‘He said he knew Fatti worried about me, and she was away so he wanted to make sure I was all right.’
I could see Mae’s cheeks go a little red as she lowered her gaze. There was no accusation in her voice; if anything there was embarrassment that she was having to say these words out loud. I don’t think it could’ve measured against the embarrassment I felt, or Bubblee seemed to have felt as she looked at me.
‘Give me the name of this girl and I’ll deal with her,’ said Bubblee, her voice rising a decibel as it does when she’s feeling a combination of embarrassment and anger.
Mae rolled her eyes and got up, putting her empty mug down. ‘Calm down. It’ll be fine and I don’t need anyone fighting my battles for me.’
With that she said she was going to go to bed and went upstairs, leaving me and Bubblee on our own.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I feel like a failure of an older sister. Thank God for Malik.’
‘Yeah,’ said Bubblee thoughtfully. ‘I guess so.’
She looked towards the door Mae had just walked through. ‘Mae’s always so happy, though. Well, not exactly happy, but unbothered.’
‘Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’ I said, looking at her. ‘You never can tell what a person’s feeling.’
Bubblee locked eyes with me. ‘No. I suppose you can’t.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fatima
As the plane landed at Manchester airport I watched the rain drizzle in a way that looked as if it was unlikely to stop any time soon. My head was thudding and a bout of nausea rose inside me. I gulped it down. Now was not the time to get ill. Somehow I managed to leave the country and meet my birth parents only to return to the country I fled, unchanged. All my life I thought I’d been missing an epiphany and it turns out they don’t exist. Not for me, anyway. It wouldn’t have been so disappointing if it wasn’t for the fact that I was so sure something would happen – that something would click into place like it does at the end of a film or book. But life is neither a film nor a book, and if it were, then mine wouldn’t be a very fulfilling one. There was no more avoiding it; I’d have to see my mum and dad and family now, and who knows what they were feeling? Angry? Disappointed? Upset? Glad? Did this time away from me make them realise how unnecessary I was to them? It doesn’t help to have feelings; to want to be liked or loved even though you’re not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. That’s the thing: your family have to love you when you’re born into it – I’m not sure the same applies when you’re adopted. Especially when you go off to try to find something new, only to have failed. No-one wants to be second choice. But then maybe they’ll know how it feels.
When I stepped out into arrivals, there were Bubblee and Malik, waiting for me. Ash said he’d collect me but Mae told me that Bubblee and Malik would be there instead. It didn’t make sense to prolong the inevitable meeting. I wanted to turn around, get back on the plane and go wherever it decided to take me. Bubblee’s arms were folded and Malik shifted on his feet as I walked towards them, my heart beating fast and my mouth going dry. It felt like I’d been away for years and as I drew nearer to them I wasn’t sure what I’d say – it was as if they were both strangers.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Fatti,’ said Bubblee, who unfolded her arms and hugged me. ‘Okay journey?’ she asked, taking my suitcase from me.
I nodded, looking over at Malik. It was the first time I’d seen him since that day I found out about being adopted. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I wanted to crawl under a rock. Perhaps my head wouldn’t thud as badly there.
‘Your parents send their love,’ I murmured, looking at the ground as I walked with them.
He gave a tight smile and offered to take the suitcase from Bubblee, who said it was fine, before hesitating and handing it over to him.
‘How’s Mustafa?’ I asked.
‘The longer he’s in the coma the worse it looks,’ said Bubblee.
I glanced at Malik whose flushed face was now looking pale.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
Bubblee sighed as we got to the car and Malik put the case into the boot. ‘I don’t know, Fatti. It means we have to pray for the best.’
I don’t think I’d ever heard Bubblee saying to pray for anything. Especially when it came to Mustafa. I sat in the back of the car, staring out of the window, but would catch Bubblee looking at me from the rear-view mirror.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You look a bit peaky.’
‘You do,’ added Malik, turning around from the passenger seat. His eyes flicked towards the speedometer as Bubblee pressed on the accelerator.
‘Headache. Plus, I’m not sure about some of the food I had on the plane.’
‘Oh, God. Well, we’ll be home soon, don’t worry,’ she replied.
I rested my head on the window and closed my eyes. Bubblee and Malik hadn’t exchanged more than three words with each other; mostly just grunts or nods, and now there was silence. Truth is, despite wanting my bed, despite not being able to meet Malik’s gaze, I wanted to be alone with him to ask him all kinds of questions about what’d happened here and his parents and brothers, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that in front of Bubblee. He was the only person who might understand what my trip to Bangladesh really meant; who might help me make sense of it all.
‘Mum and Dad have missed you,’ she said, looking at me again through the mirror as I opened my eyes. ‘We all have.’
Just then Malik’s mobile rang. He replied to the caller with an urgency in his voice that made Bubblee turn to him.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, even though he was still on the phone.
‘Okay,’ he spoke into his phone, looking at Bubblee. ‘We’ll come straight there.’
He put the phone down. ‘It’s Mustafa. He’s got worse. We have to go to the hospital.’
Oh, God. Please let Mustafa be okay. Please let me get to know the brother I never knew was mine. This time when Bubblee stepped on the accelerator, I don’t think I or Malik minded.
*
Nothing prepared me for it. As soon as Farah saw me she stood up and fell into my arms, sobbing. No, it can’t be true.
‘I don’t want to, Fatti. I don’t want to lose him.’
I looked around at the others to try to figure out whether she had lost him. Mae wasn’t in sight.
‘Faru, be calm,’ said Dad, stroking her head and looking at me.
She released herself from me and wiped her eyes as Dad pulled me into a hug.
‘My beti,’ he said, kissing me on the forehead.
‘It’s his heart,’ said Farah to Bubblee and Malik, her panic rising again. ‘It’s getting weaker …’
I went to hug Mum, who pulled me into her arms. At first I couldn’t hug her back in the same way, but then I smelt her familiar flowery scent and tightened my grip around her.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said, looking at my face.
‘She ate some dodgy food on the plane,’ explained Bubblee, her eyes flicking towards Farah.
‘I’m fine. I’ll be fine,’ I said, even though I had to take quick breaths to try and settle the need to throw up. A few hours passed like this. I’d gone from feeling like I hadn’t seen them all in years to feeling as if I’d never left – as if there never was a revelation that I was adopted. Dad brought me some paracetamol, which I took but which didn’t seem to be making much difference. I wanted to curl up on the chair and sleep. When Mae came to the hospital from school she flew towards me and I think it might’ve been the first time I smiled since I came back. Maybe even since I’d been in Bangladesh. She looked so fine-limbed and easy with every part of her body that I knew it made sense I was adopted. I could never be sisters with someone like her; and yet I felt a pride that perhaps I’d never experienced before.
‘Drama, huh?’ she whispered to me, looking at everyone.
‘Mae …’ Now wasn’t the time to be flippant.
‘Are you all right?’
she asked, looking at my face, concerned.
I nodded, but I didn’t feel fine. I felt like I was walking underwater or something and there was a sledgehammer going at my head, while my stomach seemed to want to burst out of my mouth.
‘Were they …?’ she glanced over at Mum and Dad, I suppose to check they weren’t listening in to our conversation. ‘Were they nice to you? Your parents?’
‘Yeah. They were fine.’
It wasn’t a complete lie. They were fine. But then even the guy from the corner shop was fine.
‘Fatti.’ Dad had walked up to us. ‘Look at you. You must go home and rest. We won’t know any more for now. Bubblee, take her home.’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine.’
He was my brother. I had to stay because what if I left and something happened?
‘Fatti, please go home,’ said Farah. ‘You probably shouldn’t be around sick people anyway. Not good for anyone.’
There wasn’t much I could say to that, but I told them to call me if anything changed and that I’d leave my mobile on loud. Just as we were about to leave Malik called out to me and walked towards me.
‘We’ll speak,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and moving his head as if to shake off the tiredness.
‘Yeah,’ I replied, looking at my hands and then giving him a brief nod.
I saw Bubblee glance at him and then look away before we walked out of the hospital and got back into the car.
‘How’ve you been?’ I asked her, grateful to have had some fresh air.
She let out a small laugh. ‘Who cares how I’ve been? I should be asking how you’ve been. But you don’t look like you’re in a state to have that conversation.’ She paused. ‘A lot’s happened.’
‘Hmm,’ I replied, noticing that the rain had stopped.
‘Listen, Fatti—’
‘—Not now,’ I said as she parked outside the house.
My home. I looked at it, thinking about all the years I’d lived in it, all the memories tangled up into a knot of something that was real, but not quite. I didn’t think I’d be able to speak even if I wanted to. My mind and everything around me was a blur.
‘You really are sick,’ she said, looking at me in concern.
‘Remember to call me if anything changes,’ I said as I moved to get out of the car.
‘Yes, of course. Will you be okay or do you want me to stay?’ she asked.
I sat back. ‘I’m just going to sleep for a while. I’ll be fine in a bit.’
‘The change in the climate doesn’t help,’ she said.
Just as I was about to leave, she held on to my arm and pulled me into a hug. ‘You really need a shower.’
I laughed, for a moment forgetting about how nauseous I felt.
‘Thanks.’
‘Get rid of some of those ridiculous thoughts of yours while you’re at it,’ she added.
‘What thoughts?’
‘The ones that give you ideas about … God knows what,’ she said. ‘That always keep you in your room.’
I looked at the dashboard. It was bad enough having these thoughts of not really belonging; it was even worse that someone might know about them.
When I got into the house I took some juice out of the fridge and drank it, sitting down for a while, waiting for the nausea to get better. I looked around the kitchen, taking in the familiar setting, made unfamiliar by how quiet the house was. Taking a deep breath, I got up and looked in the living room. The same brown sofa; the same pictures dotted around; picture-frames on the mantelpiece; embroidered rug. The juice seemed to have settled my stomach a bit and the paracetamol had finally softened the thudding head. I noticed the spot where Mae threw up her cereal once, when she was a toddler, and I’d cleaned it up; the corner where Jay used to hide from Bubblee when they played hide-and-seek; Mum and Dad’s room and the bunk-bed they refuse to throw out; the chair I’d sit in and watch Farah potter around the house, picking up after Mum, clearing the clutter left behind by Jay. Another bout of nausea heaved inside me as I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. I sat there, looking at the bathroom walls and laughed at the idea that I was, quite literally, getting Bangladesh out of my system. My legs wobbled as I got up and I dragged myself to the sanctuary of my bedroom. My phone pinged. Ash. Normally I couldn’t wait for his messages but not today. I didn’t have the energy any more to think about my surroundings; what it meant that I was back here, once more, the familiarity of the place making me feel as if I’d gone back a step somehow in life. I rested my head on my pillow and managed to fall into a dreamless sleep.
When I awoke it was dark and for a moment I forgot where I was. I put my hand to my head that was thumping a little less. After recognising the familiar curtains and walls I checked my phone – it was eleven thirty p.m. and I’d received a few messages. Mustafa was the same. Thank God he’s still alive. Ash wanted to know if I was okay. Getting out of bed, I realised that everyone seemed to be asleep as a wave of nausea came out of nowhere and had me reaching for the bin again. Someone had put a bottle of water by the bedside table and once again I fell into a stupor of sleep.
In the morning I’d been left a note:
Gone to the hospital. If you are better call and someone will come and pick you up. But you must rest if you are still ill. Your amma has left you food in the kitchen. Abba.
I’d sat up in bed, trying to get the energy to stand when my phone rang.
‘Welcome home.’
It was Ash.
‘Hi,’ I said, smiling, my words coming out croaky and uneven.
‘You don’t sound very well.’
I told him I’d been ill but that I was feeling better this morning, if a little weak.
‘How was the reunion?’
I closed my eyes, wishing that my birth parents could’ve given me another story to tell.
‘Fine.’
‘That good?’ he asked.
When I didn’t respond he asked what I was doing today. I told him I’d rest and then get someone to collect me to take me to the hospital to see Mustafa.
‘Well, why don’t I do that?’ he said.
‘Oh, no, don’t worry. I don’t want to trouble you.’
Which I didn’t, but at the same time it would’ve been nice to see someone I wasn’t related to and could just act normal with.
‘I know you don’t.’ He paused. ‘But we’re friends, aren’t we?’
It felt slightly weird when he said that, though I don’t know why. It made me sad and happy at the same time.
He said he’d pick me up before lunch but when he did, I didn’t realise he meant that we were going for lunch.
‘Or just a coffee,’ he suggested as I looked at my watch.
I wanted to sit down and talk to him about Bangladesh but I also wanted to see Mustafa.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘You look pale.’
‘Still feeling a little sick.’
‘Oh.’
He wiped his brow and cleared his throat. ‘Just a half-hour?’
‘Okay,’ I said, nodding.
‘So, the reunion was just fine then, was it?’ he asked as we sat down at the table and ordered our drinks.
Now that he asked, the words wouldn’t quite come out.
I shrugged. ‘It must’ve been a bit of a shock for them.’
He’d had his hair cut and somehow or other he’d managed to get a tan. I think I perhaps looked at him a little too long, as he noticed me staring.
‘They know they gave you away, don’t they?’ he said.
I stared at the table and the granules of sugar that hadn’t been wiped off.
‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘It’s just that, if it’s going to be a shock for anyone, it’s you.’
I smiled at him.
‘Your sister, Mae, she’s quite a character, isn’t she?’
I must’ve looked confused.
‘She called me before you came back from Bangladesh,’ he explained.
; ‘Oh. Why?’
The afternoon sun came streaming through the window, and his eyes were more brown than black, I noticed.
‘To tell me I wasn’t allowed to pick you up. She sounded exactly like you’d described her,’ he said.
I had to laugh. ‘Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten about that. She’s not the type of person you forget in a hurry,’ I said smiling. ‘And she has an opinion on everything.’
For a moment I wished she were a baby again and I could hold her in my arms like I used to.
‘So, the parent meeting was a disappointment?’ He sighed. ‘Most things in life are,’ he added, thanking the waitress for our coffees, not quite meeting my eye. ‘As long as you know what you have now, that’s the main thing.’
I twirled the cup in my hand, not really feeling like drinking its contents.
‘Fatima, it might not be my place to say,’ he said. ‘But your family love you.’
I felt tears surface and the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of him. Again.
‘Do you know that?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we all know our families love us – hopefully, anyway – but do you know that?’
I did know it, but something still felt amiss – as if I’d lost something I never really had, but felt its loss anyway.
‘It just feels weird,’ I said. ‘I was ready to come home, but now being here, knowing that my birth parents don’t actually …’
‘What?’ he asked.
The tears plopped on the table.
‘Sorry,’ I said, wiping my eyes. ‘It’s just that, my sisters – all of them – they seem to have it figured out. Their lives are so … well, full, and I was always waiting for mine to start. I thought this might’ve been it. The start of something new and meaningful. Not just hand-modelling and the inability to pass my driving test.’ I shook my head and apologised again. He didn’t need to hear all of that.
‘Fatima,’ he said, reaching over and putting his hand on my arm. ‘It’s time you realised that there are people who care about you. In the process of missing, or looking for something else, don’t forget about them.’
Was it true? Had I spent so much time thinking about Farah and all she had, and Bubblee and Mae and what they were doing with their lives, that I’d missed something? When I looked up at him, his face was flushed. His hand was still on my arm when I glanced at it and he took it away.
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters Page 22
