Written in the Stars (10 page)

T
he room in this unfamiliar home is frosty cool as I sit upon the bed. After a hazy car ride, my aunts deposited me here, positioning me in the center, spreading the folds of my red lengha around me, folding my hennaed hands one upon the other. A canopy of strung petals surrounds me.

A wall clock ticks loudly at the far end of this room. The ornate white wooden furniture in this large room is painted with pink flowers and green petals, as are the oversized nightstands and dressers. I keep my gaze fixed on my hands, trying not to listen to the loud voices and laughter outside the room.

“Mubarak!” A female voice offers congratulations. “The wedding couldn’t have gone better!”

“So traditional. I heard she was from America, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she acts,” says another.

“Really, Nasim, she is beautiful. You got it all with your new daughter-in-law!”

I want to feel something. Here in the privacy of this room, I should feel something: anger, panic, fear. Yet nothing comes to the surface.
Maybe,
I think,
if I don’t look up, if I simply look down and never look up again for the rest of my life, the feelings buried within will never rise to the surface.
I can accept the numbness instead of the madness that could follow.

The voices outside the room grow louder. Footsteps approach and then—the door opens. I don’t flinch when it shuts. A lock turns.

But for his movement, silence envelops the room, amplifying his steps and the rustling sound of his kamiz as he walks. I sense him near me. I keep my eyes fixed on my hands, squeezing them tightly. I look at my bracelets. The room grows perceptibly cooler.

He sits down. The bed shifts. I feel him next to me. Looking at me. My head feels heavy. Black spots dot my vision.

He leans close to me. I can feel his breath against my skin.

“May I lift your veil?”

I raise my eyes and see his hands, one on either side of my veil. He lifts it and drapes it around my shoulders. I stare at these hands, the long tan fingers. Suddenly, I recoil. The reality of this moment opens its palm and slaps me across my face:
Whose hands are these?

I look up at the eyes looking back at me. A young man wearing a cream-colored outfit and a white turban is watching me. His face is darker than mine. His eyes are deep brown. I stare into this stranger’s eyes, his intense gaze penetrating me.

I feel dizzy.

The black spots dotting my vision multiply.

I feel heavy, like I am made of lead. Every wall I held up, every ounce of strength I maintained to fight this inevitability now comes crashing down.

* * *

My next memory is one of coldness. A cool towel pressed upon my forehead. I keep my eyes closed and pray my eyes will open to my house and my twin-sized bed that looks out at the crepe myrtle in our Florida yard.

When I look up, my new reality hits me full force. He presses the towel to my head. When he sees my eyes flutter open, he takes a deep breath.

“Thank God, you’re awake.”

I try to sit up, but he places a hand on my shoulder. “Shh . . . lie down, close your eyes. It’s been a long day for both of us, but even longer for you, I’m sure. You need rest.” He reaches across the bed and removes a pillow. I watch him come close to me. He lifts my head and places the pillow underneath. He drapes a white sheet over me.

I watch him walk back to the head of the four-poster bed and take another pillow. Walking to a sofa in the corner of the bedroom, he sits down, placing the pillow on one end. He walks to a closet and pulls out a floral blanket. I watch him lay it on the sofa as well.

I dare not make a move, afraid that if he looks at me again, this small act of kindness will vanish. He walks to the front of the room and turns off the lights. I wait until I hear the sofa creak with his weight before I close my eyes.

T
he thick beige curtains keep the room shaded. Voices echo off the tiled floor just outside.

“Amin, is she coming out? It’s almost noon. Saba set the table over an hour ago, and I spent all morning cooking. Everything is getting cold.”

“I’m sure she’ll be out in a minute. It was a long day yesterday.”

“Still, look at all this food, the cholay, halvah, nihari . . . You know, the butcher gave me such a hard time. I really wanted to serve everything warm. It won’t be tasty otherwise.”

“I’ll go check on her.”

I shut my eyes and draw my covers over myself. The door opens and shuts. I hear another person, her voice sharp.

“She’s taking her sweet time, isn’t she?”

“Stop that,” replies the woman. “She’s a bride. It can take some time to get dressed. Help me put these pots on the stove. Just a little heat, and they will be warm again.”

Footsteps approach the bed.

“Naila?”

I clench my jaw.

“Are you okay?” He tilts his head. “Feeling better?”

I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

“Well, um, I hope you are.” He clears his throat. “Brunch is ready. We would love it if you could join us.”

He stands at the foot of the bed and grips the corner post. He looks at me with a hesitant smile. “Should I tell her you will be out in a few minutes?”

No,
I want to tell him.
I want you to leave me alone. I want you all to just disappear.
But I can’t say any of this. Not until I know my next step.

A small gasp emerges when I enter the dining room fifteen minutes later. I look up. Three women stare back at me. They take in my wrinkled cotton clothing, the shawl draped around my shoulders, the brown slippers on my feet.

Amin’s mother, Nasim, stares at me before shaking her head. “Come join us. It’s our first meal as a family.” She points to an empty chair. Amin sits next to me.

She introduces me to everyone sitting around the table. Saba, her daughter, who I now recognize from earlier meetings at my uncle’s home, is seated to her left. Her reddish-brown hair is cut in a short bob. She rests one bony hand under her severe chin and watches me, unsmiling. Feiza, the other daughter-in-law, is seated on the other side with a little girl in her arms. Feiza’s hair is long and braided; loose tendrils frame her pretty oval face and large eyes, which watch me with curiosity now.

“My son Usman was not able to make it to the wedding,” Nasim says. She sits down across from me. “But you’ll meet him when he comes at the end of the month for his break.”

I fix my gaze on the table linens. My foggy state is wearing off bit by bit, and I am sad to see it go.

“Naila, you’re not eating anything.” Nasim reaches over and takes my empty white plate. She places a freshly tossed puri and a spoon of cholay and brown halva on it. I tug the warm bread with my fingers and swirl the food on my plate.

“Some relatives are coming by today to meet you,” she says. “Choose any outfit from the ones we’ve given you. Our servant can iron it for you if needed.” I feel her watching me, waiting for a response, but I keep looking down at the steaming food on my plate.

“Or,” Nasim rushes on, “Feiza and Saba can help you pick out an outfit and matching jewelry. I’m sure you’re overwhelmed. The wedding happened much sooner than we all thought it would.”

“We are very happy you are a part of our family now.”

I look up at these words. It’s Amin. He’s watching me with a small smile on his lips.

Saif.

His image comes unbidden to my mind, seizing me with such suddenness, I’m afraid I might be sick. I look away and swallow. I press a hand to my side, but of course, my purse is gone.

He must be calling. Texting. He must be worried beyond belief. He has no idea what happened.

* * *

“What about this one?” Feiza lifts a pink outfit with gold sequins. “Nasim picked this one out herself—she thought it suited your complexion. You are very fair, so much fairer than me.” She blushes at this and looks down.

I sit down on the bed. Her daughter toddles up to me. She tugs my kamiz and babbles incoherently.

“Zaina likes you.” Feiza smiles. “She never goes to anyone like that.”

Zaina climbs into my lap. I smile, and somehow the act of moving my lips upward makes my stomach hurt. A tear slips down my cheek.

“Oh, I know. I know it’s hard.” She comes up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I got married three years ago, and I still miss my parents so much. But you’ll see them again. I know Nasim was saying you could go back to see them in two weeks, before they leave to return to America.”

My throat constricts at her words.
Return to America.

“It’s going to be okay. I know what you’re going through.” She sits next to me on the bed and pats my hand.

How can you possibly know,
I want to ask,
when I myself can’t make sense of any of this?

* * *

“Don’t you look nice,” his mother says when I exit the bedroom. “See? This is how a bride should look. Come, let me show you around your new home.”

“I can come too.” Amin makes his way toward us.

“Nonsense.” Nasim bats a hand at him. “This is my one-on-one time with our new bride.”

I trail behind her as she leads the way. “My husband, may he rest in peace, put a lot of care into making this a special house. Everything is up-to-date and modern. It cost a lot of money, but you can see that it looks like houses you have in America.” Nasim opens the dark wooden cabinets of the kitchen, showing me plates, sugar, and spices.

We walk down a hallway painted eggshell white with black-framed family portraits arranged at even intervals. Nasim points out each room, opening them to reveal perfectly made beds and watercolors framed on the walls.

“We gave you the largest room,” she says. I look at her expectant smile but say nothing. “It used to be my room. I had the servants move all my things to the room next door just a few days before the wedding. I wanted you to have the bigger room with the only private bathroom in the house. I thought it would help you feel more at ease.”

I stare at her. What does she want me to say? Do wardens expect gratitude from inmates for the luxuriousness of their cage?

We walk through the family room and living room, each with leather couches and oak coffee tables. Nasim opens two large French doors, leading to an expansive verandah. She points to the wicker furniture and shade trees. “Those trees were pricey, but Amin’s father spared no expense.”

We walk up to the second floor. “I’m sure it’s nothing like what you had back home.” She studies my face. “But we have everything we need. The right attitude can make anything good.”

As I look out from the balcony, I feel light-headed. The fields behind their house stretch beyond the point of perception, a large expanse of green and brown. Closer to the house, a few goats graze next to a round brick well with a small steeple.

“That well is dry.” Nasim nods toward the well. “We have running water in the house, of course. But for mopping or other such things, we use the hand pump.” She points to a metal cylinder in the distance. “We have servants for that. You should still learn how to use it, though. Maybe Saba can show you one day when you’re not a new bride anymore.”

I swallow, turning away from Nasim’s gaze, as the curve of her smile disappears.

I
’ve been here two days. A week and a half to go until I visit my parents.

I step into the bedroom. I don’t need a calendar to know that the university orientation has come and gone. I wonder what Carla thought when I never showed up. What did Saif tell her? I draw a sharp intake of breath.
No.
I shake my head.
I can’t think about him.
I can’t.

Just then, the bedroom door opens. It’s Amin.

Now that I’m clear-headed, I see him as if for the first time. He’s wearing his work clothes, gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a navy blue tie. He’s at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and curly hair. His eyes, with which he looks at me now, are a light shade of brown. In another world, I might even have thought he was handsome.

Since the first night, when he slept on the couch, an uneasy routine has formed. Each night he enters the bedroom. He studies my tense expression. And each night he carefully folds his clothing, places his wallet on the dresser, and throws a pillow on the sofa. I lie in bed, eyes closed but my mind awake, my heart in my throat, wondering what will happen next. So far, nothing has.

This can’t last forever, but I don’t need it to. I will visit my parents soon. Once I’m at my uncle’s house, I’ll figure out what to do. I’ll talk to Selma. I’ll talk to Imran. No matter what, I’m not coming back.

I watch him step into the bathroom. I hear water running. I need to act fast. My only goal is to pretend to be asleep before he steps out of the bathroom. I pull out my earrings and place them on the dresser and slip out of my shoes. I do not hear the bathroom door open. I do not see him step outside. I do not hear him move close to me until he is right behind me.

“Are you okay?”

I turn around and gasp. I take a step back.

Amin’s face colors. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just was wondering if you’re all right.”

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t seem okay.”

“Well, I am.”

“You just seem so sad.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I know the marriage is new and we don’t know each other yet, but you’re my wife, and you won’t even look me in the face.”

Marriage. Wife.
This man, with whom I’ve exchanged no more than two sentences since the day I arrived in this home, dares to call himself my husband? Tears spring fresh to the surface despite my efforts to breathe deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He walks up to the nightstand and pulls a tissue. He hands it to me. “I can’t believe I made you cry.”

We stand in silence for a long minute.

“Florida!” he finally exclaims. I look up at him through my tears.

“Florida?”

“Yes, you’re from Florida, right?”

“Yes,” I say warily.

“What’s it like there?”

I stare at him. First a lecture on being his wife, and now he wants to know about Florida? He walks over to the sofa and sits down.

“They have beaches, right?”

I sit down at the edge of the bed. Small talk. Space, in exchange for conversation.

“Yes.” I nod. “There are many beaches.”

“Were there any where you lived?” He leans back, his hands in his lap.

“There was one just five miles from our house,” I finally reply.

“Did you go often?”

That night, I lie in bed, replaying our conversation. I described to him the sandy beaches of Singer Island and the way the ocean gently lapped onto the beach as seagulls flew overhead. I shook my head in disbelief when he told me he had never seen an ocean in his life. What did this conversation signify? I wonder as I drift to sleep. It doesn’t mean what he might want it to mean, but maybe if I go along with this, these simple requests for conversation, he will spare me just a little while longer.