This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  22

  Nafisah forces me to stay for dinner, to enjoy Huda’s hard work. It’s a really lovely experience actually. To sit and watch Nafisah and Ali gush over Huda, to see Huda quip back self-deprecating remarks when I know inside she’s glowing. She’s glowing on the outside too – her smile is gigantic. They all bend over backwards to make me feel welcome but I feel like I’m invading an intimate family moment. I make my excuses as soon as I’ve cleared my plate. I pretend Ammi has texted me to get home to help her with something. As I tell that lie, I see a flash from dinner from the other night. When Abbu attacked her in front of me. What if something like that is happening at home right now? I feel sick. I’m such a bad daughter. A bad sister. I can’t believe I’ve left Ismail to deal with that.

  ‘Tell your mum to call me!’ Nafisah says as she waves me out of the door. ‘And that she owes me for bailing on our coffee date the other day!’

  I smile and wave back, knowing I won’t relay the message. Abbu doesn’t hide the fact that he doesn’t like Nafisah. Ammi manages to meet up with her every now and then, but she’s wary about phone calls at home, in case Abbu hears. I’m guessing their cancelled meet-up had something to do with Abbu too. As Ali drives me home, I form a plan in my head. I’m determined to make Ammi smile, to make her happy. I need to bring some joy into her life, in whatever way I can. I’m going to cheer her up. I’m going to make a difference. I can make a difference.

  I slot my key into the door and turn, planning to go straight to Ammi and offer to make her a cup of tea. She always says I make the best tea, not that I do it very often any more. Dammit, I should have asked Ali to stop at the shops on the way home so I could buy her some bourbon biscuits. Maybe I can just spread some Nutella on a plain biscuit; she used to love when I made her those when I was a kid. It’s going to work. It’s going to be better. If Huda can become a Perfect Daughter, then so can I.

  I push the door open and step in. Before I can even get my shoes off, I hear it. The shouting. Abbu’s voice booming. They’re in the living room. The door is closed, yet it seems like he’s standing right in front of me.

  ‘I MAKE SO MANY FUCKING SACRIFICES FOR THIS FAMILY, AND HERE YOU ARE, BEING A SELFISH BITCH.’

  I’m rooted to the spot. Paralysed. His words keep coming and coming. Ammi’s voice is there too. Quiet and unintelligible, but there. Her tone is pleading, begging. Trying to calm Abbu down, get him to stop.

  ‘WHY DO YOU EVEN WANT TO DO AN ART COURSE? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’VE GOT ANY TALENT.’

  Ammi wants to do an art course? I thought that was just a hobby, not something she’d like to take further. Although I’m sure she would think the same about my film-making …

  ‘I DON’T CARE IF IT’S FREE. YOU’RE NOT FUCKING DOING IT!’ He’s louder now.

  Stop.

  He needs to stop.

  I think back to the other night. Abbu squeezing Ammi’s cheeks hard, her neck, almost choking her.

  Until I told him to stop.

  Until I stood up and did something to help.

  ‘DON’T YOU THINK ABOUT ANYONE ELSE BUT YOURSELF?’

  If I want to be the Perfect Daughter, or even just a decent human being, I should open that door, step in and tell him to stop. He’ll stop. He will. It’s worked in the past. It will work again. I have the power here. Not him.

  So … I should just go in there.

  Just step in and say the words.

  Maybe even just my presence will stop it.

  Just step inside, Amani.

  Open the door.

  I can’t move.

  OPEN THE DOOR, AMANI.

  I can’t move.

  YOU CAN STOP THIS.

  I CAN’T MOVE.

  I’m scared. I’m scared of Abbu. Of what I might find when I walk in there.

  But …

  He’s only shouting right now. I can’t hear anything that suggests he’s … doing anything worse. It’s just words. I can cope with words.

  I can do this.

  Just take a few steps. Just say a few words.

  A few words can make a world of difference.

  I can do it.

  I can help Ammi.

  I reach out towards the door handle of the living room … and notice that my hand is shaking.

  ‘Maani?’ a voice whispers.

  I almost let out a yelp as I jump away from the door. My heart’s pounding, my breathing shaky. I look around and see Ismail standing at the top of the stairs. His eyes are wide, his arms wrapped around himself.

  ‘Ismail,’ I breathe. I rush up the stairs and scoop him into a hug. ‘Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?’

  He pulls me against him as tight as he can and buries his head in my shoulder, staying there silent and still. There’s a thud downstairs in the living room. A familiar thud. Followed by a familiar cry. A cry for help. I could have stopped that. If I’d stepped in right away, it wouldn’t have gone this far. I could have …

  ‘Maani, I’m scared,’ Ismail says against my neck.

  I can’t help Ammi right now, but I can definitely help Ismail. I lift him up and carry him into my room. I shut the door with my hip and take him over to my bed. As soon as I put him down, he scrambles under the covers. He knows the drill. The Bad Night Ritual. I take out our headphones, plug us in to my phone and start up a video we made together, based on Finding Nemo. I’ll do my own Bad Night video when he’s asleep.

  23

  There aren’t any flowers on the dining table today. No smell of pancakes wafting through the house. But there is a box. A cardboard box with a photo advertising the bread maker Ammi has been wanting ever since Nafisah got one months ago. Next to the box is Abbu, with ribbon wound around his hands, a pair of scissors and a roll of tape on the table in front of him. I watch from the kitchen as he struggles with the ribbon – it gets tangled between his fingers as he tries to make a bow. I can see him muttering under his breath, concentration written all over his face.

  I look back at that box. It’s the exact brand Ammi wanted. I remember she marked the page in a Lakeland catalogue, even circled it in pen. I thought it was to remind herself for later, but I guess it was a hint. A hint that Abbu’s picked up on. When Ammi’s obsession with fresh bread started, he would tell her to just walk down the street to the Co-op and buy some. He told her there was no point her even trying to make bread because she would fail. He reminded her of the time she used the wrong ingredients and made a bitter cake for Ismail’s birthday.

  But now … He knew how happy this would make her, so he went out to buy it. Or maybe he ordered it months ago, when she first hinted, and it’s only just arrived. Bread makers are pretty in demand; it was probably sold out. I don’t even entertain the idea that he’s just doing this as part of the Morning After Ritual.

  I hear soft footsteps. Ammi’s. She’s approaching the dining room from the other direction. For some reason, I panic and press myself against the wall, so neither of them can see me. I need to get a textbook I left on the dining table, but I don’t want to disrupt this moment.

  ‘Oh!’ Ammi says when she walks in, surprised.

  ‘Ah, you caught me! I’m not finished yet!’ Abbu says, almost giddily. ‘You weren’t supposed to see it until it was fully wrapped. Ribbons are hard.’ He lets out a little chuckle.

  ‘When did you buy this?’ Ammi says after a pause. She’s so quiet I barely hear her, but she sounds a bit … annoyed? Why would she be annoyed? She’s been wanting this bread maker for ages.

  ‘Is it … not the one you wanted?’ Abbu asks shyly.

  Ammi doesn’t reply. I move closer to the doorway, strain my ears, and hear her footsteps, then a cupboard opening. She sucks in a breath as she pulls out a mug with a clink.

  ‘Do you … do you want some help?’ Abbu asks hesitantly.

  She doesn’t reply. The kettle clicks on and then she opens a tin, probably getting a teabag. My heart’s pounding as I fight the urge to look around the corner and watch them
. I want to see their faces. See the look on Ammi’s face. She must be smiling at least, right? It’s such a big gift. Definitely the biggest he’s bought her in ages.

  After a few seconds of silence, Abbu sighs. ‘Shirin …’ he says slowly. ‘I’m … I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but sometimes you make me so angry.’

  Oh

  my

  God.

  He … he apologised. He … actually acknowledged what happened last night. He never talks about the abuse. None of us do. It’s an unwritten rule of our family. And it’s not just empty words, either. He actually sounds sorry. His voice is low, with a sort of nervousness and vulnerability about it.

  He’s trying. He really is.

  The glimmer of hope that comes with every Morning After returns. But bigger this time. I’ve never heard him like this, never heard him actually say the word ‘sorry’, acknowledge what happened. I swear his voice has never been so full of regret. It makes me feel like this time really could be the start of something new. That this could be the day, the moment, that everything starts to change.

  Abbu starts to apologise further, but the rising whistle of the kettle blocks it out. I feel the urge to peek around the corner, to see if I can hear what he’s saying, but … it’s probably best not to, right? This should be a moment between them. I shouldn’t eavesdrop.

  I sneak out of the kitchen through the other door, grab my backpack and leave for school. But there’s one thought blossoming in my head.

  He’s changing. He’s really, truly changing.

  24

  Huda is two steps ahead of me on the way to school. She doesn’t notice the distance, or that I’m not listening to a word she’s saying. I’m imagining what must be happening at home. Abbu continuing to genuinely apologise, promising to change, and actually meaning it. Ammi forgiving him. Them both making plans for the future. It’s the only thing on my mind right now. Suddenly, I find myself bumping into the back of Huda as she stops abruptly in the middle of the path.

  ‘Ouch!’ I step back and rub my nose.

  ‘Thought that would get your attention,’ she says with a smirk.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I was daydreaming. Carry on.’

  Normally she would ask me what I was daydreaming about, but today she simply picks up where she left off.

  ‘I honestly can’t believe it,’ she says. ‘How well the plan is working. Nafisah was so … just wow, y’know? I mean, you saw – you saw how emosh she got about the food, right?’

  I nod, trying to stay in this conversation, in this moment. Not thinking about whether Ammi’s already started making bread, whether she’ll make something that Abbu would like.

  ‘Can we have another session today?’ Huda asks. ‘I really think we’re on a roll. I don’t know what we could do next though – can you think of anything?’

  It’s going to be different from now on. I know it. It has to be. He’s never apologised so sincerely. Well, not that I’ve heard. He means it. All of it. He must.

  Next thing I know, I’m bumping into Huda’s back again.

  ‘OK, c’mon, spill,’ she says, turning to look at me. We’re stopped in the middle of the pavement again. ‘What’s up with you? You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.’

  ‘Nothing, sorry,’ I say.

  ‘C’mon, Maani, I know when something’s up with you. What is it?’ She stares at me with such intensity that I have to look away.

  ‘Just … y’know. Revision and stuff, the yoozh.’

  Huda starts walking again, but backwards so she’s still facing me, so that she can stare me down.

  ‘The “yoozh”?’ she asks, cocking an eyebrow. ‘You have never used that word before in your life. Now I know you’re keeping something from me. What’s going on?’

  I could tell her. Huda already knows. She heard what happened the other day. There’s no point hiding it any more. She should be pleased, anyway, to hear that things are improving.

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s just … Abbu. Stuff at home,’ I admit.

  She’s walking beside me now. ‘Oh shit. Did something happen?’ she asks right away. Her immediate reaction placates me, in a way. I thought it would be awkward, that she’d want to avoid talking about it, like part of me does. But she cares. I can hear it in her voice.

  ‘Last night was … it wasn’t good,’ I say. ‘But then today, this morning … it was different,’ I add quickly, before Huda can say anything. ‘Like more different than ever. He apologised, Huda. He apologised so sincerely. He’s bought Ammi a bread maker like Nafisah’s – she’s wanted one for ages. And he just … seemed different. Like he was trying. I can tell he’s really trying.’

  ‘Trying to bribe her?’ Huda asks heartlessly.

  Anger flares within me. ‘No, of course not. That’s not what it is. He’s being … he’s being nice, Huda. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘He thinks he can just buy a fancy gadget and … what? That makes it OK?’

  I clench my fists. ‘He apologised, Huda. The gift was in addition to that.’

  ‘Why can’t he just stop doing it instead?’

  ‘You don’t … you don’t get it,’ I say through clenched teeth.

  She pauses for a second, probably thinking of some more bad stuff to say about him, but then she surprises me. ‘OK, right, so talk to me about it. Tell me about it. Tell me anything, everything,’ she says. ‘I promise not to … I’m gonna shut up and listen because I don’t know the right thing to say. Is that OK?’

  I smile a little. This is it. This is what I need. I just need her to listen. Not for her to butt in, telling me she thinks Abbu’s giving fake apologies, or that he’s lying about changing. Not for her to judge. For her to just listen. I need to get this off my chest, and she is the only person in the world who will actually listen.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  And so I tell her. I tell her about the Morning After Ritual, and how each time I feel as if things are going to change. I tell her what a nice weekend we had, how it felt to be a normal family. I also tell her about dinner the other night, how it felt to actually see it happening for the first time, and how I managed to get Abbu to stop with just a few words. How I can’t get the image of him holding her by the throat out of my head.

  ‘I keep wondering if I need to start my own Perfect Daughter plan,’ I say as we approach the school gates. ‘I managed to stop him that time, so maybe I can help make him change. Things are getting better, I just need to help it carry on. Maybe if I just … was around more? Talked to him more. Maybe that would help.’ I pause, waiting for Huda to reply, to give an answer, a suggestion. I turn to her.

  ‘Oh, do you actually want me to say what I think now?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Amani, I am going to be honest, yeah? This … this isn’t right. You shouldn’t feel responsible for his actions. You need to know that you’re NOT responsible for his actions. Neither is your mum. What he does isn’t on you. It’s on him. And you … you can’t put it on yourself, or on your mum, to try and stop him, or not set him off. He has to do that himself. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but he’s probably apologised like that tons of times before.’ She pauses for a second, notices my shocked expression. ‘Fuck, I don’t know … I just don’t know what the right thing to say is. I’m sorry, OK? I’m trying.’

  ‘I know,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Amani, I think it’s time to tell someone.’

  ‘I can’t, Huda.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’ She’s serious.

  I snap my head up and now I’m the one that comes to a stop, right in the middle of the quad. ‘What? You said you wouldn’t … You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone. You can’t go back on that. Huda, it’s not fair. You can’t …’ I feel breathless, like I’m about to hyperventilate.

  ‘Whoa whoa whoa, calm down,’ she says, putting a hand on my arm.

  I shrug her off. ‘
You promised.’

  She sighs a little. ‘I know, I know. But I meant … if you wanted to but didn’t have the guts, I’d do it for you. But if you don’t want me to … I won’t say a word, I still promise. I would never go against that. But you …’ She makes a frustrated little sound. ‘You’ve got to realise that is the only way out. The only way you and your mum can get help. You need to tell someone. Even if it’s just for advice.’

  ‘I thought that’s what friends were for,’ I say, putting as much venom into my voice as I can.

  ‘But you won’t listen to a thing I say!’ she proclaims, gesturing wildly.

  ‘Because you’re saying …’ I realise my voice is so loud people could hear us, and lower it. ‘Because you’re saying … terrible things about my dad. I’m not going to listen to you talk shit about him.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? I don’t want to make you sad, or angry. And I’m not shitting on your dad. But I’m not gonna pretend I’m OK with what he does. And I’m obviously gonna speak up when you’re feeling responsible for him.’

  ‘But it’s not that simple though. To just “speak up”. The way our family is, the way our culture is. You’ve been lucky with Ali and Nafisah. They’re not like everyone else. The way my aunties gossip about people, tear women down for any minor thing, never accepting that men can do wrong. You just … you don’t get it, Huda. You can’t get it. Yeah, you may be Bengali too, but you haven’t grown up in a family so steeped in Bengali culture. It’s the worst.’