Written in the Stars (6 page)

I
’m hoping to have a moment alone when we get back home to call Saif. But as usual, I’m interrupted by the sound of small footsteps and then knocks pounding on the bedroom door. I open it. Maaria, my youngest cousin, lifts her plump arms up. I suppress a frustrated sigh.

I can’t wait much longer. I need to talk to Saif. Today.

I lift Maaria up and make my way to the kitchen. All the women are here. Selma is sitting on a stool, laughing at a conversation between my mother and aunts. Ami’s eyes brighten when she sees me. Selma slides to the edge of her stool, making room for me.

“Come over. We’re settling an important matter.”

“What’s that?” Maaria squirms and slides out of my arms.

“Ami says chai isn’t chai if you don’t add cinnamon, and your khala thinks—”

“That if you add too many flavors, it becomes its own meal, totally defeating the purpose,” Khala Simki finishes.

I sit pressed next to Selma and listen to their conversation, jumping as it always does from one topic to the next. The fan circles overhead at a steady hum.

Just then, I hear footsteps. My father. He walks up to the counter. “Chai? If you are making some, I will not decline a cup.”

“Of course!” Khala Simki exclaims. “We are making it for you, after all.”

I am watching him go up the stairs, teacup in hand, when suddenly it hits me: the rooftop.

Of course.

Suddenly I feel lighter as I think of Saif.

* * *

I pull the bedsheet to my chest and strain my ears. Silence. I squint at the glowing display of my phone: 4:00
A.M.

I sit up and slip on my sandals. I look over at Selma, but her eyes are shut, her breathing steady. I turn the knob to the door and open it just wide enough to slip outside.

My eyes slowly adjust to the pitch-black hallway. I press my hands against the concrete wall, feeling my way to the entrance of the stairs, and make my way up, praying it’s unoccupied tonight. Mamu Latif and his family already left, and Khala Simki’s husband has also gone home. The house is emptier, and I breathe a sigh of relief—the flat space is empty. The air is thin and cool. I walk to the edge of the rooftop. I am engulfed in darkness, invisible. I pull out my phone and dial the number. The phone rings, and my stomach fills with butterflies for both the chance to finally talk to him and for what I have to say.

“Hello?” His voice sounds crisp, clearer than I expected.

“Saif! I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Naila. Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” He exhales. “I just haven’t talked to you in so long! I miss you.”

“I’m fine. Really. The rooms in the house echo, and there are so many of us staying here that it’s impossible to find a minute alone. If it wasn’t for this rooftop, I’m not sure we’d be able to talk at all.”

“It’s okay. It’s just, finally, I get to hear your voice. I’m counting down the days until Wednesday. I think Carla is too, the way she’s blowing up my phone every day asking if you’re back yet. I can’t wait to see you. I can come out to the same spot we met at last time?”

“Well . . .” My voice trails off.

“It’s Wednesday, right?”

“No, you’re right.” I pace the rooftop. “Well, you
were
right. We were supposed to come back that day. It’s just that the trip got extended a little bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents extended our trip an extra week, but don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m actually having a good time here.”

He’s quiet for a minute.

“It’s okay, Saif, really. You should see my parents. They’re laughing and smiling. It’s almost like nothing happened. I think this trip is going to help them relax, help them see things better when we get back, about us. Orientation isn’t until mid-July anyways. Honestly, the longer we’re here, the happier they look.”

“That’s great,” he finally says. “I just miss you, I guess.”

“I know. I miss you too. But it’s just an extra week. I’ll see you soon.”

We hang up the phone, and I smile and press it close to me.

I
pull my suitcase to the ground. The week is nearly over. Time passed faster than I could have imagined with my days spent with Selma, wandering the house, the village, and sharing stories. Imran, Sohail, Selma, and I even managed to make our way over to the watering hole bordering the village, where my father once learned to swim. We promised not to splash one another but came home dripping with water, laughing so hard, our stomachs ached.

I unzip my suitcase now and fold my clothes, gather my books, and collect the white plastic bags holding newly stitched clothing, some I have yet to even try on. I set the suitcase against the bedroom wall before heading toward the kitchen.

Passing by the bedroom where my parents are staying, I glance inside.

This can’t be right.

I look at the quilted bedspread, the lacy pillows propped up against the wall, and the large black suitcases with pink stitching on the handles. They lie open and empty, side by side in the corner of the room, just as they have since we arrived. I step inside and walk to the closet. My mother’s clothes are still on their metal hangers. On my father’s nightstand, his books of poetry are still stacked like a leaning tower.

I make my way to Imran’s room. He’s lying on the bed with his eyes closed, tapping his foot. One headphone is in his ear, while my cousin Sohail listens with the other. Sohail’s eyes are closed, his arms limp and to his side; small snores escape his mouth.

“Imran?” I knock on the open door. Imran gives me a half wave. I walk into the room, stepping over his newly purchased CDs scattered across the floor. “Why aren’t you packed?”

Imran removes the white earpiece from his ear and sits up. “Why would I be packed?”

“Because we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You mean Ami didn’t tell you? They extended our ticket again. We’re staying at least another month.”

Blood rushes to my head. A week was fine, but a month? And from what Imran just said, an uncertain month at that, tempered with the words
at least
?

“What’s wrong?” Imran asks. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“It’s just . . . my college orientation. It’s next week. I already told Carla I’d room with her.” But the thought that sticks hardest:
Why am I the last to know?

“That sucks,” Imran says. “They must have just forgotten with us being here and everything. Just tell them, they can always change their plans.”

“Aren’t you upset about it? Don’t you want to go home too?”

“Nah. Abu bought Sohail a PlayStation and I can buy all the bootleg DVDs I want. I’m cool with staying.”

* * *

“One month!” Saif exclaims into the phone. It’s four o’clock in the morning. His loud voice makes me wince. “This is insane! What about orientation?”

“I know.” I grip the phone tightly. “I’m angry too. I went to talk to them after my brother told me, but they just kind of brushed it off. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everyone. There are just always so many people here. So many interruptions,” I tell him. “Don’t worry, I’m going to talk to them tomorrow and figure out what’s going on.”

“You’re going to miss the tour. The sign-up for mentoring. The mixers. Everything. Why are they doing this?”

“They probably forgot about orientation,” I tell him. “When I talk to them in the morning, I’m sure it’ll all get straightened out. Maybe I can leave earlier.” I hope desperately that what I’m saying is true. What I don’t tell him is just how unnerving those unpacked suitcases in my parents’ bedroom really were.

* * *

The next morning, I find my mother in the kitchen with my aunts, mixing spicy potatoes into dough for breakfast. She slathers butter onto the flattened bread before she hands it to my aunt to toss onto the stove. Chachi stands by the stove, pouring milk into a large metal pot for our tea.

We should be on a plane right now,
I think.
We should be halfway around the world.
And yet here my mother stands, as though nothing is the matter. She laughs, lost in conversation, so busy she doesn’t notice me standing there. I don’t know how to get her alone to begin the conversation I know I must have.

After breakfast, I find my opportunity when my mother walks unaccompanied out into the courtyard. I make my way outside. She sits on a bench underneath a thin drooping tree, a glass of water in one hand.

I sit next to her. “I thought we were leaving by now. I’ve packed and everything.” I force a laugh. “When is the flight? When are we leaving?”

“Hmm, the flight?” She takes a sip of water and looks at me.

“Ami, Imran told me we might be here for a month longer. That’s not true, is it?”

My mother waves a hand to swat a fly buzzing close to her face. “No. We were considering a month, but your father and I were talking yesterday, and we changed our minds.” She takes another sip of water.

I let out a deep breath. A simple misunderstanding, that’s all this was.

“The biggest issue was the dry cleaning business,” she continues. “Ever since your father opened the second one, it’s been so busy, but luckily, Javier needs more hours. He told your father he’s handling both fine, so we’re going to stay for the rest of the summer.”

No.
I stare at her.
This can’t be happening.
“But, Ami, my college orientation! It’s next week.”

“Naila, really! Your orientation? How often do we come to Pakistan? Do you have any idea how much these tickets cost your father? This trip is not all about you. You can orient yourself when you get back.”

“But it’s mandatory.” My voice trembles. “Abu already paid for it.”

“Call them and let them know. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

But I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.
I watch her, but her lips are pressed together, her eyes no longer meeting mine. Words form but refuse to take shape.
My father,
I think.
If I have any hope of reasoning with someone, it will be with him.

I
walk into the kitchen the next morning. My mother, Khala Simki, and Chachi are huddled over the stove.

“They said it was one hundred acres of land, but you can safely say it’s no more than fifty-five.”

“Yes, but that is easy enough to check, isn’t it? Maybe we could call around and ask.”

“Ami?”

All three faces swivel to face me.

“Naila, what is it?” my mother asks.

“I was wondering where Abu was.”

“Your father? He’s on the rooftop, where else?”

I run through my talking points with each step, revising my arguments, making them clearer in my mind.
The money is already paid. I don’t want to fall behind on everything before I even begin college. If I don’t go, I’ll have to spend time when I should be studying to figure out my way around
.

My father is reading a newspaper on the light brown woven charpoy on the rooftop. His glasses tilt slightly down the bridge of his nose.

“Abu?”

He looks up at me. “This is the first time I’ve seen you on your own without your twin, Selma, at your side.”

“She’s asleep. I came here to talk to you about something, actually.” I sit down next to him on the charpay and flash him my biggest smile, trying my best to mask my nerves.

“Sure. What’s the matter?”

I shift in my seat. “First, I want to thank you and Ami for this trip. Even though it’s been a little hot, I’m having a great time.”

“It’s been very hot—that’s why we haven’t gone sightseeing yet. But now that we’re staying longer, we can make some plans and explore a bit.”

“Abu, as much as I love being here, my college orientation is next week, remember? The university said attendance was mandatory. If I don’t do the orientation now, I’ll be behind when I get there to start classes.”

“I know.” My father wipes his glasses with his kamiz. “Your mother told me. I’m going to call the university and see if they can give you a waiver. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. You can also use one of our calling cards to call Carla and—”

“No, that’s not what I want,” I interrupt. “I’m going to fall behind before I even start.”

My father frowns, but I plunge forward. “I know how happy you are here, but you don’t have to cut your trip short for me. I could go back early. I’ll be living on my own soon anyways.”

Just then I hear footsteps. My mother emerges from the stairwell.

“We just made the best parathas!” Her smile fades. “What’s wrong?” She places a hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Just talking to your daughter. She has an interesting proposition.”

“Oh?” she asks. She looks down at me.

“Yes.” My father removes his glasses and folds them. I watch him place them in his pocket. “She had the brilliant idea”—he laughs—“that she could just go back home without us. She was wondering if that would be okay.”

“Naila.” My mother’s hand falls from my shoulder. “Drop it.”

She looks at my father. He looks at her.

No one speaks.

Finally, my father stands up. “Let’s go. We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

I watch them walk away from me. I watch them disappear down the stairwell. Neither of them even turns to see if I’m following.

Neither seems to care that I have not moved from where I am sitting.

But this is not what disturbs me.

I understand their refusal. I know they have yet to forgive me. But what was that look? The brief look my parents exchanged? I’ve known them my whole life. I know their glances, their smiles, their frowns, but this? This was a look completely unfamiliar.

I
wander into my room and sit down on the bed. I look at my luggage resting against the wall. How many times have I packed and unpacked these belongings? I yank the luggage and shove it into the closet.

It’s been one week since I spoke to my parents. I’m trying my best to accept this. I throw myself into the rhythm as best I can, but it’s difficult. Most of our relatives left long ago, but Khala Simki stays, and the house rings with her laughter.

Each day is beginning to blend into the next. I don’t get up early anymore. I close my eyes when my young cousins totter in, and I pretend to be asleep. The blinding heat that once felt like a minor annoyance now stifles me. I miss my bed. Hot water that doesn’t suddenly turn icy cold. I miss coffee and chocolate cake and—
I miss Saif.
I miss him so much, it physically hurts.

I wrap a light chador around myself and walk to the window. The fan overhead casts a cool breeze. Dark gray clouds hang heavy in the sky, moving slowly in my direction. The phone vibrates against me. It’s Saif. He’s called three times today. A fat raindrop splashes onto the windowsill. I reach inside my purse, feeling for the phone. Just then, there’s a knock at the door.

Khala Simki steps inside and peers through the unlit room. “Why are you in the dark?” She turns on the lamp near my bed and joins me by the window. “Good. We needed rain. Maybe it will clear the dust outside.” She puts her arm around me. “Always lost in your thoughts.” She smiles at me. Then, her eyes light up. “Oh! Look at me, forgetting why I’m even here. Sumbul—you met her at a lunch party last week, remember?—she’s coming in a few minutes. Help me get some things together.”

I press my hands on the windowsill. The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t remember Sumbul. And I don’t care. I’ve met so many people, they’re blending into one blurred image. I bite my lip. Half the summer to go and more dinner parties and tea times than I can possibly imagine. I shudder.

I am pulling out a blue outfit from the armoire when I hear my brother’s voice in the hallway.

“One hundred rupees, Ami, please.”

“Take some more and share it with your cousins, okay? Don’t let them pay for anything when you go out with them.”

“We’re just going to the watering hole.”

“Well, stop and get some sweets or samosas if there are any. Your cousins would like that, and if you remember, bring some back for the house.”

I draw in a sharp intake of breath. I want to go with Imran and Sohail. I want the welcome relief the water lends from the sticky heat that clings to everyone. Even if I couldn’t wade in, just to sit in the light drizzle of this rain would be enough today. I consider asking my mother, but I already know the answer.

* * *

“Are you okay?” Selma says. We’re standing in the kitchen. She is helping me lay out sweets on a copper tray and fill the sugar pot. “You don’t seem like yourself lately.”

“I’m fine.” I keep my eyes fixed on the hot liquid pouring out of the spout.

“Maybe we could go out today, after it stops raining. It’s been a while since we’ve done that.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe if I could get a chance to breathe for a second too. Maybe if these guests ever stopped coming.”

Selma looks up at me with a start.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.” I lean over and hug her. “I’m just so tired of it. I mean, it’s nice, everyone is so friendly, but it’s annoying to always have to entertain people.”

“The chai is almost out,” my khala calls out from the drawing room in a singsong voice loud enough for me to hear.

I step into the drawing room and find a smaller group this time. I set the tray down on the coffee table.

“Naila, come join us,” my mother says. I look up for Selma, but she has disappeared behind the kitchen door.

“We were just talking about you,” the female visitor says as I sit down next to my mother on the corner couch. She’s wearing a pink outfit with pearl earrings. I look at the others. Her husband, round in shape with a long graying beard, sits next to my father. “How are you liking it here in Pakistan?” the woman asks.

“I like it,” I respond.

“It’s wonderful you speak Urdu so well. Your parents did a good job. Do you know how to sew and stitch as well?”

I stare at her. I’ve been asked many strange questions, but this is the first time anyone has asked me this.

“Naila,” my mother finally says, “go check on Selma. See what she’s up to.”

I’m so sick of these gatherings. I want my own life back. Hot tears threaten to emerge. I walk past the TV room. My girl cousins, even Selma, are watching television. I glance outside.

The rain has stopped.

I don’t think. I don’t let myself second-guess. I need to get out of here. Gripping my purse, I unlatch the front door and slip outside, shutting it quietly behind me. A gentle mist envelops me as I make my way down the road, trying my best to stay on the small patches of grass, avoiding the puddles filling potholes in the street.

A group of children are playing cricket on the grassy field across the street. Cries of cheating and arguments drift through the air toward me. Except for them, the damp roads are empty. I walk past the small stores selling sweets and groceries until I reach the last store on the street. I glance around, but the street remains empty. I slip behind the store and press open my phone, dialing his number. I will tell him everything. I need a comforting voice, someone who will just tell me everything will be okay.

“This is ridiculous!” His loud voice hurts my ears. “Are you going to let them just tell you what to do?”

“What do you want me to say to them? I’ve tried everything—they’re not listening!”

“You have to keep trying! You can’t take no for an answer.”

“If I could do something, I would. You know I’ve been trying. I just don’t know what else to do. I feel so powerless.” Tears flood my face.

“Wait, Naila, no, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell at you. I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I’m worried.” He pauses. “I love you.”

* * *

I make my way back to the house, fighting back tears. I’ve done my best to be positive, to make the best of this situation, but I can’t push away the heavy feeling pressing down on me like I’m suffocating. I unlatch the metal gate to my uncle’s home. I try my best to appear calm and unaffected, but my chest feels as if it might burst from pain.

I’m so far away from Saif.

I stare up at this house. It’s my father’s home too. It’s my home, they tell me. But right now, all I can see is a large cinder box that traps me inside.