But I will test the waters.
“You’ve known him for three months,” I continue. “I get wanting to keep things kosher and wanting to make sure you’re married before you move to California together and live together or whatever, but—you don’t know him.” Felony felony felony, says my brain.
“I guess . . .” She trails off and looks up at the ceiling, like she’s looking for the right words. The kitchen smells like roasting onions and cumin. Smells that should be comforting. “I guess I think about it this way. How could you not want to rush in when you’ve found the one?” she says finally.
“But three months? You can’t decide the rest of your life in three months. There were rumors about him, you know. Bad ones. How can you feel good about any of this?”
But Amira looks calm. Almost like she expected this. She wraps her arms around herself, as if she’s cold.
“You know that day you found me in the closet?” she starts. Her voice is low, soft. Like a mother speaking to a child. “That day, that moment—it was the worst day of my life. I was so scared. Terrified. Everything came crashing down on me at once. I wasn’t able to be there at the hospital like you were, Kiran. I didn’t see Mom dying a little more every day. Because of school, because I was in New York, I had distance. God, honestly, I wanted distance. But then one day she was gone, just gone, and then everything I wanted to say, everything I needed to hear—that was gone, too. Before I knew what was happening. So that day when I went into her closet, I just . . .” She looks past me, like she’s seeing something I can’t.
“We were just kids.” Amira breathes shakily. “We’re still just kids. How the hell are we supposed to live without our mom? We’re too young. There’s so much left she needed to teach us. And I know we still have Dad, and I love him and he’s great, but—”
“It’s not the same.” My eyes burn. I had no idea she had these thoughts, ones that so closely mirror mine.
“Right. Exactly.” She smiles sadly. “And then I met Faisal. That’s when it hit me. You know that passage in the Quran that goes, ‘And of everything, we created you in pairs, so that perhaps you may remember’? I met Faisal, and suddenly, that passage made sense. Faisal helps me remember. Who I was, who I wanted to be. And what I love. I decided that the bar exam, my career—all of that could wait a couple more months. I can always start my law career in California. I have connections. But people won’t always stick around, and I don’t want to risk losing someone again.”
My chest tightens. But I have to say it. “What if he’s not as perfect as you think he is? What if he has a past, and if you just took the time to—”
“We all have pasts.”
“Yeah, but what if his was really bad?” I stare straight at her. I’m trying to hint as clearly as possible without saying things outright, but she’s not taking it.
Amira looks back at me, her eyes a mix of a hundred emotions I can’t read. Affection, maybe. Pity.
“You worry too much. I promise you, Faisal has everything that’s important. And honestly, Kiran, I—I don’t know how I would have gotten through losing Mom without him.” She squeezes her eyes tight for a beat. “Whatever he might have done, it’s in the past now, and that’s between him and God. I know he’s not a bad guy. That’s enough for me.”
Is it, though? I want to ask, but the words won’t come.
I suddenly feel very tired. There’s just a dull throb in my forehead, a mind-numbing emptiness that pulls me in. It sinks in: her saying these things about Mom—saying she couldn’t have done it without Faisal—it hurts. Because what about me? I needed her. I needed her to share that pain with me before, not now. Why was Faisal the one she turned to? And is that really the reason she’s marrying Faisal now? Faisal hasn’t made her remember anything. Only forget that she has a choice. That she has a real family, despite everything.
She puts a hand on my shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze.
“I know you’re not a hundred percent on board with Faisal yet. But you don’t have to protect me. Whatever you’re worried about, whatever your notions about him are—I want you to let it go. For me.”
I look away.
“Oh!” Amira jumps, suddenly remembering the pot on the stove. “Damn. Burned the onions a little too much. Let’s try a second take.”
She smiles and reaches her hand toward me. “Start over?”
Three Years Ago
KIRAN: If you could have any superpower
KIRAN: what would it be and why?
DEEN: O_O
DEEN: Huh.
DEEN: Why, are you handing them out now?
KIRAN: Ha ha.
KIRAN: Tell me!!!!!
DEEN: I’M THINKING
DEEN: I don’t do well under pressure!!!!!!!
DEEN: . . . Well, I do SOME things well under pressure, but
DEEN: okay okay
DEEN: Maybe flying
DEEN: I’d wanna fly
DEEN: Or teleport
DEEN: Something to do with transportation
DEEN: So I could get the hell out of my house without my parents ever knowing
DEEN: . . . or maybe invisibility
DEEN: What about you?
KIRAN: Hmm . . . seeing the future!
KIRAN: I want to be able to see the future.
DEEN: Feeling anxious about the future?
KIRAN: Yeah. Always.
KIRAN: Especially lately.
DEEN: How’s your mom, btw?
KIRAN: To be determined.
KIRAN: It’s just a waiting game now.
DEEN: OKAY I know my real answer now!!!
DEEN: Healing powers.
DEEN: Definitely healing powers.
KIRAN: Heh
KIRAN: You’re a good guy, Deen.
DEEN: Only for you.
Chapter 14
Deen
Friday, July 9
I HAVEN’T BEEN TO A masjid in years; two, at least. Maybe three. Who’s keeping count? Ever since we moved from the Philly area to north Jersey, my parents and I stopped going to any masjid for anything. Even for Eid, we’d opt instead to visit Mona khala’s house in south Jersey—which is saying something.
Mom and Dad never said it outright, but after everything that happened with Faisal, I think they wanted to avoid the masjid community just as much as I did. People took notice of Faisal never being there, of the inconsistencies in Mom’s excuses. Rumors spread like cockroaches on fire, and they were just as hard to kill. Running away from it all was the better option; it’s probably the only thing me and my parents have ever agreed on.
That’s the one problem I have with masjids. You can never just walk in to pray. No, you cleanse yourself of God’s judgment only to receive the judgment of hundreds of rando aunties and uncles. I still remember the day I caught Aunty Noreen trying to pry information out of Kiran: You’re friends with Deen, right? His brother, Faisal—is it true he’s a sickly boy? I can still see Kiran shrinking beneath her stare, confused, uncomfortable: I’m sorry, I really don’t know anything.
That was the last straw for me.
So for Faisal and me to come back to the one masjid where it all began, after all this time, when all the compound stress is one pascal away from ripping my skull in half? Put me out of my misery.
“You coming?” Faisal calls out to me, holding open the door. He looks nervous, like he doesn’t want me out of his sight.
“Oh. Yeah.” I throw off my shoes, gripping the wall to help me stay balanced. Could God smite me for entering His holy domain considering how shitty of a Muslim I’ve been these past few years? Probably. And I wouldn’t blame Him. But I have to be here; I’m Faisal’s emotional support sibling. “Just pray I don’t royally screw up,” he said on the phone after he asked me to come.
I toss my shoes in a cubby in the masjid’s mudroom, hold my breath, and follow Faisal into the main prayer area. I wish I had the heart to tell Faisal I stopped praying a long time ago.
But as soon as
I enter, my breath’s knocked out of me. The masjid hasn’t changed at all. It feels a little smaller than it used to, but everything’s the same: the smell of mothballs and perfume, the plush red carpet designed to look like a hundred prayer rugs stitched together, the white domed ceiling that carries voices. Whispers.
I get why people say nostalgia is seductive. There’s something about the air here that settles on me like a warm blanket. So many memories in this masjid. Good memories. But I was a better person back then, too.
Now? I just feel out of place.
Across the hall, I spot a sight for sore eyes: Amira, wearing a sunny yellow scarf over her hair, already sitting down at the front of the prayer room. There’s a bearded guy in a white kurta next to her, who looks somewhere in his late thirties—the imam, probably, the one who leads prayers in the masjid. I don’t recognize him, though; they must have brought in a new guy since I was last here. He smiles and waves us over to take our seats.
Faisal’s shoulders unclench a little as he sits next to Amira, a few respectful centimeters away from her. Still, their knees are close enough to touch. Amira glows at him. I’ve never seen anyone look at my brother that way.
“Brothers! Assalamu alaikum. It’s good to finally meet you, Faisal,” says the imam, shaking Faisal’s hand heartily. “My name is Imam Obaid Rehman. Sister Amira was just telling me about you.”
Faisal smiles shyly, scratches his nose. “Good things, I hope.”
The imam’s eyes land on me. “And Deen; it’s nice to see you again. I remember you.”
I freeze. Good things rarely follow when someone says I remember you.
“You were just a boy. You were only here at the Sunday school for a year, were you not? Then you moved?” The imam chuckles. “You were always running around after prayer time, God knows where.”
To flirt with Kiran. How times have changed.
“Yeah,” I say, relaxing, though not much. “Sounds about right.”
“But it’s a shame we never met sooner, Brother Faisal.”
Faisal’s face goes pale. “When my family moved here for that year, I, uh, was in college, so . . .”
My fists clench. It’s hard to drag yourself to a masjid when you’re going through shit like an addiction, with no help from your parents. But people never know how to respond to that.
“Oh, me too,” Amira pipes in. “I rarely even had time to come home, so I only came to the masjid a couple times. But this was where Kiran went to Sunday school.”
“Yeah, and it feels like centuries ago,” a familiar grating voice says from behind me.
Kiran is wearing a loose white scarf over her hair and a rumpled, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her dark crystal-orb eyes are decked with puffy bags beneath them. Apparently I’m not the only one having trouble sleeping lately.
She’s here. It’s a good thing I came, then. I still don’t know everything she’s got on Faisal, or what she’s planning on doing with that info. What I do know is that with the four of us here, now would be the perfect time to show all her cards. The thought makes me want to throw up in my mouth, which I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to do in the house of God.
But at least I’m here, too.
“Salaam, Kiran.” I pat the space beside me. “Fancy seeing you here. Come, sit.”
A muscle in her jaw twitches. “Walaikumu assalam, Deen.” She doesn’t look at me as she sits down on the other side of her sister.
I wonder if she feels just as awkward about being here, if the memories of us feel as foreign for her as they do for me.
“Now that we’re all here,” says Imam Obaid, “let’s just get a few things settled. I know it’s a bit unconventional to have siblings involved, but I think it’s important to start establishing yourselves as family from the beginning. Get used to the idea that this is a joining. With that in mind, right now, I want you all to think of me as your coach. Love is a team sport, you see. It requires skill and endurance and partnership. I’m here to make scrimmage easier.”
Silence.
Imam Obaid laughs. “Man, that sounded so much more profound in my head.”
I snort. Okay, I officially kind of like him.
“Let me start over. You see, there’s this myth I hear often from couples that premarriage counseling means airing your dirty laundry in front of me and your potential spouse. You might have this image of me lecturing you on this and that, telling you about your shortcomings, your wrongful actions. But I’m not here to lecture you. If you wanted to hear lectures, you’d come to the Friday khutbah more often. I’m only here to help facilitate the beginning of what we pray will be a long and trusting future together.”
Kiran’s staring daggers into the carpet.
She’s clearly getting under your skin. Amy’s comment from last week intones in the back of my mind. I hate that she’s right, about that at least. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve been wanting to talk to Vinny about Kiran. But lately, he’s been weirdly . . . clammish compared to his usual self. Even this morning, when I told him I was going out. Normally he’d be all: Pray take me with you, good sir, so I can live among the bourgeoisie for but a day. But not today.
“It sounds like you two have already settled on the wedding date?” asks the imam, pulling out a small notebook from a bag beside him.
“Yes,” Amira replies. “August twenty-second. My best friend, Rizwana, managed to get us in at the Ballroom at the Ben on a last-minute cancellation.”
Kiran blanches, bites her bottom lip. Guess it’s the first time she’s heard of it, too.
It’s official now, I think with some relief. Almost.
“About six weeks, hm.” Imam Obaid jots it down, slams the notebook shut. “Not much time, then. You’ll have homework. I want you both to keep journals. I have found that writing one’s thoughts and feelings is therapeutic in itself.”
Amira nods enthusiastically. I get the impression she’s always been a good student. Faisal, on the other hand, gives a weak, stiff smile. He’s never been good with keeping track of journals.
“Now let’s begin,” Obaid says.
I glance at Kiran from the corner of my eye and hide my nervousness by trying to slip her my most charming, familial smile (Vinny’s tip number four for wooing: smile often), but she doesn’t notice. Instead, her head is turned, gaze trained to the window—to the cluster of trees behind the nearby Sunday school building.
I hate to admit it, but for brief a moment, I want to know what she’s thinking. A need so bad, I’m almost tempted to pray.
Premarriage counseling, apparently, is just an extended Q&A session, a giant game of Would You Rather? that lasts over an hour. Imam Obaid goes easy on them, though, tossing mostly harmless questions like, “What does a day off look like to you?” and “What’s an accomplishment that you’re proud of?” or “Babies: yes, no, maybe so?
“I think this is a good place to start wrapping up,” the imam concludes. “I’d like to open it up to the floor now, to Brother Deen and Sister Kiran. Do you have any questions you’d like to add into the mix?”
“I’m good, actually,” I reply quickly, and scramble to my feet. “And I’m sure Kiran has nothing to add, either. I’m sure everyone’s eager to stretch their legs. But this was a great sesh. Very enlightening.”
My legs are cramped and I’m ready to head back to campus. I’ve been itching to play Cambria; it’s been days since I’ve last logged on. Plus, the sooner we finish, the less chance there is of Kiran—
“I have a few questions,” says the demon in question.
Fuck.
“Oh? Great! Sister Kiran, let’s hear it. Deen, sit down, please.”
My eyes dart over to Faisal. I see panic, clear as day, all over his face.
Slowly, I sit.
“Kiran? Your question?” Amira probes.
The corner of Kiran’s mouth tilts up. “Do you think married couples should keep secrets?”
Amira blinks. No one says anything for a beat.
&nbs
p; “We usually keep those harder questions for future sessions,” Imam Obaid says calmly. “Without other family present. But if you feel comfortable answering now . . . ?”
“It depends on the secrets,” Amira answers slowly.
“Oh?” Kiran presses.
“Actually,” I chime in, “can we go back to talking about practicing patience, because I think that’s a really important top—”
“Deen, please,” interrupts Imam Obaid. “Let Sister Amira speak.”
I suck in my mouth, frustrated.
Amira continues: “I think it’s okay to have a little mystery, especially in the beginning. I also think I shouldn’t have to disclose things like everyday purchases to my husband. I also think everyone has a right to privacy.” Amira laughs, but it sounds a little strained.
Kiran’s lips thin, like she’s dissatisfied with her sister’s answer. “Hmm, okay. Your turn, Brother Faisal.”
Kiran coats that last bit with subtext so palpable it could drip all over the carpet. “Same question. Secrets between loved ones. How do we feel about those?”
“I—I don’t really . . . ,” Faisal stammers.
“And how do we feel about—oh, I don’t know—not disclosing former exes and lovers to your future wife? For example?”
Amira looks at her in confusion. “Kiran, what—?”
“On a scale of one to ten,” Kiran continues, “how appropriate do you think it is to marry someone just to use them to hide who you really are?”
That’s it.
I grab Kiran by the elbow and pull her to her feet. “Excuse us for a second.”
Kiran tries to wrench herself from me. “Hey, what the hell?”
“Come, my dear future sister-in-law,” I say, tightening my grip before dragging her out of the prayer room.
I take her outside behind the masjid (not the first time). Thankfully, on a Friday afternoon, not many people are here.
Kiran whips her arm out of my grasp and spins to face me.
“You can’t just—”
I take a step toward her, backing her against the wall of the masjid. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
Kiran holds my gaze with equal hatred in her eyes. “Asking questions.”
It All Comes Back to You Page 13
