Written in the Stars (13 page)

A
re you happy, Naila?” my mother asks the next day. We are in the living room surrounded by people. She takes a sip of tea and watches me.

I stare at her. How can she ask me this? As though nothing has happened? My face flushes. I can’t speak.

“I’m leaving Tuesday, but you’ll be back with us soon enough. I hear they’re granting visas faster these days.”

Khala Simki leans in. “You know Shamim’s son? He got married to an American girl three years ago. Her parents let the bride go back to the US without him!” She raises her eyebrows. “They said he can come when he gets his visa. Three years have gone by, and the girl never even came back! His parents are threatening divorce if she doesn’t come back soon.”

My mother frowns. “She went back to finish school, didn’t she? That’s the one, right?”

“Yes. Now, you tell me, what is more important? Finishing school? Or your marriage? So Naila might miss out on a year or two of college, but priorities are priorities!”

“A year or two?” I look at my mother.

She fidgets and looks into her teacup. “Usually it only takes six months or so, but I think Amin is working on a visa for his mother to come for a little while and to help everyone settle in because his sister will be joining them too. I think the extra paperwork might delay things a little bit, but no more than a year.”

I swallow, pushing back the words rising like bile in my throat.
Not now,
I tell myself. I haven’t found a way out. Until I do, I can’t risk their suspicion.

“In some ways this is a good thing.” My mother looks at me. “This way Naila can spend time with her new family. It’s good now in the early years to develop an attachment, a bond with his mother and family.”

At this, my khala laughs. “So tell me, does a wife ever bond with her husband’s mother?” She stops laughing abruptly and looks at my mother, her face reddening.

My mother looks at her sister and shifts in her seat. “That is a problem in our culture.” She places her teacup on the side table. “That is why we were interested in Amin’s family. His mother is a good woman. She’s educated. Those things show. I also watched how she treated her other daughter-in-law. It comforted me. I wouldn’t have let you marry just anyone without making sure.” My mother searches my face for a response, but despite my greatest effort, I can do nothing but stare at her.

* * *

The conversation continues in the main room, but I take my cup to the kitchen and set it down in the sink. Walking down the hallway, I go into my parents’ bedroom. I open the drawers in the nightstand, the dresser, the armoire. Maybe my father left my phone behind. Maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find it. I put my hands on my hips and look around the room.

“It’s gone.”

I freeze. Selma is at the door, watching me.

“What’s gone?”

“The phone. Your dad, he destroyed it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “I saw the broken pieces in the trash can after you got married.”

I walk to the window and look outside. The sun is full center in the sky, its blinding heat frying the plants just sprouting from the ground. I grip the edge of the windowsill, but my knees buckle under me. I sink to the floor.

Selma sits next to me and squeezes my hand. After a few moments of silence, she speaks. “Is he kind to you? He seems kind.”

“He’s kind.” I let out a harsh laugh. “Very kind.”

“Does he hit you? Does he yell at you?”

“No,” I tell her, “he doesn’t.”

“Good. This world, it’s full of so many bad men. They beat their wives. They scream at them and intimidate them. When I saw him at the wedding, I could tell he looked like a good man. I see the way he looks at you with respect. How many people look at their wives the way he looks at you? I know you didn’t want this, but in some ways you are lucky.”

“Selma, I don’t love him.” I turn to her and grip her hands. “I need you to help me. You’re the only one who can. Please. I can’t go back to that house. I just can’t. Do you know where the calling cards are? Your parents must have them still. I know you have already done so much for me, but if you could just get one calling card for me, just one, I’d be forever grateful to you.”

“I don’t know where they keep them anymore.”

“Selma, I know I’ve gotten you in trouble. I’m so sorry, but please, just tell me where they are. I won’t ask you for anything again.”

“Why do you want to call him?”

I stare at her. “Why do you think I want to call him? I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. He has no idea what happened. I need to tell him. I can only imagine what’s going through his head. He has a right to know. Maybe he could help me—”

“And what good will it do if you call him?” she interrupts. “Is he going to come and take you away from here? He couldn’t do it last time.”

“Fine.” I stand up. “Don’t help me. I’ll leave on my own. I’ll find a way out.”

“You’re going to try to escape again? Do you know how closely they’re watching you? Try stepping into the kitchen for water tonight. Look and see how many people come out to check. Chacha is making Bilal, our servant, sleep on a charpay by the front door the whole time you’re here. They’re all smiling and acting as if everything is fine, but they’re not taking any chances.”

“So there must be some other way.” My voice wavers. “If we just think hard, we can figure it out.”

Selma rubs her temples with her fingers.

“Selma,” I plead. “You’re like my sister. You’ve been on my side from the start. Please don’t turn your back on me now. I need you.”

“I’m not turning my back on you. How could I ever do that? But I’m telling you, there’s nothing more to be done. Where are you going to go? Even if you left this house? I have no more money. How far can you get?”

“I can go through the fields.” My voice rises. “I’ll zigzag through, I’ll keep going. I have jewelry. It must be worth something.”

“They’ll find you. No matter where you go, they’ll find you. He can’t help you anymore.”

“If I could talk to him, he might.” My voice breaks into sobs.

“Naila, just think about it for a second. Really think about it. Is this fair to him?”

“To Amin?” I shriek.

“To Saif. Is this fair to Saif?”

“Selma.” I stare at her. “Saif loves me. He would do anything for me.”

“I know he does, but things have changed. You are not the same person anymore. Honestly ask yourself, is this fair to him? My mother always says when you fight destiny, destiny fights back. Some things, they’re just written in the stars. You can try, but you can never escape what’s meant to be. You’ve tried. You both tried very hard to fight your destiny, but things didn’t improve—they just kept getting worse. If you really love Saif, stop torturing him. Let him be free to move on. To live his life.”

I want to yell at Selma right now, but something about her words settles like ice over my heart. How many sleepless nights have I given Saif? From the start of our relationship, he’s had to hide and sneak and change everything about himself. I’ve given him nothing but paranoia, fear, and now, pain and worry. I’m caught and contained. Am I supposed to drag him along? For how much longer? College classes start next week, but my dreams of college vanished the day I stepped off the plane. Reaching out means asking him to destroy his dreams too. I close my eyes as tears slip down my face.

Selma is right. The harder I struggle, the more painfully destiny pushes down my fate. How long can I push against it? Should love involve pulling the person you claim to love deeper into your own destructive life, to be destroyed along with you? Saif and I tried. We failed.

Only a few months ago, I saw him sitting across from me in the moonlit night in the forest behind my parents’ home. I remember resting my head against his chest. I remember the security I felt. I was safe from the world. I close my eyes, longing to find that feeling again, but instead all I find is emptiness. I can never fill this void. Selma is right. The girl Saif loved is dead. Some things, once lost, are irretrievably gone.

I
t takes me most of the night to write it. But finally, the letter is complete. I seal the worn envelope I found tucked in Selma’s drawer. This envelope once held the money with which I tried to escape. Now it seals my fate. I write Saif’s name and the address of our old high school on the letter. Eventually it will make its way to him. Eventually he’ll know what happened and will be able to put this part of his life behind him.

The sky is getting brighter; light shines through the barred window. I look over at Selma, who is rousing from sleep. I get up and walk over to her.

“What is this?” asks Selma, looking at the paper in my hands. She rubs her eyes and sits up.

“It’s the last favor I’ll ask of you.” I wipe away a tear. “You were right. I can’t do this to him. But I have to let him know. I can’t let him wonder. It will only hurt him more. Please send this for me. I won’t ask you for anything else.”

Selma takes the envelope and looks at me, her eyes watering. “I never wanted this for you.”

“I know.” I look away. “But this is my life now. It’s time I accept it.”

* * *

That afternoon, at a quarter to twelve, there is a knock on the door.

My chachi frowns. Bilal opens the door. It’s Amin.

“Amin.” My mother stands up. “What a surprise! Come in. We are just about to eat lunch.”

“We need to go. I came to take Naila back,” Amin responds from the doorway.

“What do you mean?” My mother walks up to him. “My flight is tomorrow.”

Amin looks at me.

“Is it okay if we leave?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

Chachi walks into the foyer. “Is everything okay? Your mother is well?”

“She’s fine.”

“At least stay for lunch, then?” My mother’s voice wavers. “Or chai? I can start boiling the water. It will only delay you a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry.”

My mother stares at him.

A tense silence settles over the room. Bilal brings my small black suitcase and hands it to Amin. I walk past my mother toward the front door.

The brightness of the sun reflects off the metal exterior of his car.

“Wait!” my mother calls out. She walks up to us.

“I’ll call you when I land,” she says. Tears flow down her face now. Her cheeks are flushed. She hugs me tightly. “I love you.”

I open the car door.

“No good-bye?”

I’ve avoided saying anything to her since I came back yesterday. I’ve stayed quiet. But I think of Saif, of everything I lost, and suddenly my anger is a sensation so hot, I can taste it. It burns on my tongue.

“Good-bye?” I repeat. I stare at her. “All my life, I did everything I could to be a good daughter. I followed all the rules. I did everything to make you proud of me, and for what? You sold me off. You threw me away like a dirty towel you didn’t want anymore, and now? Now, you want heartfelt good-byes from me?”

“Naila.” My chacha lowers his voice and presses a hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t the time or the place—”

“No!” I shove his hand off of me. My voice breaks. A tear slips down my face. “You don’t get to tell me the time or place for anything anymore.” I look at my relatives. Their arms are crossed. They wear frozen smiles on their faces. Amin is sitting in the running car. I don’t know if anyone can hear me, but I no longer care.

“You’re my daughter. My only one.” My mother’s voice breaks into sobs. “We did what we did for you.”

“I
was
your daughter. I’m not anymore.”

I feel my mother’s gaze on me as the car pulls away.

I never want to look at her again.

T
he car ride home is silent. The servants open the steel gates, and Amin pulls into the carport. Nasim and Saba walk outside, shielding their eyes from the sun. They watch us approach.

“Welcome home.” Nasim hugs me. “Ruqaya, my dear friend, stopped by for some chai. I didn’t realize you’d be home so soon. Come in and meet her.”

I step into the foyer.

“There she is!” I look up and see Ruqaya. Short and perfectly round, she wears a bright yellow salwar kamiz and smiles at me widely before she clears her throat and then, slowly, in broken English says, “It is nice . . . to meet you.”

I swallow and look back at her.

“That bad?” She laughs, switching back to Urdu. “Well, maybe now that you’re here, you can teach me how to speak it properly.”

I look down at the ground. Just days earlier, I thought I would never have to set foot in here again.

“I’m making some tea.” Nasim takes my hand and leads me toward the kitchen. “Just help me set out the biscuits, and you can teach Ruqaya all the English she wants.”

“We need some time alone,” Amin says.

“First, some tea.” Nasim looks at Amin with surprise. “And then you can have as much alone time as you want.”

“It can’t wait.”

Nasim releases her grip. “Fine. I’m starting the tea—don’t be long.”

I follow him toward the bedroom. I watch him lock the door. My heart races.
My knee,
I think.
If he dares try . . .

“Have a seat.” He points to the worn sofa but catches my expression. His voice falters. “I mean, only if you want to.”

It’s been only a few days, but I’m shocked at the depth of betrayal I feel. I had no right to expect anything from him. Still, the humiliation stings.

Amin paces the length of the room, his jaw tense and angular. “First, I’m sorry.” He stops and looks at me. His eyes redden. “No, sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. I had no right. I have no excuse. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.”

He sits down on the bed across from me. “Since you left, I’m haunted with one question. I keep thinking, why does my wife look at me like she does? Why do I have to work so hard to bring one smile to her face? What did I do wrong?”

I watch him rub his temples with his fingers. His tone is heavier than I’ve ever heard it before.

“I remember when I first saw you. You were wearing a lavender salwar kamiz. You were so different from any other girl I ever met. I must have met twenty others before you, but you know what made me certain I wanted to marry you? It was when we first met and you looked up at me while serving tea and you smiled. Most girls look away, but you looked me directly in the eyes. I thought in that moment we shared some sort of connection. But since then I’ve never seen a smile like that again on your face. And I have been driving myself crazy in all these weeks trying to figure out what happened, what changed to take away your smile.”

I stare at him, trying to recall the moment he remembers as vividly as I don’t.

“Then I thought, maybe it’s because I can’t provide her with the lifestyle she is used to. She is from America, and life is very different there. But the more I thought about it, the way your father just left, the way you looked at your mother. Something didn’t make sense.” He looks at me. “Then it hit me last night. I realized what it was. You didn’t want this, did you?”

I look at him.

“That’s what I thought.” His face clouds over. “I’m the man they made you marry.” He is silent for a few moments. “Why?” he finally asks. “Why did they do it? Was there someone else? Is that why you didn’t want to marry me?”

“Amin,” I blurt out, “it’s
because
there was someone else that all of this ever happened. None of this was my choice.” I press a hand against my mouth, trying to regain composure. “His name is Saif.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but tears trail down my cheeks.

Amin swallows. “Oh,” he says. “I see . . . I had no idea.” His voice trails off. “They forced you to marry me.”

I look down, unable to speak.

“Do you want to leave?” His eyes are now downcast.

Is this a trick?
I wonder.
Does yes mean he will unlock the keys to my cage? Or is he trying to gauge my risk of flight?

I hold my breath and then, “Yes,” I say, looking at him. “I want to leave.”

Amin swallows. “I wish life were that simple. I wish I could tell you to just go. But I can’t tell you that. Maybe I could have five years ago, when I was younger and knew less about the way the world works. But one thing I have learned in this life is that you have no control over it. Life chooses us. We think we can control it, but we can’t.”

“There are some things we can control. You can change this. You can.”

“Change what?” he asks. “Change the fact that your uncle will probably kill you if I send you back?”

“Kill me?” I repeat. “Look, Amin, I know he has a temper but—”

“It’s more than a temper, Naila.”

“It doesn’t matter. He knows my father would never let that happen.”

“The same father who did this to you?” he asks. “Besides, we can control many things. But not whom we marry. Our marriage was written before we ever existed. We could no more keep this marriage from taking place than we could control the weather.” He looks at me. “If you think I want this, I don’t. How can I be happy when my wife finds me repulsive? When she will never trust me again? But what can I do? Not only would your life be in danger, we would bring shame to both our families. The little chance my sister has of getting married would be gone.” He shakes his head. “I wish I had known all this before we ever got married. I was deceived—my whole family was. Just like you, I feel cheated. But it’s too late now. We cannot escape our destiny. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing I can do.”

As I watch him get up and walk away, every ounce of hope—the hope I didn’t know until now I had bottled up and stored away—shatters, vanishing into the air. My prior life is now better left as a figment of my imagination, a reality wrenched away for good.

Part Three