Written in the Stars (12 page)

Y
ou don’t like the sweets I brought, do you? They’re usually a lot better,” Amin says to me that evening.

“I do like them.” I take another bite of the round yellow ladu. “I’m just stuffed now.”

“There’s another store, a little farther away. I’ll come home early, and we can go there together.” He leans in. “And, don’t tell anyone yet, but next week? When you get back from your uncle’s, we’re going somewhere special. It’s a surprise, though.”

“Amin, I need to talk to you.” It’s Nasim. She walks up to us with crossed arms.

In an instant, his playful expression is gone. “I’m not in the mood today.”

“Amin. It wasn’t a question.”

I watch him exhale. He turns to me with an apologetic expression before following Nasim to her bedroom. Saba glares at me and pushes her chair back. I watch her stomp away.

These arguments between Nasim and Amin are new. Every night, for the past few days, they stay in her bedroom, exchanging angry words. Each argument ends the same, a loud slam of the door and Amin walking into the bedroom breathing heavily.

Today is no different. I hang my clothes in the armoire. Angry voices vibrate through the wall, but I can’t make out the words. I part my hair and braid it, tying the ends with dark rubber bands. Just then, a door slams. The windows rattle; the watercolor paintings tremble.

The bedroom door swings open. Amin’s cheeks are flushed. I try to meet his gaze, but he looks away and marches toward the bathroom. I stand frozen until I hear the shower running.

He emerges from the shower several minutes later, a towel around his waist, his hair slick. I take a step back. He seems to hardly notice I’m there. I watch him open the closet by the sofa. He grabs his pajamas and walks back to the bathroom.

I sit down at the edge of the bed. I’m starting to feel unsettled. He’s the one who normally tries to make conversation, trying to lighten the mood. I’ve never seen him this somber before. He steps out of the bathroom now and walks over to the closet. His expression remains grim.

I’m tempted to just turn off the light and go to sleep, but I stand up, making my way toward him.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

No response. He stands up and pulls a sheet from the closet and tosses it onto the sofa.

Nasim is skilled at twisting words until they cut deep enough to bleed. I can’t believe she’s doing this to her own son. He’s been nothing but kind to me, and now he suffers because of it.

I step closer to him. His back is turned. One hand rests on the top shelf of the closet.

“You can talk to me, you know.” I tap his arm. “What’s wrong?”

At this, he turns around. I take a step back, not realizing how close I was until just now. Amin moves even closer, filling the empty space between us.

“Naila?” He reaches out and grabs my hand. I flinch. His callused hands feel like needles pricking me, drawing blood. “We’re married. We’re husband and wife. I want us to be happy, I really do.”

I pull my hand from his and draw back.

“I don’t understand.” He lets out a loud breath. “I’ve tried really hard to help you feel comfortable, but you just can’t stand the sight of me.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then? Please tell me. What can I do to help you be more comfortable here? When will you look at me like a wife is supposed to look at her husband?”

There’s nothing you can do.
I stare at the floor, unable to meet his gaze.

Sleep eludes me tonight. The way he looked at me, his hand against mine—

Stop it,
I tell myself.
He’s a good person.
I shift again, pressing the pillow to my body.
He’s my friend.
I just need him to be my friend for two nights. Just two more before I can leave.

M
y last night. I step into the bedroom and unzip my suitcase, placing my things inside. I glance inside the top drawer of the dresser, filled with jewelry. I pull out the gold and ruby necklace and emerald earrings my mother gave me. I zip up the suitcase and rest it against the wall.

Our conversation from last night rings in my head. “We’re husband and wife,” he said. His words leave me cold. How can this be a marriage? I am here against my will. He is not my husband. He’s someone I must endure. Nasim is not my mother-in-law; she’s just a warden. This is not a home. It is a cage.

I realize it is not fair to Amin that he married me, but what about any of this is fair?

I secure the bathroom door before changing. When I step outside, the bedroom is still empty. I turn off the lights and get into bed.

The voices next door are louder tonight. I tense. I can hear Nasim say in a muffled voice, “Going home . . . not welcome . . . set her straight . . . What kind of marriage . . . drop her back . . . tell her parents . . . keep her . . .”

“You know what would happen if we did that!” he bellows, unequivocally clear.

“I know . . . you two never . . . decide . . . she won’t return . . .”

Did I hear her right?

Nasim wants me gone. Nasim wants Amin to drop me off at my uncle’s for good. I hadn’t imagined this, not even in my wildest fantasies. If Nasim wants me gone, it’s as good as done.

I squeeze my hands together. My parents will be angry when I return home like rejected merchandise, but what choice will they have but to take me back? I imagine my mother’s lips pressed tightly together. Her eyes wet with tears. My father may never speak to me again, but right now none of this matters. What matters is I can go home!

I settle back into bed when another thought overtakes me.
Set her straight.
What did that mean? I do everything she asks of me. What more can she demand? Suddenly, I freeze. No. I shake my head. His mother is a strong force, but his character is ultimately his own. He would never do that.

When Amin finally comes in, I watch him through half-closed eyes as he goes into the bathroom. He shuffles in the darkened room. I hear him fumble with his sheets and then silence overtakes the room.

Slowly, I allow my body to relax. I lie on my side, one hand under my pillow, sleep finally overtaking me. I think of Saif. I’ll see him again soon. I’ll wrap my arms around his neck. I’ll kiss his lips. Soon I will be safe.

Suddenly, I stir. I feel a strange sensation on my neck, hot and humid. I stiffen.

“Naila?” His voice is low. My pulse quickens. I close my eyes and try to remain still. His warm breath burns my neck. The bed shifts. He’s moving closer.

“Naila.” He runs a hand through my hair. His fingers trace my jaw, my cheek, my lips.

I gasp as his lips press against my neck. “What are you doing?” My voice is unrecognizable to my ears. Instead of moving away, he edges closer. I try to sit up, to reach for the light on the nightstand, but his hands press against my shoulders, pushing me down. I twist my body, trying to wrench free, but I can’t move. I press my hands against his chest, but he seems not to notice. “Please don’t,” I weep as I beat my hands against him. I can’t move. His weight overpowers me. In the dark I can’t make out his face, his eyes. He can’t see my tears. Who is this person? Where is the man I knew these past few weeks?

I try turning my face from him. I try to stop him from touching me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. My arms are pinned behind me. My body is racked with sobs as he pulls at my clothing. Screams are useless; they mean nothing in a home of conspirators. “Naila”—his breathing grows more labored—“forgive me.”

Suddenly, I scream. Pain envelops me. The world is white, illuminated with pain.

I lie still after, staring up at the ceiling, silent tears falling down my cheek.

“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks. “I didn’t have a choice.”

I press the sheets tightly around myself. I feel numb.

My mind empty but for one thought, one irrational yet clear thought that continues to echo through my mind so forcefully, I fear I might go mad:
Saif. You didn’t come in time.

M
y suitcase leans against the wall of the tiled foyer.

Feiza’s daughter, Zaina, totters over with careful but clumsy steps. She gazes at my suitcase and then curiously at me before tugging at my kamiz. I look into her wide brown eyes. She giggles and turns around, waddling away with a squeal. I try smiling, but I can’t. I am empty.

Footsteps approach. Nasim protests, “Amin, there is no need—you will be late for work. I’ll call and get Nuzzhat’s driver to take her.”

Amin says nothing. He grabs the handle of the suitcase and steps outside.

He opens the back door of the car and places the suitcase inside. Nasim follows me as I step outside. Her usual angry expression is gone. She is smiling.

“We’ll see you when you get back, Naila.”

The engine hums to life. I look out the window as brick and concrete homes pass by. Dullness cloaks me. All emotions, all energy, vanished for good.

We swerve to avoid a pothole, and I glimpse a young girl of about eight standing on the side of the road, holding a little boy’s hand. Dark hair pokes out of her red scarf. I once held my brother’s hand. I once led him to kindergarten just as she grips his hand to cross the street. Was that my life once? I wonder. It feels like it was two lifetimes ago.

* * *

Amin parks the car on the side of the road by my uncle’s home. Turning the engine off, he watches me.

“Naila.” He touches my arm.

I wince and pull away. My eyes well with tears.

“Naila.” His voice catches in his throat. “I wish I could explain it to you. I had no choice.” He pauses. “I am sorry.”

Wordlessly, I step out of the car. My uncle locked me in a barred room. My parents drugged me and forced me into this marriage. I didn’t think anything could get worse, but today, for the first time, I know what it is like to feel completely broken.

S
he’s here! She’s here!” a voice shouts from a distance. My five-year-old cousin Lubna is running out of the house. She makes her way toward me and hugs me. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too.”

Amin carries my suitcase. Aunts and uncles and cousins now stream out of the house to welcome us. Looking out at the faces smiling at me with expressions of love, I feel nauseous.

“Look at you!” Khala Simki’s eyes light up as she hugs me. She seems not to notice my hands hanging limp at my sides. “Marriage has done you good. Look how beautiful you are!”

My mother approaches me. Her eyes crease with her smile. “Beta.” She reaches out to embrace me, but no—I can’t. I take a step back and look away.

She clears her throat. “It’s so good to see you again, Amin.” She turns to him. “Thank you,” she says, “for letting her stay with me for a little while before we leave.”

“Where’s Imran?” I ask.

“Oh.” My mother adjusts her scarf. “Well, your father and Imran had to leave. Imran had school, and your father had to get back to the store.”

“They’re gone?” Amin says incredulously. “You should have called us. I could have dropped her off sooner so she could say good-bye.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” my mother says, “and we didn’t want to bother you.”

My brother and father are gone.

I try to process this.

They’ve resumed their life, as though I was never a part of it. I want to feel something, but no emotion rises to the surface. I feel outside of myself, observing events in a parallel universe I no longer inhabit. Conversations swirl around me. Hugs. Smiles. Kisses. They all seep through me completely.

Bilal grabs the suitcase from Amin, while my chacha, who has yet to look in my direction, ushers Amin into the living room. I sit down on the sofa. My mother sits next to me. She grips my hand. I hear the chimes of teacups and look up. It’s Selma. She’s holding a wooden tray with chai; her eyes are downcast.

Selma,
I want to call out to her,
look at me. Are you okay?
I swallow. I know now is not the time.

“We went to Lahore, all of us, three different cars. It was pure chaos.” My mother’s voice is higher than usual. “I got you a few more outfits. I think you’ll like them.” She squeezes my limp hand.

Glass plates filled with colorful sweets are placed on the coffee table. I look around the room. There are no remnants of the tears so recently shed in this very home. This is once again a respectable house filled with respectable people. They are now loving relatives welcoming a newly married, dearly missed daughter, back for her brief visit.

I feel sick.

“I have to get to work.” Amin stands up.

“Already?” My mother frowns. “We made so much food. We thought you would stay until dinner.”

“She’s right.” Khala Simki emerges from the kitchen. “This is your first time in our house as a married couple. We are making five different dishes and—”

“I’m sorry.” Amin walks into the foyer and slips on his shoes.

I stay seated. My relatives hover close by.

“I’ll see you later,” Amin mumbles as he steps outside.

I don’t turn around.

* * *

I walk down the hall to the bedroom I inhabited just a few weeks ago. I have just stepped inside when I hear a gentle tap on the door. It’s Selma.

“I’m so happy to see you.” She plays with the edge of her scarf. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, but how can I do that? I can’t not speak to you.”

At this my face flushes and my hands involuntarily begin trembling. Selma rushes up to me.

“Sit.” She places an arm around me and guides me to the bed. “Are you okay?”

Her warmth unleashes all the pain inside of me. I fear I might never stop crying. Selma says nothing, holding me firmly in her embrace. “I know,” she says. “It was never supposed to be this way.”

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. I look at Selma, and for the first time, I really see her. Where did these new circles, dull and dark, under her eyes come from? Why hadn’t I noticed them earlier?

“What did they do when they found out you helped me?”

“Nothing happened.” She looks at her hands. “I got lucky—nothing happened to me.”

“Selma. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, but you don’t have to be strong with me. What did they do?”

“Nothing.” She smiles at me, though her eyes are moist now.

I watch my cousin study the edge of her kamiz with careful scrutiny. She’s done more for me than I could have ever imagined, and I have no idea what price she paid for it.

I wanted to ask her to help me, but I can’t make her pay any more. I take a deep breath and wipe the tears from my eyes. “Let’s go outside and see everyone. They’ll wonder what we’re up to, cooped up in here by ourselves.”

“But you just were crying. Something is the matter,” Selma begins. “You have to tell me what happened. You know you can still talk to me about anything.”

I shake my head and stand up. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. I got a little emotional coming back home after all this time. I’m fine.”