“I don’t think we ever will get over her, Dad. But maybe the pain gets less bad over time.” Or maybe it will be worse before it gets better.
“Well, it’s good to have a psychologist in the family. Look at me, I just got a free session, or are you going to charge me for it?” Bashir laughs softly.
“It’s on the house, Dad.” But she doesn’t feel like laughing, or counselling him anymore.
“No, at least let me take you out for lunch. I don’t wish to abuse your services. I’ll come in to Toronto and see you. We could go to Gerrard Street. What you think?”
“OK, what time? I have a few things I need to get done today –” Nasreen thinks fast to try to head off this unexpected request.
“How about one o’clock. I’ll come pick you up. Don’t worry, I won’t take too much of your time. I want to go to the masjid a little later today anyway.”
“I’ll see you at one then,” Nasreen says, sighing. As they say their good-byes, Nasreen ponders her father’s plans to go to the mosque. She thought that he had stopped going a long time ago. Suddenly fatigued, she abandons her journal and flops back into bed.
Across the Don Valley, under the fluorescent bulbs at Moti Mahal, Nasreen and her father sip lassis while they wait for their orders to be ready. Bashir likes a salted lassi while Nasreen prefers a sweet one. Nasreen’s mother, their absent lunch partner, usually drank orange soda with her thali.
And because memory is strong and habits difficult to break, Bashir sometimes reflexively orders a Fanta for his deceased wife, only catching himself after the impatient counter staff has already rung up the order. For the past two years, a bright orange soda can has sat unopened and conspicuous between Bashir and Nasreen during their many father-daughter Little India lunches. Both parties usually avoid acknowledging the mistake, the Fanta, a simulated orange-flavoured elephant on the plastic laminate table. At the end of their meals, Nasreen has observed her father deftly slip the can into his deep coat pockets, sneaking away with his embarrassed grief.
Once, when visiting him at the house, Nasreen caught a glimpse of an orange soda at the back of his fridge. She had an urge to do something with it, perhaps to toss it into the garbage, pour it down the sink, or just steal it away. But to take such action would mean trespassing the corridors of her father’s sorrow, a territory she is reticent to enter. In the end she left the Fanta there, standing beside the ketchup and Shanti’s mango pickle.
To Nasreen’s relief, today of all days, her mother’s birthday, Bashir somehow manages to remember not to order a drink for his deceased wife.
“So Dad, you’re going to the mosque again? Is that something new?” Nasreen asks, sucking the thick lassi through a not quite wide enough straw.
“Yes, well, your mother and I stopped going when she got sick, and then I didn’t feel like going back after that. But then recently I just wanted to go again.”
“Number Four, Number Four,” the server at the counter yells into the microphone.
“They got a sound system since we were last here.” Nasreen observes.
“Oh, that’s us.” Bashir says, checking the number on his receipt. He hurries to the counter to retrieve their thalis. He returns to the table and the two metal platters land on their table with a light thunk.
“These are both vegetarian, Dad. You didn’t order a meat thali this time?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be better for the cholesterol,” he says, with a slight grimace.
“I don’t think any of this food could be good for anybody’s cholesterol levels.” Nasreen scoops up some matter paneer with her chapati, taking care to avoid the oil pooling around the edge of the dish. “You’re turning vegetarian and going to the mosque. That’s a real change, Dad.”
“I wouldn’t say I am ‘turning vegetarian’. That’s going too far. I’m just having less meat these days. And, as for religion, you know, it can be comforting. At least for me. I often feel more at ease after I leave the masjid.” He scoops some rice into his mouth. “Maybe it would be good for you too.”
“I don’t think so, Dad. You know how I feel about organized religion. I don’t like the ridah and the fact that the women are segregated from the men. It feels so archaic to me.” Nasreen takes in a mouthful of aloo gobi.
“I suppose all religions are old-fashioned. It’s how they are. They have old origins. Well, it’s your choice. I think it’s a good thing. Maybe you’ll feel differently when you are older.” Nasreen rolls her eyes. “No really, things are different now at the mosque. So many new faces. I only recognized a few people in the crowd. But then my crowd tends to go on the special days only.”
“Do you see your friends much these days?” Nasreen attempts a casual tone. So many of his friends seemed to desert him after her mother died.
“Well, a little bit. Last week the Shahs, you remember Fatima Aunty and Asif Uncle? They invited me for dinner. They asked about you, wanted to know how you were. Rahim and his wife just had their first baby. A boy.” Nasreen remembers hearing that their son had married a couple of years ago. Their families used to be so close.
“The Shahs? You haven’t seen them for ages.”
“Yes, it was nice that they called. You remember we tried matchmaking you and Rahim when you were teenagers,” Bashir smiles at the memory while Nasreen winces on cue. It was the predictable, awkward joke that came up each time the families visited one another.
“Yup, I remember. That was lots of fun,” she says sarcastically. For her part, Nasreen had always been more interested in Rahim’s older sister, Rehana, on whom she’d had a crush for years. “What’s Rehana doing these days?”
“She’s married too. To a doctor. Gastroenterologist, I think. But no kids. Fatima and Asif are disappointed, naturally.” Nasreen pushes away her empty thali knowing that she shouldn’t have asked the question. She doesn’t enjoy these discussions, the chronicles of upwardly mobile South Asian kids she knew as a child.
“Yes, well, I always thought she was a lesbian.” Nasreen knows she is saying this for shock value, but she can’t seem to stop herself. “Maybe that’s why there aren’t any children. She and her husband probably don’t sleep together.” Both she and her father squirm involuntarily at this mention of Rehana’s sex life.
“Well, I don’t know about that. She’s always seemed normal, I mean, she is just like anyone else,” Bashir feels his face flush. How to say the right words after saying the wrong ones? He tries again. “Not that you aren’t normal, that’s not what I meant to say. I just wouldn’t suspect Rehana of being … gay.”
“Well, none of your friends ‘suspected’ that of me either. Neither did you for that matter,” Nasreen says sharply, a slow heat rising in her chest. She looks at her watch. Bashir sees the obvious gesture and reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief.
“Are you ready to go? Had enough to eat?” He so badly wants to avoid an argument with his daughter, especially today.
“Yeah, I have to go.” She is a little ashamed for being mean, knowing what this day means to her father, but not ashamed enough to stop herself.
“How about some tea and a dil bahar? You want some sweets to take home?”
“No, I really have to go. You get some if you want, I’ll go wait by the car,” she says, pulling on her coat, turning away from him.
“No, no sweets for me today. I have to watch my cholesterol,” he says, trailing behind her out of the restaurant.
Chapter 15
AT SEVEN P.M. ON Sunday night, the buzzer rings, signaling Ravi’s arrival. Shaffiq pushes the intercom to open the lobby door, five floors below.
“I hope he’s brought Angie. I want to see what this girl is like. He’s head over heels about her,” he says to Salma, who peeks out at him from the kitchen. “Everything ready?”
“Everything ready and warming. Saleema, Shireen, come out of your roo
m. Ravi Uncle is here.” Shireen emerges first, excited by the arrival of guests. Saleema joins them in the living room a few moments later, carrying The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. “Saleema, leave your book for just a little while. It is not polite to read while guests are here. You can read again after dinner.” Saleema crosses her arms over her chest, holding the book against her body like a shield.
There is a knock at the door and Shaffiq opens the door to Ravi and a small woman with shoulder length brown hair. Shaffiq looks into her blue eyes and smiles while she hands him her coat. She’s short, just like an Indian, he thinks. After a round of introductions, the four adults and two children sit in the living room, smiling at one another through an awkward silence.
“So finally I get to meet all of you! Shaffiq is always mentioning your names and now I get to find out that he has actually not been lying all this time about having a beautiful wife and children.” Ravi breaks the ice, his face opening up into an infectious grin.
“We’re so glad you could come,” Salma replies warmly, “Shaffiq talks about you all the time too.”
“And such a nice apartment, huh Angie? Maybe we’ll have a place like this in not too long.”
“Yeah,” says Angie, her eyes scanning the drab living room. She searches for something nice to say. “This painting here is really nice,” she says brightly.
“Thanks. It is quite a classical piece, very common in India,” Shaffiq says, rising from the sofa. “What can I get you to drink? Angie, we have juice, soft drinks, beer. Ravi, you’ll have a beer, no?”
“Actually, Angie, I just put that up recently. A relative of mine brought it back from India last year,” Salma adds, pleased that her guest noticed her new painting.
“Daddy laughs at it. He makes faces when he looks over there,” Shireen stage whispers to Angie.
“Yeah, he says it’s too revealing,” Saleema joins in, “Because you can see through that girl’s top.” Ravi and Angie follow Saleema’s finger to the offending blouse.
“Children, don’t say that! It’s not true! It’s fine art. Artists for centuries have admired and painted the human form,” Salma admonishes. She turns back to her guests, “So, how long have you two known each other?”
“We’ve been dating each other for just over six months,” Angie says, “Ravi rents from us, you know, and so we actually met before that. But we didn’t start going together ’til later.” Salma watches the couple smile at one another, sees the look in their eye that tells her that maybe they’d rather be alone tonight.
“As soon as I met her, I knew she was the one for me. I fell in love straight away,” says Ravi, puffing up proudly. “Of course, she didn’t know that, I was just the renter until we officially met and started talking. Yes, very convenient, our living arrangements. We get to see each other all the time! No travelling time is a bonus,” Ravi gushes. He reaches over and takes Angie’s hand in his, rubbing her fingers with his palm, as though the apartment is too cold for them. She leans over and gives him a quick kiss on his lips.
“And just a little risky too, right? You have to watch out for the parents, no?” Shaffiq teases, handing beers to Angie and Ravi and a soft drink to Salma. He wonders if his daughters should be watching the display of affection. He notices that Saleema has long abandoned her paperback to the coffee table. Shireen, for her part, sits beside Angie, looking up at her in awe. Angie reminds Shireen of Miss Lewis, her first grade teacher at St. Clair Public who she thinks is one of the prettiest ladies she’s ever met.
“Yes, Shaffiq mentioned that your parents are not aware,” Salma says to Angie.
“Yeah, but it will be fine, they’re not so bad. We’ll tell them eventually, and they won’t really be able to stop us. I mean, they’d prefer I was with someone Italian, but they’ll have to deal with it when the time comes.” Angie smiles at Ravi. She kisses him again. Salma notices that Ravi makes slight smacking noises when he kisses Angie back. She wonders if he is a sloppy kisser, the way Shaffiq used to be before she taught him how not to give such wet kisses.
“Girls, come, you want some pop? Come let’s go to the kitchen and get some.” Shaffiq corrals the girls out of the living room. Doesn’t Ravi realize how inappropriate it is to carry on this way? And in front of the children!
“Yes, you’re right. If it is what you want, then that is the most important thing. No one can really control you unless you let them. My parents were trying to get me married off for years before I was ready and I resisted them until it was the right time. And then we met.” Salma looks toward Shaffiq, who is frowning from the kitchen door. “Our parents were so glad that we were finally making the match. They’d given up on us. Of course, Shaffiq and I didn’t have cultural differences for them to protest.”
“That’s true. You two are from the same community. But we’re not really so worried about Angie’s folks. It is my mother who is expecting me to return to India one day to find a bride. Sometimes we Indians can be so old-fashioned. Although she is so far away, it is she who is weighing heavily on my mind. I don’t wish to hurt her, but I’m afraid there is no choice. I just hope she will do all right with it.”
“Come on Ravi,” Angie says, “let’s not talk about this depressing stuff. We’re here to have a good time,” she says, nuzzling into his shoulder. He grins at her and takes a gulp of his beer.
“Well,” Salma says, feeling like she is intruding upon the pair, “I’m going to make the final preparations so that we can sit down and eat. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“OK,” trills Angie, not looking away from Ravi, “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”
“That’s fine,” says Salma, “You two just sit. I won’t be but a minute.” Just try to remain vertical, Salma thinks.
Therapist looks at Nasreen intently, waiting for a response to her challenge. Her age-spot speckled hands are folded in her lap and her foot taps the floor lightly, making the only noise in the office. Nasreen studies Therapist’s face, notes that her lipstick has almost worn off, leaving a still intact and clownish-looking lip-liner ring.
“I guess the answer to my question is a difficult one for you Nas. So, have you been thinking about your mother lately?”
“Yeah, a little. It was her birthday this past week.” Nasreen questions Therapist’s motives. Why take me down this road? What a waste of money this is. And now I’m feeling nauseated. Nasreen knows these thoughts are a little off, and that her feelings are likely misdirected. She ventures out loud, “your question pissed me off. I feel pissed off with you, with me, with her. The question is difficult because it is difficult to think about her. I feel guilty about that.”
“What do you feel guilty about?”
“I intentionally try to not think about her sometimes. Delete her from the files, my father would say. And he’s another story. He called me yesterday and you know what? I forgot that it was her birthday. I felt embarrassed and resentful that he would call me. What does he want from me? I mean, what am I supposed to do for him?” Nasreen takes a breath, “so I talked to him, and reassured him and told him that he’s normal, as though I have any clue what that is. Talked about the Anniversary Effect and blah, blah, blah. You know he started going to the mosque, I guess he’s turning to God now to cope with his loneliness.” She laughs miserably, “at least now I’m not the only one he turns to. Let God take on some of that work. I don’t want it.” Nasreen takes another deep breath, sees that Therapist has an encouraging expression on her face. Nasreen looks down at her hands again. She doesn’t feel like making eye contact today.
“Let’s try to separate out your father for just for a second. How about focusing on your own feelings regarding your mother. What do you think makes you want to not think about her?”
“Well, I suppose I must be wanting to avoid the sadness.”
“What do you feel when you say that?” Therapist leans fo
rward in her chair.
“Like I want to give you the right answer,” Nasreen says, smiling self-consciously.
“And that’s the right answer? What else would there be if you weren’t concerned with that?”
Nasreen looks at her fingernails and notices that they have begun to grow longish. They look almost like straight-girl nails. A sign that she hasn’t had sex for awhile. She curls her fingers in and the points jab into the flesh of her palm.
“I dunno. I’m drawing a blank.” Therapist waits and watches Nasreen for twenty seconds. Nasreen counts them out silently.
“Are you aware that your fists are clenched? What feeling goes with that?”
Nasreen imagines her fingernails digging deep into her palms, cutting through the fine layers of skin and fleshy tissue, reaching hard bone beneath. And then what she sees next are no longer her hands, but her mother’s, not as they were before the cancer, when she was still healthy, but after, with IV tubes poking through green veins, translucent skin sagging away from stainless steel. She remembers that the nurse hurt her mother when she inserted the needle and her mother gasped, flinching slightly. Then the nurse covered over her hand with a new piece of white adhesive tape, the bandage like a denial of the pain just inflicted.
“I remember that I always felt like yelling when she was in the hospital. She hated it there. I hated it there.” Nasreen feels her breath grow ragged. She inhales deeply but can’t seem to get enough air. “The staff was always in a rush and I wanted to scream at them to stop and take better care of her. I wanted them to keep her alive a little longer. I wanted to yell at her so that she would try harder to stay alive just a little while longer. I wanted to smack my father so that he would stop crying all the time.” She forces herself to breathe, and finally, cool air reaches her lungs, and she continues, “I wanted to get home each night and have Connie hold me. And when she couldn’t be there I wanted to yell at her. But there was nobody to yell at and so I didn’t yell at anyone, not at all and now that yelling is still there. And it gets too loud for me.” Nasreen’s lungs heave, and she notices that her stomach no longer hurts.
Stealing Nasreen Page 13
