He cleared his throat. ‘You must understand, Faru – a man has to do what he thinks is best for his family.’
Family. When you get married, you’re not really a family until you have children. People might not agree, but it’s always seemed that way to me. And obviously to Mum too, as she said: ‘Wouldn’t he want security for when you had children?’ she said. ‘But Allah knows why you are leaving it so late. And now – who knows?’
Not again, Mum. Please, not again.
‘I’m his wife,’ I replied, levelling my voice in case I ended up shouting at her too. She doesn’t know. How is she to realise that she shatters your heart every time she asks about the children you don’t have? The ones you’ll never have.
Looking into the rear-view mirror, I asked Mum: ‘Is this the way it’s meant to be?’
It’s funny, I never really thought about my parents’ marriage. For twenty-eight years you see a thing and accept that it’s just the way it is. What was Bubblee always moaning about? Why was she always so angry? I hated to admit it, but I was beginning to see the reason. Why was it okay for me not to know and just accept that Mustafa did things without discussing them with me first – especially when they’d affect us both? Did my being happily married mean I stopped seeing things? If so, now it had come and hit me in the face so hard, everything was a blur and my mind was numb. I let out a sigh. But I never was like Bubblee, with high dreams and aspirations. All I ever wanted from life was contentment. And look what I got.
‘Well?’ I said, as Mum still hadn’t answered.
‘Farah,’ said Dad. ‘You are feeling angry. Better to calm down and then speak.’
The car tyres screeched as I turned into the hospital car park. As we got out Bubblee had also arrived, parking her little Ford next to my Mini Cooper. The only person I really noticed was Fatti – she looked distracted. We were all quiet when we entered the hospital wing until I said, ‘Call Jay,’ to no-one in particular as I marched on ahead. I turned around to see that they had all stopped and were looking at each other.
‘Can someone just. Call. Jay,’ I repeated, walking off again as Mae caught up with me.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked.
‘That he’d better get here as fast as humanly possible, or there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘But he’s in Paris.’
‘I don’t care if he’s in Timbuktu,’ I replied.
As I marched towards my husband’s hospital room the doctor was checking his charts.
‘Ah, Mrs Lateef. Glad you’re here. We’ve—’
‘—Can you give me a minute, please?’ I said.
She looked confused. ‘Sorry?’
‘I’d like a moment with my husband.’
She looked at him lying there, eyes closed, not a care in the world.
‘I’m not su—’
‘Please,’ I repeated.
As she left the room the rest of the family walked in.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘Who?’ said Bubblee.
‘That brother of mine.’
Something began to stir inside me. I couldn’t look at anyone in the room without wanting to scream. Mae had her phone against her ear and looked at me after checking a message she seemed to have received.
‘He’s er … he’s not available right now.’
It’s funny. All your life you stand up for someone, explain them to people, follow on from what your parents say: they have to be right because they raised him.
‘Your son, Amma and Abba,’ I said, looking at them. ‘He sends my husband into a coma and can’t even come on the phone to speak to me.’
‘He is trying to find the money for you,’ said Mum. ‘At least he is doing something.’
Bubblee scoffed. ‘Yeah, he’s been trying to do things for years.’ She stretched her arm towards my comatose husband. ‘That’s what he’s done.’
‘And aren’t you glad?’ I retorted.
‘Perhaps everyone should take a minute,’ interjected Fatti.
Malik put his hand on her arm. ‘Let them, Fatima. It’s better to speak about these things in the open. God knows there are too many secrets in this family. Don’t you think, Kala and Mama?’ he added, looking at Mum and Dad.
Fatti gave him an inquisitive look, but I didn’t have time to think about what was going on there. I had my own issues to think about. For the first time, what was happening to me mattered most.
‘Malik …’ said Dad.
‘Mama, don’t people deserve to know the truth?’ said Malik.
Fatti glanced at Mum and Dad and then Malik, a questioning frown forming.
‘Why are you even here, Bubblee?’ I said. ‘When all you have to offer is your cynicism and negativity?’
She looked hurt, but it was quickly replaced with something stonier. I almost regretted what I said when I saw that look – it reminded me so much of when she was younger; how we used to play together and Jay would come and distract me because he’d spilled something on the carpet or broken a vase. For a moment Bubblee and I just stared at each other.
‘Faru,’ said Mum, glancing at me and then looking over at Malik.
That’s when it hit me: how could I have been so stupid for so long? What do my parents know? They’re trying to set up their rebel daughter with a man from Bangladesh in whom she has absolutely zero interest. Who, by the looks of it, she finds repellent. What world do my mum and dad live in? Why can’t they see the thing that’s right in front of them, rather than what they want to see?
‘I wouldn’t have bothered if Fatti hadn’t insisted on it,’ replied Bubblee.
Fatti’s eyes were darting all over the place now.
‘Don’t bring her into it,’ said Mae.
‘Mae – you shush,’ Dad intervened.
Mae flung her arms out before whipping around and charging out of the room.
‘Mae,’ Fatti called out behind her.
When she didn’t stop, Fatti looked around the room and said: ‘She’s not a little girl any more. You have to stop treating her like a child,’ she added, looking at Mum and Dad.
‘We know, Fatti,’ said Mum. She reached into her bag and handed her a tube. ‘Here, have some cheese.’
Fatti seemed like she was in the middle of a war of the wills, her eyes flitting between the cheese and Malik. I was just about to say to Mum to stop feeding our eldest sister when Malik interjected: ‘She doesn’t need cheese.’
‘Isn’t that typical?’ said Bubblee. ‘A man telling a woman what she needs.’
‘Bubblee,’ replied Malik, taking on a tone that must’ve got my twin sister’s blood simmering. ‘You are not the only one that wants the best for Fatima.’
That’s when we all looked at him. It dawned on me that Malik and Fatti had been getting quite close – had he actually fallen for her instead of Bubblee? Surely not. Fatti looked at him with such warmth, it made me think that maybe he had. Mum was still holding out the cream cheese.
‘Malik, let me talk to you outside,’ said Dad, walking up to him, ready to leave the room.
‘No, wait,’ said Fatti. She paused, looking at both of them. ‘What’s going on?’
Mum put the cheese back in her bag. ‘Nothing, my daughter,’ she said.
‘Something’s going on,’ Fatti insisted.
She was right. Mum and Dad looked shifty and nervous while Malik wasn’t paying any attention to Dad, who was trying to get him out of the room.
‘It’s something to do with that picture,’ she said.
‘What picture?’ I asked.
Bubblee explained the photo that Fatti found of my mum, my mum-in-law and Malik as a baby.
‘It’s not me,’ said Malik.
‘Malik, please – go and speak to your mama.’ Mum sounded more panicked than I’d ever heard her. And she couldn’t take her eyes off Fatti.
‘Then who is it?’ asked Fatti.
Silence.
‘Who?’ she repeated.
> Dad stepped forward and held her by the arms. ‘Listen, my sweet child.’ He regarded her face, her doe-eyes that looked at him in such confusion, her mouth that always seemed to stay pursed. ‘Your amma and I love you very much.’
‘What is going on?’ said Bubblee.
For once, I was keen for someone to answer her question.
‘It’s you,’ said Mum to Fatti, stepping forward and standing side-by-side with Dad. ‘The baby in the picture is you.’
I didn’t understand why this all mattered – who cared whether it was Malik or Fatti? But something on Bubblee’s face told me it did matter.
‘But you’re the one holding me. Malik’s mum,’ Fatti said, looking at him, ‘she’s the one in the hospital bed.’
‘That’s right, Fatima,’ said Malik, coming forward. ‘Do you see now?’
‘No,’ said Bubblee in disbelief.
‘Malik, please leave this room,’ said Dad.
He didn’t move. ‘You must tell her, Mama. With me here.’
That’s when Mum took hold of Fatti, tears in her eyes. ‘You are still our daughter, Fatti. It doesn’t matter who gave birth to you.’
Fatti’s confusion seemed to melt away at this. What did they mean by ‘who gave birth to you’?
‘Fatima,’ said Malik. ‘Do you see?’
She stared at him, a look of disbelief on her face. Bubblee seemed unable to move from where she was standing.
Malik kept his eyes on Fatima, though.
‘Do you?’ he repeated. ‘You are my real sister.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fatima
I didn’t hear anything or look at anyone, I just ran out of the room – what else was I meant to do? Down the hospital corridors, past the reception and nurses’ station, through the doors.
‘Fatti,’ Mae called out.
For a moment I stopped and considered her – the fact that she wasn’t my real sister made me burst into tears, right there and then. I realised she was talking to Marnie, who was standing there with a bunch of flowers.
‘Fats?’ she said, coming up to me. ‘What’s wrong?’
You’re like my little darling, I wanted to say. Sometimes I want to lock you in your room and other times I could sit and watch you sleep for hours.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning around and running out of the hospital, towards the bus stop.
What was I sorry for? I didn’t know. All my life I’ve felt like I never did fit in. Even though Bubblee called herself the black sheep, at least she was a sheep – I was like a goat. I’d tell myself all the time: It’s in your head, Fatti. Mum and Dad love you. I wouldn’t admit it to the rest of them, but they always have seemed to prefer me over my sisters. Mum keeping cheese in her bag for me wasn’t a new thing. Even when I was little there was always a special ‘Fatti’ stock that the rest of them would whinge over. I should’ve felt grateful and superior – got a big head like most people do when they’re preferred over others – but instead it just distanced me further from them. It didn’t help that I was the eldest and my sisters would eye me suspiciously as if I’d tell on them if they did anything wrong. So, instead, I’d just hide in my room, eating snacks, getting fat, wondering what was wrong with me, and why I didn’t belong here. Now I knew. It was because I didn’t belong here. It made me sound ungrateful: poor Fatti being loved too much and fed too much. But you can’t help it if you feel like an extra piece in a puzzle that’s already complete.
When I got to the bus stop I realised I didn’t know where to go. After thirty years of being alive I had no real friends. When I was younger Mum would always collect me straight after school, and when I was invited to parties or to someone’s house I’d have to decline because Mum and Dad didn’t like the idea of me mixing with girls that weren’t Bangladeshi, and certainly not mixing with boys. And then when I got older I was too shy to really make friends. I didn’t like looking at myself in the mirror and so I suppose I didn’t like other people looking at me either. If I’d been bullied it might’ve made me feel as if I was alive, but I was just ignored – as though I didn’t exist. That’s how I liked it.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I wiped my tears and tried to pull myself together, when I saw Mae speeding her way towards me. Before she reached me a bus pulled up to the stop and I got on, with no idea where it was going. Her face looking on at me through the window, confused and worried, just made me cry again.
*
Malik is my brother. That was the thought that hit me like a truck when I got off at a random stop near our town. It made me feel so sick, I almost threw up on an old lady. The way I looked at him. The way I thought he looked at me. When he touched my arm and when he’d meet my gaze I had these ridiculous glimmers of hope that maybe he felt something. But it was because he was my brother. The heat rose to my face as I shook my head in embarrassment. How could I have been so stupid to think that he cared about me as anything more than a sister? Especially when there was Bubblee around. And how would I ever get over the fact that I had those feelings about my own brother? It was too much.
My phone rang and it was Mae, followed by Bubblee, followed by Farah. I ignored all their calls but when the phone rang again I saw Ash’s name flash on my screen. I hesitated for a moment – how would I even be able to get any words out? But it would be comforting to hear a friendly voice, speak to someone who didn’t know that I’m not really an Amir. Who didn’t know that I don’t think I’m anyone.
‘Is everything okay?’ he said as soon as I picked up.
How did he know something was wrong? was my first reaction.
‘I’ve been outside your house for ten minutes but no-one’s here.’
I’d completely forgotten I had a lesson with him today.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I began. ‘We were in hospital and then everyone was there and so much happened and I lost track of time …’
And I don’t really have three sisters and I’ve never actually met my real mum and dad and I’m alone, alone, alone.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, sounding annoyed. ‘Don’t worry – are you far? I’ll come and get you.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I replied, looking around, wondering how I’d tell him I ended up here.
‘I know – but you sound confused enough as it is.’
So I told him which bus stop I was at and twenty minutes later, there he was, getting out of the driver’s seat for me. I looked at my watch before I got in.
‘The lesson’s almost over,’ I said. ‘Maybe we can skip the last ten minutes?’
Though I didn’t know what the point in him coming was; I couldn’t drive and concentrate on not killing myself or anyone else.
‘You have to use the time you’re given,’ he said, getting into the passenger’s side.
I got in, put my seatbelt on and steadied the clutch. Before I was about to turn out, he said: ‘Mirrors.’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’
I checked the mirrors and was about to turn out again.
‘Fatima. Indicator.’
I put my indicator on.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he replied. ‘Just vigilant.’
I had to swallow the lump building in my throat and just nodded. As I drove my vision got blurry and I had to wipe at my eyes to see the road ahead.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Turn left into the next road. Just pull up here for a second,’ he added.
I did as I was told and put the car into neutral.
‘You can switch the engine off.’
When I did that he said: ‘Okay. Tell me. What’s happened?’
I shook my head because I couldn’t trust my voice – and I know I cry all the time, but the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of Ash.
‘Something happened. Even I know you check all your mirrors as if your life depended on it before turning into the road – courtesy of your dad.’
It was too much. Hearing someone else say ‘your dad’ mad
e it feel like I had to confess to everyone in the world that it wasn’t true – it was all a lie and I was a part of the lie without wanting to be. He wasn’t my dad. Where was my actual dad? In Bangladesh, pretending to be my uncle, living in a place I hardly remember. He might be sitting in a room right now, thinking about me, just as I’m thinking about him. If I have my mum’s hands, then what parts of me do I get from him? As these thoughts whirred around my head, tears fell freely down my cheeks.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ said Ash, leaning in to look at me, which is the worst thing you can do when someone’s crying. Don’t people know you’re meant to look away and pretend it’s not happening?
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ I said, wiping the tears that continued to fall like some unstoppable force. I switched the engine back on but he switched it off.
‘I’ll believe that when you don’t have snot running down your nose,’ he said. ‘Fatima?’
‘I’m not Fatima,’ I said, sobbing through the tears.
He looked confused. ‘What?’
I shook my head.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
But I couldn’t speak because the sobs wouldn’t stop and I wanted to run out of the car and never see Ash, or anyone else, ever again.
‘Who are you then?’ he said, smiling.
‘That’s the thing,’ I said, finally looking at him, wiping my nose with the cuff of my sleeve. ‘I don’t know.’
*
I started at the beginning – right at the beginning: from when I was a child and always felt removed from everyone else, to just an hour ago when I was told that the people I thought were my parents had actually brought me home from Bangladesh. That my sister’s brother-in-law was my brother, not my cousin. Her husband was my brother too. That the reason I felt removed all my life was because I was removed. It was all jumbled up, but it was jumbled sense. Ash listened, quietly, nodding here and there, but not saying anything. Once I’d finished he sighed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
My tears and sobs had stopped and I felt a weird kind of empty calm. I stared at the road that led to a dead-end.
‘Your family must be wondering where you are,’ he added.
‘I can’t see them right now,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to.’
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters Page 11
