by Ayisha Malik
Tuesday 3 April
8.50 a.m. Maria’s still here. T hasn’t called or texted her. I’ve not received anything back from Naim. What was I expecting? Some kind of declaration of – ugh – love? Only in films, Sofe. Hollywood has ruined an entire generation of women.
5.45 p.m.
From Imran: You don’t seem to be your normal self past few days. Think I should take you out to cheer you up. I’m waiting at your reception. Better not have a date with someone else! Lol.
11.20 p.m. I never quite appreciated the importance of staying friends with Imran. We walked down Southbank and I mentioned how nice it might be to go travelling. Holidays and breaks are all very well, but to really try and see the world would be amazing. Except he just laughed and said I was too old to go travelling and should worry more about where I’m going to find a husband. Honestly! I thought of my empty inbox, and then he added, ‘Cos girls like you should get married and have kids. It’d be a waste otherwise.’
Even when I’m a moody cow and don’t deserve it, it’s just like Imran to see the best in me.
Saturday 7 April
9 a.m. What is it about chocolates in the shape of eggs that are just so delicious? I’ve bought Conall an Easter egg. I should stop staring at it. Staring leads to eating.
I’ve had zero emails from Naim. Zero. Is he utterly horrified? Is he glad he now doesn’t have to speak to a mad hijabi who goes silent for months and then blurts out feelings via email? Perhaps I made a mistake. Bloody Conall. But then I think about it and feel it was the right advice. Bloody, right, Conall.
He’s given me a collection of Richard Yates to read. If you are what you read then, judging by some of these short stories, Conall is a bit of a depressive. Speaking of which, I’ll lend him The End of the Affair. He will appreciate a bit of Graham Greene.
8.20 p.m.
From Naim: Daisypuffs. I think we need to speak. Can you meet on Monday? I’ve missed you.
ARGH!!
Calm, Sofia. Must remain CAAAAAALM!
Easter Sunday 8 April
10 a.m. When I told the girls, their response was a variation of ‘Oh’, ‘Well done!’ and ‘Good. Fuck it.’ At first, I didn’t want to mention my email, but then one shouldn’t be ashamed of one’s actions. Most of the time. They asked how I feel: like I want a fag, that’s how. And then they asked whether I was excited. Excited? My insides seem to be stretching and splattering about the place, but I wouldn’t quite call that excitement.
Easter Monday 9 April
12 p.m. It’s raining so heavily my hijab is soaked just from walking out of my house and into Conall’s. He’s not here, but there is a Lindt bunny with a note that says ‘To help keep your mouth otherwise occupied.’ Cheeky bugger.
7 p.m. When Conall walked into the house, he asked where I was going so I told him. Oh, God, I want to be sick.
He brought a chair round and sat next to me at the table. ‘Whatever happens tonight, Sofe,’ he said, being so kind I could’ve hugged him. ‘You’ll know what this man is made of.’
It wasn’t particularly comforting; but it was true. Truth is a good thing.
7.05 p.m.
To Suj; Hannah; Fozia: Battery low, on way to see the American so don’t be distressed if I can’t respond to all your messages. I know there will be plenty. Xx
7.30 p.m. Stupid battery is dead and I’m fifteen minutes early. I’ve just looked over at a couple who are fawning over each other. Get a room. I’m nauseous enough, thanks. Not that I’m expecting anything to come of this (I’m sensible like that, after all).
7.33 p.m. Whyyyyy has time decided to stand still?
7.45 p.m. In the meantime I have to look at the fawners. OK, fine, they look happy. Oops, they saw me staring. Will focus on the door.
7.55 p.m. The one time I need my phone so I can rant about his lateness to the girls . . . Typical. He’s going to get a telling off as soon as he’s here. Makes me realise: I do want him to be here. Oh dear. Whatever he has to say now, it better be good.
8.05 p.m. Why can’t I get the nausea to go? I’m trying to concentrate on reading a book, but keep on jumping every time the door opens. We were meant to meet here, weren’t we? Yes, I’m sure. He said it himself – Patisserie Valerie in Leicester Square – our first fake date. I’ll get that apple tart and leave the raisins for him. It’ll be funny.
8.20 p.m. The waitress keeps looking at me. Maybe because I’m eating the apple tart whilst staring at the door. But I know he’s going to walk through it any minute, because he might be ridiculous and a little immature, but he’s not the type of person to make me wait.
8.40 p.m. The fawners smiled at me as they left. I made the waitress leave my empty plate with the raisins.
How long are you meant to wait for a person? Minutes, hours? Months? I don’t feel the nausea any more. Something’s kind of sinking inside me. It’s not the apple tart.
8.55 p.m. The problem with waiting is you think if you stick around for just another minute, things will come together. And the problem with that is you realise you were waiting for things to come together.
9.30 p.m. Waitress came to let me know that they close in half an hour. He didn’t come. I waited and he didn’t turn up. Even more stupidly, of all the scenarios that played out in my head as to how this might go, this wasn’t one of them.
I never realised that the weight of disappointment rests mostly on your heart.
10.40 p.m. Got home. Conall was waiting at doorstep. Didn’t understand. He stepped forward and just looked at me.
‘Sofe. It’s your dad. He’s had a heart attack.’
Tuesday 10 April
5 a.m. So tired. Must pray and sleep and maybe when I wake up things will be better.
11 a.m. Came downstairs and Mum was getting ready to go to the hospital. She’d vacuumed, cooked, done the laundry and gone to the bank before I’d even woken up.
‘When your Chachu calls, tell him to call Auntie Zeenat in Karachi. She will tell everyone there. Auntie Reena said she’ll come to hospital.’ I nodded and felt a lump in my throat. ‘Let Maria rest and you both come together.’
Why didn’t I charge my phone before I left on Monday night?
In moments like yesterday’s you think everything will be a blur, but I remember every second. Conall stepped forward and I looked at him as if something was meant to follow – that he would take it back and tell me it was a joke. I glanced at the house and no lights were switched on.
‘We tried calling, but no one could get through.’
And then I put it all together. Switched off lights, Conall at doorstep, dead battery. Dead. Then I tried to remember if Conall said ‘He had a heart attack’ or ‘He’s had a heart attack’. Because one meant I was too late and the other meant there was still hope. I went to go into the house to get my car keys, but Conall took me by the arm and drove me to the hospital.
In that nine-minute journey I could do nothing but pray that I would hear the beeping of machines, because then his heart would still be pumping blood and I would still have a dad.
The sound of my shoes echoed in the hallway, and through the window I saw him lying there, a mask attached to his mouth, wires coming out of his arms, and a line on a machine that went up and down, up and down. He was breathing; and so could I.
9 p.m. Dad is stable for now. Will be in hospital for a while. Perhaps bypass needed. T turned up. Don’t think he and Maria spoke, but he didn’t leave her side. Naim keeps calling and messaging, but have no energy to speak or care.
Maria held my hand and this memory came to me. I was around six, and Mum and Dad were shouting at each other – I can’t recall what the argument was about. I remember darkness and me sitting up in bed, crying. Maria crept into the room, got under the covers and hugged me, telling me to be quiet and that everything would be OK.
Next day, I remember Mum’s bags being packed. She’s at the door and Maria and I are holding hands, ready to leave with her. Dad takes the bag Mum’s
holding, looking as sad as I’ve ever seen him.
‘Mehnaz, please, I’m sorry. Not you and my daughters.’
Mum hesitated. She looked at us and then at him. In those few moments it was as if some kind of agreement passed between them. She let go of the door handle, put her hands on our shoulders and led us back into the house. The arguments didn’t stop, but life’s routines punctuated tense silences: Mum having to pick Maria and me up from school, Dad counting the family savings so Mum and he could send money back home to help whichever family member needed it. Apparently Maria and I were not their only responsibility.
Or perhaps I’m misremembering things. I don’t know. But I think I’m grateful for that agreement. It means that over twenty years later, we are at least in this hospital together.
Wednesday 11 April
7 a.m. You spend time worrying about the small things and then, when a big thing happens, you wish to be troubled by all those small ones if only the big thing could be better. I know whatever’s meant to be will be, but there’s a whole unlived future he needs to be a part of so I have to pray for him to get better because there is no reason for him to go – not yet.
8 a.m.
From Naim: Sofe, please pick up your phone. I’m so sorry. Just answer my call.
1.40 p.m. Have begun to use waiting room to pray. Couple came in and I had to ask them whether they minded my arse being in the air while they sat and waited for news on their daughter. They’ve been coming in for four days now. The daughter was in a car crash and she’s only nineteen. The dad looked up at me as if he’d seen me for the first time.
‘Sorry?’
‘You don’t mind if I just pray here in the corner, do you?’
‘No, that’s quite all right. You go ahead.’
4 p.m. Conall came to hospital. Did I once say he either looked bored or pissed off? His was the friendliest face in the place. I didn’t even get a chance to thank him for bringing me to the hospital. Uncle and Auntie Scot got the plane down last night and are doing my head in with the cups of tea they demand.
‘Sorry, I should’ve asked before I came.’ Conall looked around at the various faces that were staring at him.
‘No, of course not.’
He seemed to struggle before he said, ‘Sofe, I’m so sorry. I feel it’s my fault you weren’t home in the first place.’
As if I had the energy to be annoyed at anyone. When he looked down at me I wanted to cry and hug him. But I’m a grown woman and shouldn’t need a hug from a person just because my dad’s in hospital.
‘You let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he said.
‘Maybe book a plane to get the Scots back up north?’
He smiled.
‘I could just arrange their disappearance altogether.’
Ha. Conall is capable of telling a joke.
The girls have been messaging. Times like this you’re glad for people on standby, who know you and what you need, even if the thing you need is space. Imran keeps texting to see how I am. I realise I’m perhaps being unreasonable, but I feel I’d be a whole lot better if he’d stop asking me – sympathy conversation is the worst.
11 p.m. I was in my room, trying to get an early night and ignore the voices coming from downstairs, when the phone rang. It was Imran and I was going to ignore it, but then picked it up, ready to cut the conversation short.
‘What if I said I’d move out?’
I wish I were the type of person who had their head about them. It’s especially necessary when there’s chaos in the form of Maria and T having a heated argument downstairs with Mum in the passage, eavesdropping.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I’ll move out. If that’s what you want. Let’s do it.’
Random words cluttered around in my head, only they weren’t quite stringing together.
‘I still want to marry you,’ he said.
‘Yeah but . . .’
‘Thing is, I’ve met girls, but it’s just not the same.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t you want to get married?’
Not really the sort of convo you want to have over the phone, but his voice went so quiet.
‘Yeah, no, I mean, I suppose so, but . . .’
‘It’s you, Sofe. There’s no one else.’
Oh dear. You can’t just say no to someone without at least pretending you’ve given it some thought.
‘Have you met someone else?’
I paused, remembering the empty chair the evening Naim and I were meant to meet.
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
Thursday 12 April
10.40 a.m. ‘Is this a joke or something?’ Suj and I sat in the hospital café, she being a distraction to all hospital staff and patients, and me being distracted by a new life conundrum. ‘So he’ll move out?’
I nodded as she opened her fourth packet of Canderel and put it in her coffee.
‘It’s about time,’ she said. ‘But what will you do?’
I shrugged.
‘Has that knob called you any more?’
‘Not for a few days,’ I replied.
I went through my phone and showed her all the Whatsapp messages he’d sent in the past five days.
‘He fucking well should be sorry. If he’d have told you he wouldn’t be able to make it you’d have been at home and . . . Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s all OK now.’
When I wander the halls of the hospital I keep thinking that my dad shouldn’t be here. This is the place where lives can fall apart. Every day is like having to look at the possibility of death. Every time I go home I feel like I reek of it – you know, if death smelled like cabbage soup.
2.45 p.m. I was at the vending machine, getting a bag of Maltesers for Maria, and that man whose daughter had an accident was behind me. He gave me a nod and I was just about to walk past him when he said, ‘I remember travelling around Turkey and Morocco many years ago.’
It wasn’t quite the time to tell him that I’m Pakistani.
I smiled and then he said, ‘A lot of beautiful mosques.’ He looked beyond me, as if recalling those memories. ‘You know the nice thing about Muslims? Even if you don’t believe in this notion of God, and I certainly don’t . . .’ He gave me a sad smile. ‘They’ll always offer to pray for you.’
I tried to recall the last time I offered to pray for anyone.
‘Could I ask you something? Could you pray for us?’ he said.
I’m not sure how I managed to say, ‘Of course,’ because all I felt were these annoying tears surfacing. I walked away before he could see them stream down my face.
Saturday 14 April
10.10 a.m. The post came today with a card from work. It did make me smile. Heartfelt messages interspersed with jokes about campaigns being at a standstill without me. Katie wrote she’s going to bake a cake when I get back. (Well, buy, Sweetu. I think that’s safer.)
10.40 a.m. Dad’s still in and out of consciousness. I didn’t even want to think about Imran and his proposal at the moment. Hannah came over to the house and when I told her about him, my pregnant sister overheard. As if she needs more things to worry about.
‘I don’t know how appropriate it is to offer to move out when someone’s dad’s in hospital.’ Hannah smoothed down the crease in her dress. She looked worried. She really needn’t be; I’m reintroducing compartmentalising into my life.
‘Emotional capitalisation,’ she muttered.
‘What?’
‘He’s taking advantage,’ Maria interjected. Her thunderous face looked so much like Dad’s, it seemed they’d morphed into one person. I told her to stop getting angry, or the baby might pop out early.
Hannah stood up and we all trundled off to the airport to collect Chachu. My thoughts bounced around, wondering about cynicism and cigarettes.
5 p.m. These family members are like hyenas. They sniff you out no matter where you. I sat in the hospital café, having redrafted the pages Luci
nda gave me, and emailed them to her when Uncle Scot plopped himself at my table.
‘Beta, you must get married now, haan.’ He was clearly ignoring the fact that I had my laptop open. He was also ignoring the fact that there was a ‘Marriage’ jar and that he was now due to put at least ten pounds in it just because of how annoying he was.
‘Yep. Insh’Allah.’ I gestured towards the hospital ceiling, where, apparently, God was waiting to will my marriage into being.
‘No more Insh’Allahs. A parent’s biggest dream is to make sure their children are settled and happy. Whether your baba says anything or not, he is always worried about you. Some girls listen more easily.’
I wanted to say that perhaps parents should dream of their children just being content, whatever the circumstance. Bar that, perhaps dream bigger.
Monday 16 April
11.21 a.m. ‘O-ho – everyone is acting as if I’ve already died. Your faces would make a healthy man ill.’ Dad winced as he tried to sit up.
Auntie Scot shook her head. ‘Bhai, you shouldn’t joke about these things.’
‘Haan. When you don’t have wires and tubes connected to you, then make jokes,’ said Mum.
12 p.m.
From Imran: How’s your dad? If you can meet tonight, then let’s but don’t worry if you can’t. It’s alright. Xxxx
Wish he’d stop being so nice; it makes it very hard to remain focused on telling someone thanks for that offer of marriage, but no thanks.
1.23 p.m.
From Naim: For God’s sake, pick up your phone, please. How many more voicemails do I have to leave before I come to your house and start banging at the door?
