by Paula Jolin
Funny thing, Aliya didn’t hate her then.
She looked up. Mariam and Mama were both glaring, and she was pretty sure Mama was looking for a vase to throw at Aliya’s head. Baba launched into some argument about the mosque, and how the uncovered woman they threw out today might be tomorrow’s convert, or something like that.
Nicer than she’d expected, this Rashid. Cuter, too; black hair with a hint of wave in it, and somebody’d clued him in to shave the facial hair before he landed in the airport. He went on about praying now. “I wasn’t religious for a long time, well, I wasn’t not religious, but I was so focused on my studies, sometimes I would miss prayers. One Ramadan, I kept sneaking coffee, because there was no way I could stay up and finish my lessons unless I had some powerful caff-a-yine in me. Then one day, I was standing out on the balcony and I realized nothing, nothing, not twenty-four-hour-a-day study sessions, not all the wastaa, connections”—he looked at Aliya, her own fault, since she’d claimed her Arabic was poor—“in the world, would make me a doctor unless Allah decreed it so. From that day, I put my religion first.”
He was still looking at Aliya, his dark eyes nervous, as though afraid she wouldn’t agree with him. Well, she didn’t. She was younger, and didn’t have a medical degree, but she’d already figured out something he clearly didn’t know: you can’t count on God.
She still believed. God’s hand was evident everywhere: the trees that brushed the sky, her own convoluted body that pumped blood and digested food and grew skin without her even thinking about it. She liked the religious rituals that made sense out of her life. Okay, she didn’t pray much anymore, and she’d cheated a little last Ramadan, and her chances of going on hajj were just about nil, but she liked the way they kept life in order. Or could keep it in order, if she let them.
But that didn’t mean she wanted to marry the guy.
“What a coincidence,” Mariam twittered. Aliya looked over, and even Mama raised her eyebrows. “Well, Aliya’s recently made a new plan to be more devoted to religion . . . sorry, Aliya, I know that’s private.” So private Aliya herself didn’t know. Come join me in this nice, safe box, Mariam seemed to be saying. The one where you know everyone and everyone knows you. Sure it’s a little crowded in here, the air gets stuffy, but you’ll never be lost, never be alone.
Mama’s giggle rose above the talk. Conversation continued, and they left Aliya out of it. Proper enough for the blushing bride. A few minutes later, after Rashid said for the seventh time that he had to leave, they all got up and walked him to the door, Mariam and Nabile too, since Rashid was so new in the States, he didn’t have a car. Aliya came, trailing. Mama pushed her forward, made sure she shook hands all around, pinched her elbow until she smiled. “I’m going to show Aliya the new dress I bought,” said Mariam, pulling Aliya outside, toward her car. “It’ll just take a minute.” Aliya thought she was talking to Mama until Nabile said, “Be home in ten minutes,” over his shoulder. Mariam waited until he and Rashid had disappeared into Nabile’s small green car at the bottom of the driveway before she asked, “So? What do you think? Much nicer than you expected, right?”
Easy to say yes, more accurate, too. But it wouldn’t answer the question Mariam was really asking.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s what I was thinking, too.” Mariam watched Nabile drive off down the road then turned back. Aliya tried very hard not to think of Mariam’s secret past. “Trust me, once you’ve fallen in love, really fallen in love, you’ll forget all about it. You won’t even remember his face.”
Trevor’s sharp cheekbones, his green eyes, his black hair flopping over his forehead—were they fading already?
Never. She’d never forget.
Aliya looked up at the porch, where Mama was standing at the screen door, her mouth pressed into a grim straight line. “I’ve got to go,” she said.
“We’ll be back tomorrow. If your parents agree, maybe we can—” Something about a movie, something about ice cream afterward. Then Aliya was waving good-bye, trudging up the steps. If you don’t look at her, maybe she’ll let you walk right by. But Mama reached out, grabbed her by the arm.
“What are you, majnuna?” Mama asked. She didn’t smack Aliya upside the head, but Aliya raised her hand to ward off the imaginary blow. “You come home late and alone, too, when I sent Mariam to get you. And what are you wearing? Jeans, jeans, jeans again, and a T-shirt I can see your underwear through. When I bought you one million pretty dresses especially for wearing to school! All of them hanging in your closet, might as well be in plastic, the way they’re worn. And there you are smirking and takalluf”—Takalluf? What was that? “Simpering?”—“and can’t even be polite and ask questions to a man we found for you, a doctor and all. He’ll help you go to school and be happy, but no, all you can do is think about whatever boy you were out with that night, in the middle of the night, in the dirt and the mud.”
“I told you, Mama”—and told you and told you—“I wasn’t out with any boy. It was a school project, we had to go get certain plants from the state forest. I didn’t tell you about it because I knew you wouldn’t let me go, and I didn’t want you to know that I’d completely forgotten about it and if I didn’t have them on the teacher’s desk by the next morning, I would have gotten an F.” Aliya twirled her fingers around and around the ends of her hair.
“You think I’m stupid, to believe all this pack of lies? You think I won’t go to your school and ask your teacher what nonsense she’s talking, assigning young girls to go to the forest alone?”
So much for taqiyya. Aliya yanked at her fingers, only to find them stuck in her hair. Tug-tug they came out, pulling a few strands with them.
“Now I find you a man, a proper man, a doctor, and you do everything you can to deny him, to deny me.” Mama grabbed Aliya’s ear and pulled. “You too,” she said to Baba, pointing a sharp finger in his direction. “You’re the man. Put your foot down.”
“No,” said Aliya.
“What? What?”
Baba raised his hands in the air. “This is a mother’s responsibility,” he said. “You bring her up right, she knows what she can do, what she can’t, that’s your job.”
“My job? My job? My job to raise the family while you work all night, making big dough circles? What about your job, putting your foot down hard, locking doors at night? Eh? What about that?”
They couldn’t even talk to each other—how could they ever talk to her?
“Blah, blah, blah.” Mama was fuming along, furious at both of them now. She ignored Aliya’s defiance, Baba’s discomfort. “What has gotten into you, Aliya? You used to be such a good girl, an adamiya, only two weeks ago. You think a bad reputation will take you out of the marriage trade? Rashid will hear about your game with the car, the day you stay out all night; he’ll think, ‘This bad girl is not the one for me’?”
“If that’s what I wanted, I’d come straight out and tell him I’m not a virgin.”
Slap.
Okay, that was a stupid thing to say.
Aliya raised her hand to her stinging cheek. Mama’s voice grew shriller. “The Muslim girl does not go with boys!” That was too much for Baba, who turned his back and stumbled out of the kitchen. Mama, I didn’t mean it that way. But she couldn’t make herself say the words. Because she did mean it that way. She was a girl of faith, but she was also a girl who loved a boy.
“Stupid girl,” said Mama. “You think I’m going to go through all this again? Once was not enough?” For a minute, Aliya didn’t know what she was talking about, and then she did: Mariam. “Another sick girl, throwing up her breakfast all over the bathroom floor? Another ruined girl I have to stitch back together? If I knew America would carve girls up with a snaggletooth saw, never, never would I come here.” Wait. Mariam’s secret wasn’t just that she’d had a boyfriend. She’d had an abortion, too. Aliya clapped a hand to her face, trying to keep her shock from showing. Mama didn’t notice—or maybe she did—as she r
anted on about family honor. When she took a breath, I Love Lucy sputtered on in the next room: Baba, ignoring the family crisis as usual.
Aliya didn’t care. Mariam’s voice, harsh, breathless, echoed in her ears. There’s a reason Allah forbids boyfriends, Aliya, and I know what it is. No wonder they saw Rashid as a safe harbor for the SS Aliya. For the first time in a long time, Aliya got Mama. She understood that impulse: roll her daughter up safe and whole and fresh smelling, like a cigar in that box of Mariam’s, and never worry that she’d end up burned up or shredded on the floor.
But was the only alternative to be lonely and in pieces?
Mama stormed on. “And what do you have to say for yourself? Nothing. You stand here and you say nothing. You don’t know what’s good for you, you don’t, you don’t know what you want.”
How could Aliya know what she wanted from life when every inch of her skin, every ounce of her blood, yearned to talk to Trevor?
“Not in my house.” Mama was shouting. Rant, rant, rage, rage. “Not in my car, not if I have anything to say about it.”
Only one way Aliya could move on with her life: she needed to tell Trevor good-bye.
“Where do you think you’re going? Aliya? Aliya, you come back here right now! Aliya, I’m not finished talking to you.”
Aliya passed through the living room, where Baba looked right through her, bounded up the stairs, crashed into her bedroom. Yanked open her top drawer, rooted around. This is where she put them, had to be here—aha. She swept up the thick pieces of leather, weighed them in her hands. Rambling’s collar. Rambling’s leash.
From downstairs: “Aliya! I’m not finished!” punctuated by Ricky and Lucy laughing on TV.
What was that Miya had said about wearing white? Aliya flung open the closet, pulled out the abaya she wore to the mosque last Ramadan. She came back downstairs, slow but resolute. “Foolish, disrespectful girl.” Mama followed her through the house, trying to grab at her arms, but Aliya shook her off. She walked down the steps, down the driveway, closed her ears to the yelling behind her.
She took one chance, looked back. Mama, futile against the door, head bent, mouth crumpled. No rage, no anger, no fear. It was failure that etched every line of her body.
It took all of Aliya’s remaining anger to keep her marching down the driveway. All the rules, the pointless admonitions, all the no-visits-tonight and the fiddling with Aliya’s clothes to cover a bit more chest, a little more leg—she loved her mother anyway. Loved her, but couldn’t bear her. Bore her, but couldn’t bear herself.
At the end of the driveway, she turned left. Good thing. She had no idea how long Gillian had been parked there, waiting for her. So much time was wasted when they took away your cell phone.
“Yuh finally reached,” said Gillian. “Get in. Miya’s sending us on a mission.”
THIRTY
THE HOUSE was dark, just as she’d planned it.
Miya came around the corner, shuffled through the wet leaves in her embroidered slippers and stretched out her arms. Concentrated. Had Luke and his mother left the house? Last night, she’d spread out the coals to try again, fired them up, sat still in the damp grass.
I will not be afraid.
The old, weak Miya, the one caught up in lies and deceit, in pleasing people, that one, she was gone. “Miya, honey, what are you doing out here?” Mom had come out on their little deck, peered into the darkness. “Aren’t you cold? Is that our old barbecue? What are you doing with it?” Almost gone. Miya dredged up some excuse about a party and a football player, but Mom’s face set in a frown. She came down the couple of steps. “Really?” she said. “Why is all the coal on the grass? Hot, too, someone could get hurt out here. And why have a barbecue in the middle of the winter, anyway?”
Speak the truth. Her mother believed in kitoshi and in spirits: Would it be such a stretch for her to see her daughter seeking enlightenment? “Miya-chan,” said Mom. Her voice was gentle, hopeful. “Come on inside. Why don’t we try out that home spa kit you bought for my birthday?”
Miya came, but she made her excuses. This morning, up at five, down to the waterfall. She took off her clothes, ducked under, held her breath one minute, two—how long could she take it? One last instant of concentration: Sanders, head out of town. Had the spirits heard her? Then she was out, spinning on the gravel until her body grew warm and dry, her head dizzy and drunk.
She crossed the lawn now, heading for the side door, the wind whipping her white kimono around her legs. A flickering touch, so light she wasn’t sure—yes, there it was, stroking her forearms, darting across her shoulders, settling in at her neck. Sometimes the spirits comforted her, but now . . .What comfort was there in powers that crossed her body so easily? She tensed. What if she misstepped, misspoke, misunderstood? Was it wise—
She made her way to the side bushes, swinging her drawstring bag, the one with “Lipstick” scrawled in multiple colors. She stopped just outside the door to double-check her mystical items one last time: the sage she’d bought at the market, the cedar bark she’d chipped off the trees the other night at the church. At the very bottom, the belladonna she’d found on Craigslist. Belladonna, a hallucinogen used for centuries by men and women seeking power.
Drawing on multiple traditions could only amplify their power.
The most vital items, she’d left to Gillian. Hours ago, must have been, when Gillian called, breathing hard. “Hey—”
“Can you do something for me?” Miya asked from her bedroom, where she was pressing the kimono. “I meant to ask you before—we need drums, nothing expensive.”
“Drums?” said Gillian. “Will steel pan do?” Then she added, “Look, I’ve taken care of the malevolent force. Steam on, girl.”
Miya pulled the drawstrings tight, took a deep breath. Fished a key out from under her kimono. It didn’t come from Luke, though she’d thought about trying. Tempting, to stand side by side with him, smell his soapy skin, focus her mind: The key, the key, give me the key. Tempting, but not tempting enough. And anyway: not yet. She felt that fleeting, sad presence join her now, pressing up against her body. Trevor. He moved in close, backed away, impatient, unruly. She pressed her lips together. She’d played a part in this sadness, and it fell on her to cure it. Tonight.
She pushed the key, the one Rodney had filed with a series of careful cuts, into the keyhole. Pulled out the screwdriver recommended on how-to-lockbump.org. The flutters at the back of her neck beat harder, faster. She steeled herself. Would something go bang, knock her to the grass, leave her bewildered with a cacophony burning out her eardrums? Press on, Miya. One hard tap with the screwdriver and the dead bolt unlocked, the door gave. Thank you, Gillian.
She came through the doorway. The house smelled slightly dirty, with a hint of rotten fruit, of wet dog. She raised her arms out straight. Oh spirits, she prayed, bowed her head, tried to be powerful, couldn’t help being human. Flutter, flutter, flutter upgraded to a constant pressure. That was a good thing, right?
Miya closed the door behind her and made her way into the dark living room. She banged her knees—ouch—into the coffee table. Paper plates went flying, something sticky smeared her elbow: sniff-sniff, ketchup. Not on the kimono, thank the spirits. She dodged through the obstacle course— laundry basket, high-backed armchair, pile of empty bottles—and reached the stairs. Impossible not to think about the last time she’d snuck through this house. How puzzled and naive she’d been, how powerless. She’d never stood naked beneath a waterfall then, never crossed hot coals on bare feet. She’d add another “never” to the list tonight.
Up the stairs, one by one. Down the corridor, the one she’d been trolling nightly in her imagination. Trevor’s unlocked door. That sound—where was it coming from? He’d been here. She didn’t sense his sadness, but there was something else, some other clue, it was . . .
It was gone. Then: Tick, tick, tick came from behind the door. Was it—could it be—a heartbeat? Don’t get carried away. Her
hands shook, her heart pounded, but she stepped inside. A cold wetness seeped through the soles of her slippers, up their sides. Wetness? The ticking grew louder. Wetness, ticking—this made no sense. She reached out a hand to flip the light switch. Nothing.
“Lights don’t work,” said a voice behind her. Gillian, clattering up the stairs, a dark shape—make that Aliya—at her heels. “Should have brought a torch,” said Gillian. She came close enough for Miya to smell the perfume clinging to her clothes. She bent over the backpack she’d brought, fiddled in one of the pockets. A candle flame flared to life. When she stood up, Miya saw they’d followed instructions: Both wore white—Aliya had some kind of Middle Eastern robe left open over her jeans and T-shirt; Gillian, a white sheath that she’d belted around the waist. Their hair had been pulled back, and they wore no jewelry. Gillian’s backpack bulged a little, and when she lifted it, it sagged. Heavy.
“You got the drums?” Gillian nodded. Then she raised her hand, and the thin streak of candlelight gave them a view of the room. At least an inch of water had flooded it.
“Someone must have been using Trevor’s bathroom,” said Aliya. “Maybe Luke.”
“Not Luke,” said Miya. She smelled damp clothes, dirty rug, mold. The cramped, wet room was no place to spin. She held still, hoped to feel the flutter at her neck—had it gone? A very faint thump sounded overhead. Miya raised her eyes to the ceiling. Branch crashing into the roof, must be, unless it was a hint.
That fire escape had gone up as well as down, hadn’t it? “Come with me,” she told them.
Gillian came, so quick they almost tripped each other, but Aliya turned to the top of the stairs, snapped her fingers three times. “Let’s go, Rambling,” she called. A short bark, followed by the clip of toenails on stairs and a whiff of that wet dog smell. Pant, pant, shudder, and tiny droplets of something that felt like rain landed on Miya’s cheeks, her forehead, dampened her hair. “Why on earth did you bring him inside?” she asked.
