by Farah Heron
She shook her head, unable to comprehend the turns her life had taken in the short time since she left university.
“A sandwich would be amazing, thank you. In fact, thank you for everything you do for us. I hope you know how much we appreciate you.”
Nanima waved her hand as she walked over to the dining room sideboard. She pulled out a platter. “I don’t want appreciation. What else can I do? When family needs me, I’m there. Always.”
Amira stepped towards her grandmother from behind and wrapped her arms around her. “Well, I consider myself very lucky to have someone like you in my family. I appreciate you.”
“Yes, yes, beta. Now listen to your own advice. Change. Homework.”
After changing into pyjama pants and a T-shirt, Amira booted up her computer and checked her email. Nothing from Raymond. It was fine; she couldn’t really expect him to be done so soon—even if the paper was due in a few days. Raymond had a full-time job and two kids, after all. He’d get it to her on time. He had to. She pulled up her report and started working on those grammatical errors he mentioned yesterday.
She managed to get a few hours of work in before there was a knock on her door. It was, surprisingly, her mother, holding the grilled cheese and chutney sandwich Nanima had promised.
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Thank your nanima. I’m just the waitress, she’s the chef.”
Amira grinned as she took the sandwich to her desk and sat. “You got a minute to chat?”
“Of course. What’s up?” Mum sat on Amira’s bed.
Amira bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She didn’t even know why she wanted to talk to Mum. Or what she wanted to talk about. Amira’s mind was a mess lately. She forced a smile. “You were at an art show?”
Mum nodded, smiling happily. “Yes, with a few of the nurses from work. One of them has a sister who’s an artist. A hobbyist, at least; she’s also a dentist. This was her first gallery showing. Fantastic stuff. Multimedia canvases.”
Amira chuckled. “Look at us. Ballet and an art gallery on the same day. We’re so . . . sophisticated.”
“Change is in the air, sweetie. I just thanked Travis again for getting you girls those tickets. Zahra wouldn’t stop talking about the show when I got home. And about the young girl you went with.”
“Maddie. Duncan’s niece.” Amira paused. “Change is in the air. It’s just . . .” She couldn’t put words to what she was feeling. Things just felt different since she’d come back, and not just because of her crowded basement. She shook her head. It was probably just stress. School. And there was no question she was growing emotionally attached to those boys out there, whether she wanted to or not. Things would be back to normal next week after her report was in and the quartet left. Maybe. Hopefully.
“Amira, sweetheart, what’s bugging you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Sounds like you had a great evening. I’m glad you’re getting out with these work friends.”
“Yes, it’s time I had a social life again. I even agreed to go to an anniversary party on the weekend with your grandmother. Although I think she has some unsaid motive there.”
“Yup, she wants to set you up with a divorced man from Winnipeg. He’s apparently in high demand, though. Reena’s mum is scouting the man for her.”
Mum groaned. “Of course. I should have known. Why she won’t just tell me these things . . .” She stood up. “Anyway, I promised Zahra we’d read more Harry Potter before bed. ’Night, Amira.”
Despite seeming uninterested in Nanima’s set-up, Mum still didn’t mention anything about dating anyone, and she’d had ample opportunity there. Maybe there was no one. Maybe it was only a new friend group from the hospital. Still, Amira needed to get together with her mother more often. Alone, and when they had more than five minutes to chat.
She couldn’t make herself get back to her report after her mother went upstairs, so she did what she should have done immediately when she’d started to feel off-kilter this afternoon. She called her best friend.
After getting a short update on Saira’s health (seemingly fine, but defensive and angry), Amira told Reena about the trip to the ballet and her weird mood there. And, like she always did after talking it out with her best friend, Amira felt better. Loads better. At least until Reena started ribbing her about Duncan.
“So, it was seeing him with his niece that made you realize his humanity, not sticking your tongue down his throat. Interesting.”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Amira groaned, regretting the phone call she’d made to her the night before.
“As if hiding something from me is ever an option.”
Amira tried to change the subject. “Speaking of hiding, remember I thought my mum was hiding a new man? Now I’m not so sure.” She told Reena about her mum’s art show date.
“No, this is proof that she is dating someone,” Reena said. “An art gallery is such a date spot. She said she went with a group of nurses, right? Nurses can be men.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s possible. But if she doesn’t want to tell me, I don’t want to pry right now.”
“Agreed. With the drama with the merry minstrels, you have enough on your plate. I’m still shaken that you hooked up with Duncan. You need me to move in and act as chaperone for the next couple of days?”
“That will not be necessary.” Amira groaned again. This topic was apparently unavoidable. “I’ll lay off the bourbon, and let’s hope his interest in me has waned since discovering I can’t tell a croisé from a plié.”
“And he could tell the difference?”
“Apparently the garden gnome is a man of many talents.”
“If you ask me,” Reena said, “I think you should see what other talents he’s hiding. I mean, you couldn’t have predicted that the man could make chai, right? Imagine what else he can do. I think a quick fling with a guy who’s already living there couldn’t be more convenient.”
“It’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, then, isn’t it?”
There was a soft knock on her door.
“Hang on, Ree. Seems it’s drop-in hour in Amira’s room again.”
She opened the door to see Duncan. He was also in his pyjamas—flannel pants and a blue T-shirt. No plaid onesie.
“Hey.” She smiled.
“Can I come in?”
Why? She got that they were friends now, sort of, but was he going to make a habit of coming to see her in her room every day? After the drunken make-out session, late-night room calls didn’t seem like the best idea. Not if they wanted to stay vertical, at least. Did he want to stay vertical? Did she? She eyed him suspiciously.
Duncan looked tense, like he was barely holding back another angry outburst. What had she done to piss him off this time? She raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t be mad, Amira,” he growled, “but . . . I googled you.”
Shoulders slumping, she looked away.
“Let me come in, I want to talk to you about it,” he said.
“Got to go, Reena. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She disconnected the call.
She didn’t want to talk about it. She had nothing more to say on this topic, and she’d told him as much at lunch. But one thing Amira had learned about this man was that he wouldn’t let something like this go. She put her phone on her desk and motioned him in, closing the door behind him. Perching cross-legged on the bed, she waited for him to sit. He didn’t take the desk chair this time, but sat on the bed next to her. She stilled. Why did he have to sit so close?
“So . . .” she started. “What did you read?”
“A bunch of articles. What happened?”
“You read them, you know.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
She shrugged but didn’t look at him. “It was stupid. I overreacted and got burned for it. You know my temper.” She played with the edge of her duvet on her unmade bed.
“Doesn’t sound like overreacting to me. What happened, Amira? What did they do
to you?”
She didn’t answer him right away. She let her fingers lightly trail on the crumpled blanket. “It was two Decembers ago. I was flying to Philadelphia to see my dad for the holidays. He works there. Things were not going well for me at school. I didn’t have many friends there, and a couple of classmates were openly hostile because I snapped at a TA after he made a sexist comment. I was thinking of throwing in the towel and quitting everything, and Dad bought me the plane ticket when I told him that. He’s an engineer, too, and he’s the calmest person I know. Nothing gets to him, except Mum, but that’s a whole other story. My dad is so good about letting this shit roll off him. I knew he was the person to talk me off the ledge.”
“You were going alone?”
“Yeah. Mum was taking Zahra to a dance showcase in Montreal, otherwise Zahra would’ve been with me. In the border security line, I got pulled aside. Random extra check, they said. Random, my ass . . . anyway, the guy started asking me all these questions and made me open my phone. There were a few pictures of Arabic calligraphy and illuminated Arabic manuscripts. I took them at a museum here in Toronto the week before. When he asked me who I was going to see, I told them my father, Mohammad Khan. He didn’t seem to care that Dad’s an executive at an engineering firm. I told them I wasn’t religious. They asked about my family, what sect of Islam I belonged to, where my family lived. They gave me a thorough pat-down.” She shuddered at the memory. “Several times.”
“Bastards.”
“I was born in Canada. I’m not from any countries on the travel-ban list. My mum came from India when she was fifteen, and my dad from Kenya at twenty.” She paused, smoothing the balled-up duvet cover with her hand. “Yes, my parents are both immigrants, and it hasn’t always been easy, but things weren’t like this before. This . . . endemic . . . sanctioned racism. It’s getting so much worse. It’s heartbreaking. The world is such a trash fire, and at that moment, I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I kind of lost it on them. You’ve seen my temper . . . and I was already so stressed about school, and everything. They said I was being difficult. They almost arrested me, but in the end, I was let go after questioning.”
“They didn’t let you board?”
She shook her head. “Technically, I could have. They had no proof I’d done anything wrong. But they kept me so long I missed my flight. And I was so freaked out, I didn’t even want to go to Philadelphia anymore. Believe it or not, one of the guys told me he didn’t actually suspect I was dangerous, but he wanted to teach me a lesson. I almost spat at him.”
Duncan said nothing for a while, just sat near her, staring into space. She couldn’t read his expression. Had she said too much? He hadn’t signed up for terrorist accusations and Islamophobia when he said he wanted a friendship with her.
But Amira long ago accepted she didn’t have the luxury of simple relationships.
Finally, he spoke. “And then you went to the media?”
She nodded. “I wanted to scream to the whole country about how they treated me. The media loved the story because I’m not a hijab-wearing, conservative, religious immigrant.” She shrugged, looking away from him, and spoke quietly. “I’m not very religious, but I do believe in God. And although I don’t agree with all the rituals, at its core, I think Islam is a beautiful religion. I’m too much of a scientist for dogma and blind faith—but I respect those who practise faithfully.” She looked at him. His expression was still hard to read, but his crystal-clear focus kept her talking. “But the media put their own spin on it. They implied it was worse that this happened to someone less religious, someone who doesn’t wear a head scarf and who grew up here. As if it was okay to mistreat devout Muslims.” She paused again. “I’m a Canadian citizen by birth, so I’m sheltered in ways others can’t be. I can afford to lose my temper and fight back. I fought for those who couldn’t.” She stilled, looking at her knees. “No one should be made to feel like less of a human being because of their religion or the colour of their skin. No one. Not in my country. In my home . . .” Her voice cracked. Wavered a bit.
“Anyway . . .” She took a long breath and tried to rein in her runaway emotions. “Anyway, it was all fine. I got a lot of support. And, eventually, everyone forgot about it when the next horrible thing happened to a marginalized group.”
“Was it really fine, Amira?” His gaze was direct.
God, those eyes on him. One of these days, she was going to lose herself in them.
“Yes, fine.”
“So why don’t you talk about it anymore?”
She shrugged. “Because it’s done. I’ve talked about it to death, and people don’t get how emotionally exhausting it is to rehash it over and over. Most have been supportive, but I made the mistake of reading the comments on some of those newspaper articles.”
His hand found her knee. “Oh, Amira . . .”
Keeping her focus squarely on her own hands in her lap, she continued softly. “They said I should have been more obedient. I shouldn’t have flaunted my culture or religion. I needed to assimilate here. Crossing the border is a privilege, I shouldn’t take it as a right. I was a bitch. I was just another angry terrorist. My husband or father was going to beat me for speaking out when I got home. Someone said my existence is incompatible with Canadian values. And those were the nice ones. The Twitter comments were much, much worse.”
He winced, squeezing her knee. “I’m sorry.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “I used to be very vocal on social media, but some right-wing nut sent up a call to arms to his minions, or something. The trolls pounced on me. It was vile. I got hundreds of messages. Vulgar, noxious comments. And they sent pictures. Graphic, violent images . . . Muslims being hurt, tortured . . . and then threats against me started.” She looked up at him. “Honestly, Duncan, I was scared. I deleted all my social media.”
“That’s totally understandable.” He still had his hand on her knee. He didn’t seem to want to let her go, and she was glad for it.
She shrugged. “Others have gone through so much worse. Refugees are being beaten, starved, bombed. Kids separated from their families. People were shot in their mosque, here, while praying . . . all . . .” Amira squeezed her eyes shut, trying to halt her tears. “All I got were ugly words and pictures.”
“I’m so sorry, Amira. Really.”
She blinked, seemingly unable to stop talking to this man. “I always had trolls commenting on feeds . . . but it feels different these days. Nothing I can write or say will change anyone’s mind. These people hate me. I’m not human to them. I saw their profiles on social media, and these are regular people. Not villains or monsters, but people who look just like the people I grew up with. Some of them looked like old boyfriends.”
“They probably looked like me.”
She looked at him. Beautiful, warm eyes. Soft, golden skin. “Yeah, a lot of them did.”
He said nothing for a while, his hand on her knee the only thing she could feel. “Is that why you hated me when we met?” he finally asked softly.
“No. I didn’t hate you, not really. But honestly, I . . .” Her voice trailed off. How to explain this to him? “Do you know what that creep said to me at the train station before you pretended to be my boyfriend?”
“He asked if you were from India.”
“Yes. He also said he heard Canadian girls don’t wear underwear.”
Duncan’s nostrils flared. “I knew I should’ve hit him.”
“Guys have said they want an Indian girlfriend because we’re more submissive. Others call me exotic.”
“So, you’ve given up on all men?”
She laughed sadly. “I haven’t given up on men. I like men just fine. I’d love to be in a relationship, I just don’t trust easily. And I especially don’t trust my own judgment. Too many people have been drawn to me because of what I am instead of who I am, and I hate that I have to be the one to figure out the difference. Navigating life is such a shit show these days.”
He said nothing, staring at her for a while. It was intense. Amira was sure she said way too much and was mortified when a tear finally escaped. She tried to look away but he caught her chin. His calloused fingers wiped her tear, then rested on her cheek. He was warm, and gentle. His hand was like an anchor holding her down, stopping her from being swept away.
A small smile emerged behind the beard. “I can’t force you to trust me, but I can promise to be honest with you,” he said. “And . . . I wasn’t honest yesterday. I lied to you.” He removed his hand from her face but continued to stare at her. “I said you weren’t my type, but honestly, Amira, that’s not true. You are exactly my type. And not because of some exotic fetish or anything like that. Just because you’re you.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t hurt that you’re smoking hot.” His voice was like lightly sanded stone, smooth between rough edges. “But I knew I wanted you the second you told me off when we met. Self-assured, confident women who fight for themselves are my catnip.”
She looked back down at her hands. She wasn’t a fighter. She used to be, but she didn’t have it in her anymore. “I don’t fight anymore. I wasn’t strong enough,” she whispered.
“You’re still a fighter, Amira. They didn’t take that from you. I saw it in you that day. Now that I know you better, I see you’re not only a fighter, but brilliant, generous, funny. You are exactly my type.”
This conversation seemed impossible. But here they were. Having it. “Why didn’t you show me? I was sure you despised me,” she whispered.
“Yeah, well”—he ran his hand over his beard—“the type of woman I’m drawn to hasn’t worked out so well for me in the past. I’ve been burned by a couple of bad experiences myself. I’m not stable enough. My income is not predictable. I won’t move out of my brother’s house. I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t like you, and I was an ass. I’m sorry. I’m a bit . . . argumentative.”
That was an understatement. She laughed, feeling light-headed all of a sudden. Duncan was attracted to her? Not just when he was drunk? Not just as eye candy?
