nice. With a letter
from the doctor, I stayed home all week and attended lectures remotely. I
received lecture notes from Ada and Sara and submitted my questions to the
Professors’ emails.
* * *
Afreen had been busy with her internship at the Mayor’s office coming to
an end, so she was out working for most of the day. When she was gone,
my days started the same, with Aunt Mami asking me if I had taken my
medication whenever I went upstairs to greet her. However, today was
different. She was on the phone when I walked into her room. She smiled
when I walked in in my pink hijab and motioned me to sit down on the bed
next to her. There was a black and white picture of Afreen and Ahmad in a
gold frame by her bedside and I stared at it when she spoke on the phone.
“You’ll see us soon, insha Allah,” she laughed into the phone.
They both looked so much like her. The only thing they got from their
father seemed to be his height. Else, their noses, hair, complexion – it was
all their mom. “She’s here,” Aunty Mami said into the phone, “she just
came in.” She handed me the phone.
“Hello?” I said into the phone.
“Hello. How are you? How are your online classes?”
“Umma, I’m fine, alhamdulillah. Everything’s fine.”
“When is your follow up appointment?” she asked, even though we’d
spoken two or three times daily since I got home from the hospital.
“Tomorrow, insha Allah.”
“Okay, let me know how that goes.”
“Insha Allah. Talk to you later,” I handed the phone back to Aunt Mami
and heard them round up their phone call.
“Fa’iza, must you go back to your hostel tomorrow?” she asked
afterwards.
I had to. As much as I loved staying over at the house, I was missing
crucial evening study sessions and with the final exams approaching, I
needed to get caught up before it was late. But I didn’t say any of this; I just
smiled as she spoke.
She looked at the slight bruise that the needle left on my wrist. “How’s
the hand?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” my voice sounded timid. The dynamics between
us had somehow changed now that she knew that there was something
between Ahmad and me.
She leaned down to open one of her bedside drawers and brought out a
small box. “I got this, but the numbers on the face are too small. I won’t be
able to tell the time without glasses.” She opened it and there was a two-
toned Tissot wristwatch. “I think it would look nice on you,” she passed the
box to me.
“Na gode. Thank you, Aunty Mami,” I said.
This wasn’t just a gift from my mother’s friend; it was a subtle stamp of
approval. Our culture rarely used words to convey what actions could easily
do to show approval or disapproval. She hadn’t discussed Ahmad with me
the entire week; she just based her actions toward me on her conversations
with her son about me.
I