Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  Besides, standing on this stairwell with him, at least for this tiny moment, I feel like everything might be okay.

  “You need to go,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say, and then neither of us moves.

  “Someone could walk down the stairs any second,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Father will be leaving for work soon.”

  Again, neither of us moves.

  He takes a step closer, reaching out and brushing my cheek with his index finger. His touch is light as a feather, but it sends a little current of electricity down my body. He whispers, “Mina, who has eyes like the ocean and the personality of a bull, turn yourself around and go back to your apartment.” I stare at him a moment longer. “Go,” he says, voice deepening.

  I smile, and finally my feet start to move up the stairs. I murmur back to him, “Juda, who has eyes like the fountain at Lincoln Center and the manners of a wild boar.”

  “You’re the one who never gives me a proper greeting,” he says.

  Still walking up, I say, “You’re the one who carried me like a sack of potatoes.”

  “The bull and the boar,” he calls after me. “I think they can be friends.”

  I start running up the stairs, smiling so wide it doesn’t feel like my face can contain it. He was there. He went to the market and waited for forty-five minutes! I have to pull myself together before I knock on Sekena’s door.

  EIGHT

  I PRACTICALLY FLOAT PAST MRS. HUSK TO FIND Sekena sitting on the floor of her pink bedroom, eyes closed, facing her sunlamp. She’s wearing a pair of bright orange pajamas covered in lemon-yellow daisies. The sunlamp hums loudly, casting a tangerine glow on her face that almost matches the pajamas. In our household, hot water is our biggest luxury. For the Husks, Sekena’s sun-lamp keeps Mr. Husk working an extra job.

  Removing my cloak and veil and tossing it in the corner, I see Sekena open her eyes to give me a once-over. She says, “You’re in a very good mood today.”

  I’m desperate to tell her about the stairwell, sure if I open my mouth, the only words that’ll come out will be “Juda, Juda, Juda.”

  But Sekena will blow it out of proportion. She might even tell her mother, if she thinks Juda is some sort of delinquent who could endanger my life. So, sticking to my original plan, I say calmly, “I’m engaged. Father just signed the contract.” I grab a bunch of pillows from her bed and join her on the floor.

  Flipping off the sunlamp, she claps her hands in excitement. “Ohhh! That’s incredible news! I can’t believe it happened so quickly. God is very kind.” She looks at me, noticing my goofy grin. “You seem to feel very differently about Damon than the last time I saw you.” Her smile suggests she knew I would come around. “When do you think the wedding will be? Next month, I suppose?” Her jaw drops open. “He’s so wealthy, maybe his family will want two months to plan an elaborate event!”

  The thrill of my brief moment with Juda fades as Sekena starts to talk about the wedding. I’ve been so busy waiting for Juda to deliver the last proposal that I’ve been in complete denial of the actual situation. I’m engaged. This marriage is going to happen.

  Sekena is still talking, a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she can see a golden band being slipped on her own finger. “What kind of dress do you think you’ll wear? I bet your mother saved hers, knowing her, don’t you think?”

  Mother has shown me the dress, which both she and Grandma Silna wore, many times since I was a girl. It’s blue, of course, the color of the Prophet, with long sleeves and a wide neckline passing just below the collarbone. The heavy fabric reaches to the floor, and, besides a thick belt holding a fake sapphire, the design is quite plain. The dress, and all it represents, has always depressed me.

  Glancing at me, Sekena cocks her head like a little sparrow. “What’s wrong?”

  I hug a pillow. “Do you ever think about a love match?”

  Since marriages are arranged after an Offering, love matches are extremely rare. Besides fathers and brothers, we seldom interact with boys before we’re fifteen. But I’ve heard of it—girls falling in love with a neighbor or maybe a distant cousin and then convincing their parents to let them get married.

  Sekena doesn’t even consider the matter. She just says, bluntly, “Love matches end in poverty and divorce.”

  “That’s your mother talking.”

  “But it’s true. Remember that woman who jumped off the building next door? My mother told me she was in a love marriage.”

  “No,” I say, knowing that she means Mrs. Kasan. “Mr. Kasan beat her every day.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Father. Mother told me she did it because she was in a love marriage, just like your mother said, but he wanted me to know the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Kasan beat her for not giving him children. He said the problem was that she wasn’t pious enough. Father wanted me to know that there are physical reasons why women can’t have children, and that sometimes it’s even the man’s fault.”

  “Why did he want you to know that?” The shock in her voice suggests she thinks it was inappropriate for Father to tell me such a thing.

  “Father is a scientist. He gets angry when people don’t understand how things work.”

  But the truth is, I, too, sometimes wonder why he told me the story. If I can’t bear children, Damon and the Ashers most certainly won’t care about the scientific explanation. I will be at fault.

  Sekena takes in the information about Mrs. Kasan. “I still don’t think a love match could work. How would I know if Father approves? If your family selects for you, then you know you have their blessing, so you know you have Uncle Ruho’s blessing, and then you know you have God’s blessing. If you choose someone just because you like them, it’s selfish. You’re not thinking about Uncle Ruho or God.”

  Now I feel like a terrible person. Why can’t she just be my best friend, for once, and not so perfectly proper? I ask, “If you could marry anyone, who do you think it would be?”

  We used to ask each other this question all the time as children, before we understood how the Offerings worked. It’s been years since either of us has brought it up. Why talk about something that can never happen? It’s like discussing what I would wear if I walked on the moon.

  Sekena bites the inside of her lip in an expression I recognize as deep thought. After a minute of silence, she says, “Hmmm . . . weeell . . . if I have to say someone—”

  “You have to say.”

  “And this would be considering what we just said about family approval, of course . . .”

  “Of course.” I’m so glad she’s taking the conversation seriously now.

  “I guess it would be . . .” Her pale, freckled face turns a deep scarlet, and then, in a voice so soft I can barely hear, she says, “Dekker.” And then she grabs one of the pillows and buries her face in it.

  “DEKKER! Are you KIDDING?” I say, almost yelling.

  “Shhh. My mother will hear.”

  “But Dekker is . . . is . . .” A million words enter my head: Gross. Mean. Rude. Disgusting. “Why Dekker?”

  “You said I had to say someone. You didn’t say I had to say why.”

  “But Dekker smells.”

  She giggles, and then I start to giggle, too. What did I expect? Dekker is one of the only boys Sekena has ever met in her life who she’s not related to. What would she think if I told her the story of him sitting in front of that nude painting? Is there a red deeper than scarlet? Because that would be the shade of her entire body.

  “How about you?” she says.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Who would you marry if it could be anyone?”

  Juda’s face flashes in front of me. “I don’t know.”

  “No fair! You have to answer.”

  I consider it and say, “It seems like the whole point of a love match is that it’s someone you’ve met and know and have a connection with. And then you build
on that and actually get to know each other, and by the time you get married you feel like the other person is a part of you.”

  “Where did you hear all that?” she asks.

  “Uh, Nana and I talk about it sometimes,” I say, worrying that I’ve said too much.

  “Wow. That’s weird.”

  “Yeah. Pretty weird.”

  “Have you ever met anyone like that? That you had a ‘connection’ with?”

  I’m in dangerous territory now. “I . . . I think maybe I have.”

  Sekena bolts upright. “Praise be to God. You’re talking about Damon! I knew there was a reason you were smiling when you walked in!”

  “No, I—”

  “It’s okay, I won’t tell! What happened? Did you see him again after your Offering?”

  Sekena’s expression is full of hope and excitement, so I say, “He’s very handsome.” Thinking of Damon’s smug face, I want to punch Sekena’s pillow.

  “This is really exciting. Your parents have made a match for you and you think it might be a love match? It’s a dream come true!”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  She knows me too well. I think about Juda again. “What if he doesn’t like me as much as I like him?”

  “What? Of course he will. You’re a perfect woman—devout, beautiful, obedient.”

  I laugh, but it comes out as more of a snort.

  “Well, you’re devout and beautiful, and you’re getting better at being obedient,” she says with a happy shrug. “And once you’re running your own household, I just know you’re going to want to serve your husband as best you can.”

  I wish I could be so confident. Then I wonder if Juda is looking for an obedient wife. Probably. Aren’t all men?

  “Wow,” she says. “There’s going to be a lot to do before the wedding.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, not really paying attention.

  “You’ll get to go to a bathhouse, which I hear is amazing. And your mother will probably pay for someone to style your hair, but, you know, you’ll have to get rid of your hair everywhere else.”

  “What?” I’m listening to her now.

  She nods emphatically. “Yep. I was at my cousin’s wedding last year, and I was there when they got her ready. They used hot wax, which is not even the worst method. My cousin heard about some poor Convene girls who use chewing gum.”

  “Now I know you’re lying!”

  “I’m not,” she insists. “Ask your mother!”

  I think this is the last conversation on earth I want to have with my mother. She won’t tell me the truth, and she’ll make me feel like a degenerate for asking. “Please, Sekena, if it’s true, promise me that you and your mother will help me before the wedding, and that you’ll keep my mother as far away from me as possible.” The idea of Mother wielding hot wax makes me shudder.

  Sekena becomes dead serious, or as serious as someone can be in flowered orange pajamas. “I promise.”

  I lean over and hug her. “Thank you. You’re a great friend.” I may not be able to talk to Sekena about everything, but I don’t know how I would survive without her.

  We say, “Peace,” and I let her get back to her sunlamp.

  When I leave the Husk home, I look down the corridor and am surprised to see a strange man walking out of the front door of our apartment. He’s short and wears a uniform. He’s not a Teacher but looks like he belongs in a government building, like some of the people Father works with. He walks down the hall, pushing through the exit door with a grunt.

  Thinking about why he was in our apartment makes me feel dizzy and anxious. Does he know about the Primer? About my reading? Did someone see Juda and me talking in the stairwell?

  I want to turn and run back to Sekena’s room, but I know that eventually I’ll have to go home. Plus, I can’t handle the not knowing. I open our door and walk inside the apartment, looking left and right for my mother, expecting her to pounce immediately. Instead, she’s seated on the couch in the living room.

  “Come sit down,” she says, in a voice that sounds not angry but agitated.

  I sit as far away from her on the couch as I can. She looks worried, so I’m guessing someone saw Juda and me talking and she thinks my marriage contract is in danger.

  “I have news, dear.”

  Dear? Why is she calling me “dear”? The room seems to tilt.

  “I’m afraid that . . . your nana has died.”

  My body goes rigid.

  “The hospital just sent word. Nana is . . . gone.”

  “You’re lying,” I say, my mouth barely moving. “You’re making this up to punish me.”

  I’m waiting for her to say that she knows about Juda and me, that she knows about the Primer, anything but this. . . .

  “I’m . . . sorry.” She leans forward, reaching out a hand, but I recoil, so she leans back, crossing her hands awkwardly in her lap.

  Pressure builds inside me. Something in my core is fighting to make the news not true, and this something lurches inside my stomach, making me want to vomit, and then it moves to my head, pounding on the inside of my skull. It feels like a demon, but I think it’s my soul, screaming in protest, trying to punch its way out of my body, and when it does, I’ll be nothing but sludge and blood and guts on the floor, and that’s fine. Because I don’t want to live here on this planet anymore.

  I didn’t go to her.

  I didn’t see her.

  She died alone.

  And it’s my fault.

  Sound emerges from my throat, more animal than human. Tears flood my eyes, then run down my cheeks, and soon I lose control, my lungs trembling with each breath. My whole body starts to shudder. The sobs keep coming and coming, but I don’t want to stop crying, ever, because as soon as I do, I have to face a world without Nana.

  Looking toward the ceiling, Mother says, “She’s in Paradise now, a garden of perpetual bliss, God willing.”

  “Leave m-m-me alone,” I manage to say.

  Mother stands, smoothing her hair. “Yes. You need space.” She walks toward the kitchen, and just as she gets to the door, she says, “One million BTUs. In high-density liquids.”

  Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I look at her in confusion.

  “That was the final bride price. You did very well. You should be proud.”

  As she walks into the kitchen, I pull off my shoe and sling it at the door. Why couldn’t Mother have died instead?

  I fall back onto the sofa, sobbing once more, knowing that without Nana I don’t have the strength to face my future. A life with Damon? Being the mother of his children? Looking at his stupid face across the dinner table every night until I die? Nana would have understood my misery, would have comforted me and given me the support I needed to survive. And now I’m alone, abandoned, in a world that thinks I’m worth nothing more than “high-density liquids.”

  I’m not sure how long I stay there crying. It feels like days.

  I don’t remember walking up the stairs or through my door, but I find myself in bed. Once I’m lying down, my body gives over to exhaustion and I fall into a hard, dreamless sleep.

  NINE

  I WAKE UP THE NEXT DAY, BODY LIMP AND wrung out, as if I’ve been fighting an illness.

  I can’t bring myself to go down for prayers or breakfast. Mother eventually brings up a tray with some toast, but I leave it sitting by the door.

  I miss lunch, too, staying in bed, staring out the window, listening to the traffic below. How does my father feel today? Is he as sad as I am? Is that possible? Nana was his mother. I wish he’d come talk to me.

  I find myself remembering the weird things, the things that made me tease her.

  She hated feet. She thought they were ugly and smelly, and she felt a little bit sick when she looked at them. She wouldn’t visit a person if they made people take their shoes off at the door. I always had to keep my socks and shoes on when I went to her apartment.

  She also hated r
aisins, in anything. If you gave her something, like a cookie, without warning her that there were raisins in it, she’d give you the silent treatment for at least ten minutes.

  I smile, thinking of her grumpy moods. She liked to tell me how important it was to be difficult. “Never let anyone think you’re easy to please, Chickpea. It’s just another way of saying you’ve got no opinion and no self-worth.”

  Remembering her voice makes me start crying again.

  Nana would be disappointed in me for staying in bed all day. She wouldn’t want me to fall apart. She would want me to pull myself together, to be dignified.

  When I stand, finally, I feel a bit dizzy.

  I’m not ready to go downstairs yet, but I’ve thought of one thing that might make me feel better.

  I shut the bedroom door. I go to my closet, grab the shoebox, and get back in bed. I take off the lid and slide the Primer out from under the shoes, then situate myself under my blanket in such a way that I can look at the Primer but Mother won’t be able to see it if she comes barging through the door.

  I open the Primer, slowly turning the pages, realizing I’ve never looked at it without Nana. I wipe my eyes on the corner of my pillowcase.

  Nana always loved the food section, where they talk about different restaurants and which ones are the best. She liked imagining the meals, and after we read a section, she would make me close my eyes and imagine them, too.

  We enjoyed an inspired take on poutine: fries topped with duck gravy, cheese curds, shredded duck confit, and crackly skin. A cod entrée offered a neat rectangle of flaky fish over verdant vegetables—fava beans, asparagus, green onion.

  Nana’s mother told her about ducks. Ducks used to live in the Park, but then I guess everyone decided they made nice gravy. And then no more ducks. It seems like the worst thing that can happen in life is for people to decide you’re desirable. It’s better to be invisible, for no one to know that you exist at all.