“Do you go to the masjid there?”
“I, uh . . .” I stopped going to the masjid after the fire. At first, it wasn’t an intentional thing. There’d been so much happening all at once that I didn’t have time to think about anything else that wasn’t right in front of me that wasn’t Faisal. And when I tried to pray again, months later, my body felt stiff. Like it’d forgotten how to pray, or worse, like my body was resisting. I didn’t want to pray anymore. I didn’t want to talk to God anymore. As far as I was concerned, God didn’t want to talk to me.
And then I went to college, and Friday prayer became Friday night happy hour in my dorm.
“Hmm.” Imam Obaid runs his fingers through his beard. “You know, I find that there is something about returning to the masjid after so long that feels like coming back home. Maybe it’s because, in a way, it is a home. A place for us. And there will always be a space for you here. You need only ask. God’s words, not mine.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. I’m still not even sure why I’m here.
The imam seems to sense this. “I know about Faisal,” he says. “In our marriage counseling sessions, we talked about his past, one-on-one. He told me everything.”
My eyes widen. I get that Faisal would have to talk about at least some heavy stuff for marriage counseling, but I’m shocked he’d risk telling anyone, even an imam, the full truth.
. . . Which means the imam knows my secret, too.
I suddenly feel naked. In a masjid, of all places.
“Don’t look at me like that,” says Imam Obaid. “I’m not going to cast you out or stone you to death.”
“Sorry. Reflex.”
The imam sighs. “Based on what has happened to you and Faisal, I also understand your outburst at the wedding. And Faisal does, too. That is why he wanted you to come here today. So we could talk about it.”
“Oh.” I don’t know if that’s comforting or not.
“Deen. What happened at the wedding—it’s a symptom of what you’ve been going through for the past three years. The pressure you’ve been putting on yourself. And when you let that kind of pressure build, we get outbursts with a very, very wide impact zone.” His voice is calming. “If you spend your life hung up on the guilt you feel for your brother, you’re going to forget the people around you. The people who actually need you.”
“Who said anything about guilt? I have a clean conscience, thank you.”
“Deen.”
I exhale. “Okay, sure. Fine. Maybe I do feel a little guilty.” A lot guilty. “But it’s easier said than done. I can’t just not feel anything anymore. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
“Your guilt is a bad habit you need to break.”
“But why? What’s wrong with it? It just means that I’m genuinely bummed out for him. And for good reason. Even when we were kids, our parents constantly compared the two of us, and let’s be real, I was the favorite. He’d get bullied at home by our parents, and if he wasn’t at home, he was at school, getting bullied by other kids.
“And yet, despite it all, despite how much my brother should theoretically hate my guts, he’s still the most selfless person I know. So yeah, of course I’m gonna feel guilty—how can I not, when life’s only served him a never-ending buffet of Bad Times?”
And there’s nothing I’ve been able to do to help.
“It’s not up to you to ease Faisal’s pain,” the imam says.
“Sure. Sure. Is this the part where you tell me all the bullying Faisal’s endured was some kind of test? That God only tests the righteous and all that?” My voice betrays how frustrated I still feel. “The thing is, after God tests you, you’re supposed to get rewarded, right? Like when God commands Abraham to kill his kid, and just before Abraham actually agrees and goes to kill his own son, God replaces his kid with a goat and says that he and his son will now become prophets as a reward for their faith. This wedding, being with Amira—that was supposed to be the goat.”
And I ruined it.
“The reason why I feel like shit all the time is because I’ve watched my brother be the nicest person in the world, but the world keeps doling him punishment after punishment. It makes no sense. If bad things keep happening to good people, then either there’s no God or there’s no justice in the world, so what the hell is the point? How is that fair?”
My fingers grow numb in my lap. Talking about it now sets off a spiral of feelings in motion: Guilt. Anger. Frustration. Helplessness. Sadness. It all whirls in my belly in a mocking dance with no sign of easing up, and I feel like I might just vomit it all on the rug. More reason for God to forsake my heathen ass.
“Do you think that means he should stop being good?” the imam asks.
“No. I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Hmm.” The imam looks thoughtful. “Regardless of your feelings on Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala—whether or not you believe it makes sense to do ‘good’ because it’s your ticket to heaven—society would fall apart if people stopped trying to be decent human beings. It’s the Hobbesian idea of a social contract: if we all didn’t agree on a set of basic morals, we’d all descend into a war of all against all.
“Plus, in a world like ours,” he adds softly, “trying to do good is all we can do, and keep doing. And I believe it’s how Faisal feels, too.”
I meet the imam’s steady gaze.
“You know your name, Deen? What it means?” Imam Obaid asks finally.
I sigh and nod tiredly. “Faith.”
Imam Obaid clicks his tongue. “A common misconception. But I don’t think it quite captures the nuance. The word deen comes from the Arabic root dayana. One meaning is to discipline, like to discipline one’s soul. More simply, though, it means debt. The debt we owe to God. Like in the Day of Judgment, Yawm al-Din. The day we must pay our debts.
“Your problem, I think, is that you live up to your name far more than any person should have to. Tell me honestly, Deen. Do you think your brother knows you’re sorry? In your heart of hearts, do you think your brother has forgiven you?”
The question makes my breath hitch. I close my eyes briefly, and something in me softens.
Faisal’s hopeful eyes.
The way he still asks me to pray with him.
The way he thinks I’m a better person than I am.
This is beneath you.
“Yes,” I answer. And I think I believe it.
“Then the issue here is that you need to forgive yourself so you can move forward.” He smiles. “I would say, first start with the people you’ve hurt, other than your brother. Gain their forgiveness and work your way up.”
He gets to his feet, his knees cracking.
“What you feel right now—it seems to me that it means the test isn’t over yet.”
I blink, confused. It’s something so profoundly simple, so painfully obvious, that I’m at a loss for words.
Professor Pryce. Vinny. Kiran.
Even Kas, if she’s finally realized who I am.
I’ve been shitty to them all, letting it all pile up. I was so busy trying to make sure the wedding was perfect that I didn’t care who I stepped on to do it. No matter what. A total M&D move. And I nearly lost everyone because of it.
But I want to be better.
Imam Obaid glances at the clock on the back wall.
“Ah, zuhr time. Shall we?”
He reaches a hand toward me.
I look at it warily. But there’s no fighting it.
And maybe part of me doesn’t really want to anymore.
“Sure,” I reply.
I grab his hand, and Imam Obaid pulls me up.
Later, when I get home, I open my laptop and log on to Cambria.
And I type out a final message to Kas.
Loading
[CAMBRIA: THE EVOLUTION EXPANSION PACK]
[ROANA GUILD CHAT ROOM]
[Private Message:]
* * *
Kas,
Thank you for being my best f
riend these past few years. But now I have to go. This place has been a dumping ground and a safe space to process a lot. And I’ve had a lot to process.
It’s time for me to stop running and face things head-on. I’m ready to.
And I have you to thank for that. Whether you meant to or not, you’ve been a great teacher, for many things. I’m glad I took a chance on you.
I hope someday, I’ll be able to throw open my proverbial trench coat and reveal all the bare-naked truth of myself to you.
Until then, I mean it when I say
I’ll miss you.
See you on the other side.
Foxx
* * *
Chapter 35
Kiran
Thursday, August 26
THE DOORBELL RINGS, MAKING ME jump in my chair.
I’d been reading a message from Foxx for the hundredth time, trying to make sense of it. What do you mean, you have to go? I type back. But Cambria pings back with an alert:
[The Player Account you are trying to Private Message has been deactivated.]
I don’t know what to make of it. Why would he delete his account? Unless it really is . . .
And what does he mean, he’ll see me on the other side?
The doorbell rings again.
“I’ll get it!” I shout, hopping onto the landing of the stairs and leaping every other step.
I’m hoping it’s the GrubHub delivery person with Asher’s promise of prepaid ice cream, which, right now, I could really use.
Except when I throw open the door, it is not the GrubHub delivery person.
“Assalamu alaikum,” says Faisal. He puts a hand up, and I can’t tell whether he means it as a greeting or if he’s trying to reassure me that he comes in peace.
I implode on the spot.
I’m in my pj’s: black-and-pink flannel bottoms and an old gray jersey cotton tee with an obvious peanut butter stain over my left boob. I’m wearing my glasses, too—the ones with the chipped lens that I’m too lazy to get fixed. Pretty sure I haven’t brushed my hair all day, either, so. Keeping it classy, Kiran.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice shooting up five octaves. Oh God. Is he here to kill me for ruining the wedding? Strangle me with his big beefy arms so my dad can find my body, like a warning?
“Um . . .” Faisal blinks hard and looks away.
I grip the door tighter. “Are—are you here for Amira? Because she’s not here!”
“No,” Faisal answers. He bows his head. “Actually, I was hoping I could get a chance to talk to your dad. I owe him an apology.”
Huh. That’s . . . unexpected. And brave. If I ever saw my in-laws again—or, almost in-laws—I’d turn tail and sprint in the opposite direction.
Still, I’m wary. But I open the door wider and let him in.
Faisal takes off his shoes and I wait for him. I forgot just how tall he really is. Most of the times I’ve seen him, he’s been sitting down, or slumped over with that crappy posture of his. But although his features are less sharp than usual, and his eyelids are swollen and red-rimmed, his back is straight. Alert. Determined, even.
He smells a little like Deen, I realize.
He sets his shoes neatly by the door. “Is your dad—?”
“Oh! Sorry. Yeah. He’s upstairs.”
Faisal follows me toward the stairs, and I try not to think about how hyperaware I am that he’s behind me and could easily ninja-chop my neck if he wanted. I guess I couldn’t blame him if he wanted to. At first, I thought Deen was exaggerating when he said ruining the wedding would mean ruining Faisal’s life, but after seeing Faisal’s face that night—how broken he looked—I can’t help but feel like there might have been some truth to it.
I wonder how he’s holding up. Not that it matters now.
What’s done is done.
We reach Dad’s bedroom door. I knock. “Dad? Faisal’s here to see you.”
Silence.
I knock again. “Dad?”
When I still get no response, I crack open the door and peek inside.
“Hey, Dad—?”
And then I see him.
A crumpled body, lying on the floor at the front of his bed.
My heart leaps to my throat.
“Dad!”
I throw the door open and run to him. He doesn’t stir.
Carefully, I turn Dad over onto his back. His eyes are closed. I put my ear to his chest. He’s still breathing, only it’s shallow.
Too shallow.
How? Why? When?
“Dad, please.” My eyes sting. “Wake up.”
I hear Faisal’s voice behind me. He’s on the phone with someone.
After a minute, he kneels at my side and gently puts his fingers to Dad’s neck, listening for his pulse.
“I just called an ambulance. They’re on their way,” he says when he’s done. He looks at me, eyes soft, his heavy eyebrows crinkled with concern.
I grab Faisal’s arm. “What happened to him?” Even as I ask, my brain frantically sifts for answers. It was obvious Dad was feeling tired all the time. He’d said he wasn’t feeling well, but I’d waved it off as a summer cold. Nothing to worry about.
I’m a little worried about him, Amira had said a couple of weeks before the wedding.
Of course. Even she had noticed something was off. How did I not see it sooner? Why didn’t I pay closer attention?
It was supposed to be nothing to worry about.
“I don’t know. But we’ll find out soon,” Faisal answers calmly. His voice sounds so far away.
“What am I supposed to do? What if he—” I can’t bring myself to say it. I won’t say it.
I shudder, gasping for air; my rib cage feels like it’s closing in on me, suffocating me.
“Breathe, Kiran.” Faisal puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. I’m here. Your dad is here. He’s still breathing. So now we need to breathe so we can help him.”
I try to slow my breathing. Faisal’s hand is warm and strangely soothing. Not wholly unlike Amira’s.
“Okay,” I say finally, but it comes out like a sob.
“I’ve got you.” He lifts me up from beneath my arms like I weigh nothing. “The ambulance’ll be here any minute. I’m going to drive you to the hospital, all right? So I need you to change into some nice warm clothes and we’ll go. I’ll stay right here with your dad.”
I nod and move, like a mechanical windup doll, to my room to change.
And I try not to think about how I’m going to tell Amira.
“Here.”
Faisal hands me a Styrofoam cup of tea.
“Thanks.” I take the cup and blow on it.
He takes a seat next to me in the hospital waiting room. It’s the same hospital where Dad works—Penn—so it’s weird being here like this. I keep expecting to spot Dad in his white lab coat, that he’ll walk over and tell me to wait a couple more minutes before we head over to Reading Terminal for lunch. We did that a lot. After Mom died.
The thing about hospitals? No one’s ever happy to be in one. And being in one now is bringing up all sorts of bad memories.
It’s funny. I’m grateful Faisal’s here. Plus, he knew exactly what to do. Unlike me. More reason to rethink med school.
I drink slowly. It hits me then: this is the first time I’ve ever talked to Faisal alone.
“I bumped into the doctor in the hallway,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I almost spill the rest of my tea all over my lap. “What’d they say?”
“She’s going to run a couple more tests, but most likely, it’s stress.”
“Stress,” I echo.
Faisal chuckles. “I know. But stress can mess a person up. His blood pressure was really high. He must not have been sleeping well, either. He’s exhausted and dehydrated.”
“But . . . stress . . . ?” I stare ahead, my head blank. A hundred terrible scenarios had been churning through my head for the past hour, a
ll progressively worse than the last, until finally, I kept imagining standing over Dad’s grave, alone.
But it was just stress.
I slump in my chair.
“It’s nothing rest won’t fix. Granted, he still needs to take some time off, from everything. Between”—he swallows—“the wedding and moving and work, it’s too much for anyone.”
My eyes narrow. “Aren’t you in the same boat? Aren’t you supposed to be preparing to move to California?”
Faisal’s face falls. “After everything that’s happened, I’m not really sure . . .” Faisal glances over at me, and seeing my expression, he suddenly flexes a melon-shaped bicep. “But don’t worry, I’m young and healthy.”
“Alhamdulillah,” I say reflexively.
For a beat, Faisal says nothing.
Then the corner of his mouth curls up, and he nods in agreement, his eyes shining.
“Alhamdulillah.”
We sit in silence. I’m surprised by how not weird it feels, considering everything.
If I had talked to Faisal sooner, would he have told Amira? Now I’m not so sure he would.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” I mutter. “It—it wasn’t personal.” I regret saying it right away; it sounds so cliché, so condescending.
But it doesn’t seem to bother Faisal. “Even if it was, it’s okay. I understand why you’d want Amira to know the truth,” he murmurs.
“So . . .” I swallow nervously. “Why didn’t you just tell her?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Faisal huffs through his nose, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. “You already heard most of the story from Leah, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Except Deen said it wasn’t the full story. And he’s right.” He breathes. “For what it’s worth, I think I owe you the full story.”
My pulse quickens. I want to know. The full story doesn’t change anything, of course, and I have no way of knowing if it’s even true. Except Faisal doesn’t have anything to gain from telling me the truth now.
Nothing will change.
Deen flashes through my mind.
But maybe . . .
I clutch my cup in my lap and brace myself.
It All Comes Back to You Page 29
