“I’m here for the conference. I can usually sign a few clients at these events. Where are you going?”
Ayesha explained about the guest speaker, her hand hovering above the car door handle. “I’m in a rush. We’ll talk again soon—”
But Masood ignored her and opened the passenger-side door. “I love Sheikh Rafeek,” he said, getting in and fastening his seat belt. “His lecture on the power of positive thinking made me step up my life coaching business.”
Ayesha was about to protest when the rear door opened and a familiar figure dived into the back seat, her head down. “Drive, drive, drive!” Hafsa whispered loudly. “Before that crazy woman makes me do anything else!”
Ayesha didn’t have time to argue with these two idiots. She just got in the car and turned on the radio.
“Ooooh, I love this song!” Hafsa said. “Turn up the volume!”
Ayesha’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as Masood blasted the music. She turned onto the main street and drove toward Highway 401 as Masood and Hafsa sang along to Usher’s “DJ Got Us Fallin’ in Love.”
TAREK sidled up to Farzana, who was barking at two terrified teenagers.
“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice contemptuous.
Tarek motioned for her to follow him to a quiet corner of the mosque. “I knew you would have things under control here. I was gathering evidence for that issue we discussed.” He took out a flash drive and passed it to Farzana.
“This will prove the imam is a thief and a liar?” she asked.
Tarek nodded. “Make sure you play it in front of as many witnesses as possible. There’s no telling what Abdul Bari will do once the truth is revealed. Open the file titled ‘Just Desserts’ and press Play.”
Farzana tucked the flash drive into her pocket. “I’m glad you’re not completely useless,” she said. “I’ll make sure this little bomb goes off in front of the entire congregation. The imam must be brought to justice.”
HAFSA and Masood were both singing along with Usher—at the top of their lungs and off-key. Ayesha reached out and snapped the music off, and there was a sudden silence.
“You know, I can do the Usher dance,” Masood offered. “I know all the moves. It’s important for wrestlers to be light on their feet.”
“You’re a wrestler?” Hafsa asked, sticking her head between the two front seats to appraise Masood.
“I know the moves to Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’ too,” Masood said.
Ayesha tried not to picture Masood in a unitard. “Let me introduce you: Hafsa, this is Masood.”
“Now I’m a life coach for wrestlers. You wouldn’t believe the problems we face in our industry. And do we get the same respect? No, it’s all about hockey players and soccer jocks.”
Hafsa nodded. “People don’t understand how difficult it can be to forge your own path and take risks. We can’t all hide in our classrooms.”
Ayesha cut her eyes at her cousin in the rear-view mirror. “Or depend on Daddy’s money,” she said.
“I’m sensing some tension in the car,” Masood said. “Let’s try a breathing exercise. Everyone close your eyes.”
Ayesha’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Hafsa doesn’t need a life coach. She needs a psychiatrist.”
“I consider myself a doctor of the heart,” Masood said. “How about a motivational mantra?”
“Don’t bother,” Hafsa snapped back. “Ayesha knows what’s best for her, and for everyone else too. Also, she’s always right.”
“I’m only trying to look out for you, but you keep pushing me away,” Ayesha said.
“You’re not my mother. Stop telling me what to do,” Hafsa said.
“Sounds like there are some real issues here,” Masood said. “Why don’t you book an appointment? Introductory sessions are free.”
“Shut up, Masood,” Hafsa and Ayesha chorused.
“All right, I’ll do one right now, on the house.” Masood rubbed his hands together, then he put a finger to his forehead, closing his eyes.
“I thought he said he was a life coach, not a psychic,” Hafsa whispered.
“He’s a lunatic. One of your rishta cast-offs. Please thank your mother for me,” Ayesha said.
“Ladies, this petty bickering conceals a deeper issue. Tell me, Ayesha—have you suffered a significant loss in your life?” Masood asked.
“No,” Ayesha said. “Mind your own business.”
“Her father died when she was a kid, in India,” Hafsa said.
Ayesha frowned at her cousin. “I don’t want to talk about this, especially not with you. You told Khalid it would be funny if my dead father turned out to be a gangster!”
Masood turned to Hafsa. “I can’t help unless I know what happened.”
“I heard my dad talking about it once with my mom,” Hafsa said in a halting voice. “Something about a ‘facade.’ I don’t know what that means.”
Masood looked pensive. “This early loss has led Ayesha to be particularly protective of the people she loves. Hafsa, meanwhile, is chafing under the restrictions and expectations placed on her. Tell me, Hafsa, have you made any significant decisions lately?”
It was Hafsa’s turn to squirm. “I’m getting married soon, and Ayesha keeps interfering because she’s jealous.”
Masood steepled his fingers together. “You are engaging upon the more adult path of matrimony, which frightens your cousin, who is afraid she will lose you, or that you will get hurt. My diagnosis, as an accredited life coach, is to confront your feelings head-on. Do some light meditation, followed by power wrestling three times a week.”
There was silence in the car. Ayesha didn’t know whether she should laugh, or pull over and smack Masood.
“You’re a genius,” Hafsa broke in, her voice awed. “Ayesha, I’m sorry for what I said about your dad, but I have no intention of being killed by a facade or whatever.” Her voice softened. “I know you don’t agree with my decisions and actions, but I’m an adult.”
Ayesha felt a lightening at these words, as if an unacknowledged weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Masood was a goof, but maybe he was on to something. She hated fighting with Hafsa, and this sort-of apology was probably the closest her cousin would get to admitting fault. It was enough, for now. There was a way forward from here.
They arrived at the airport. Ayesha parked in the carpool lane and leaned back to squeeze her cousin’s shoulder. “I told you I was done telling you what to do. Just be smart, and be careful.”
Hafsa car-hugged her. “I promise.”
Ayesha glanced over at Masood. His beatific smile had turned smug. “Don’t go all fan-boy on me now, but I think that’s Sheikh Rafeek.” She nodded in the direction of a short man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a grey three-piece suit.
Masood squealed. “Sheikh Rafeek! Over here! Can you sign my business card?”
Moments later, distinguished guest speaker in tow, they headed back to the mosque.
The number of conference attendees had swelled significantly since they’d left, and Ayesha had a hard time finding a parking spot. She dropped the sheikh, Hafsa and Masood at the front entrance and drove around to the overflow parking lot.
Tarek was talking to Farzana near the back doors. She disappeared inside the building, but Tarek spotted Ayesha and waved.
“I was hoping to catch up with you. I’m so impressed with the way you all worked together to make our conference a success,” he said as she walked up to the mosque.
Ayesha gave him a hard look. “Where were you?”
Tarek shrugged. “Did you tell Hafsa about Khalid and his sister?”
Ayesha shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The wedding is still on.”
“I was afraid of that.” He paused. “There’s more to the story, but I need to know I can trust you. I’m breaking someone’s confidence if I tell you the rest.” He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her to the other side of the entranceway,
where it was quiet. The look on his face was serious. He took a deep, shuddering breath.
Alarmed, Ayesha peered at him. “Tarek, what’s going on?”
He wiped his face. “It’s been so long. I thought I was over her.”
Ayesha’s eyes widened at his implication.
“Zareena wasn’t just someone I knew. She was my . . . We met in junior year. We were together for two years before . . .” He covered his face with his hands and fought to regain his composure. “I told you her family forced her into marriage, but I didn’t tell you why. It was my fault.” Tarek’s fists clenched and his eyes were wet. “You know how conservative their family is. When Khalid told his parents about us, about the baby, they flipped out.”
Ayesha gasped. Khalid had told his mother that Zareena had a boyfriend? That Zareena had been pregnant? She knew he was judgmental, but he must have realized how badly his mother would react to this news. Or was Khalid really that naive, that stupid?
Tarek’s fists were clenched, and he spoke now in a low, urgent voice.
“I didn’t know she was pregnant, not until afterwards. Her parents were so angry when they found out. They beat her—” His voice cracked. “She lost the baby. Our baby. They nearly killed her, and when they sent her away, I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.” Tarek’s eyes were red-rimmed. “You have to save your cousin,” he said.
Ayesha knew with certainty that he was telling the truth. She reached a shaky hand out to steady herself on the rough concrete wall of the mosque. And now Hafsa was engaged to marry into this dangerous, unstable family.
A volunteer peeked his head outside the door. “Sister Ayesha, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the volunteer said. “You’re up next. It’s time to recite your poem.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Khalid watched Ayesha walk onto the stage, her face pale as she stood in front of almost six hundred people. He watched as her graceful hands straightened her purple hijab and adjusted her blue tunic shirt, her expression calm and resolute. She is so beautiful, he thought. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and after this performance, he would tell her how he felt. How he had felt about her from the first moment he saw her.
Khalid was in love with Ayesha, and every second spent without her was wasted.
Ayesha performed a minute adjustment to her microphone, her eyes roving through the crowd. Khalid moved to the centre of the room, and she seemed to freeze at the sight of him. He was too far away to catch the expression in her eyes.
“Assalamu Alaikum,” she said, her voice tinny in the microphone. “I had another poem prepared for you today, but I changed my mind. In the face of darkness, sometimes the only response is Shakespeare.”
The crowd murmured, looking at each other in confusion. Ayesha took a deep breath and leaned forward. In a different voice, one strong and clear and powerful, her limbs loose and languid, she recited:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
There was silence after she finished, and Ayesha kept her head lowered. When she looked up, there were tears on her face, and she stared across the room at Khalid in abject misery.
Then she walked off the stage without another word.
Khalid followed her to the parking lot. Ayesha stood by her car, fumbling with her keys. They slipped from her hands, and he bent down to pick them up. She looked at him again, and Khalid was lost.
A man less in love, less filled with purpose, might have hesitated at this point. But Khalid could sooner stop Niagara Falls from flowing than stop the words bubbling from his lips.
“I’ve tried so hard to control my feelings for you, to banish them from my heart, but my struggles have been in vain. I must be allowed to speak freely. Ayesha, I’m in love with you.”
Ayesha’s back was to the car, and her hand gripped the door handle tightly.
Emboldened by her silence, Khalid continued. “I know this might come as a shock to you. I don’t believe in love before marriage. I know I have questioned your religious convictions in the past, but you can work on your faith. I’m a good catch for someone of your age and social standing. My family is rich and I have a good job. You can quit teaching and focus on writing your little poems. I will approach your mother to decide on a wedding date as soon as possible.” Khalid smiled at Ayesha, his speech complete.
Ayesha straightened up and put a hand out to stop him from saying anything further. “It is customary to wait for the girl’s response before you start planning the wedding.”
Khalid froze. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“My answer to your proposal is . . . no.”
“I don’t understand,” Khalid said.
“I mean no. No, I will not marry you. No, there is no possible chance that I could ever love you, or want you for my husband.”
Khalid took a step backwards. “You like me. I know you do.”
“If you like me, or love me as you claim, why would you ask me to marry you in the most insulting way possible? You question my faith, insult my family, my job, you belittle my poetry and then tell me that you love me against your will, against your very beliefs.”
“I am trying to be honest,” he said. “Should I hide my struggles?”
Ayesha’s face flushed with rage. “Even if I could overlook all of that, I could never marry you because you’re still engaged to my cousin! Or are you so shallow and selfish you’ve already forgotten her?”
Khalid jerked back as if slapped. Ayesha continued, relentless.
“In fact, you can say goodbye to that arrangement as well. Do you think I would allow my cousin to marry into a family who beat their only daughter half to death and then forced her into an arranged marriage in India?”
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“I know what you did to Zareena. You’re a monster, and the worst type of Muslim, a coward and a hypocrite. I wouldn’t marry you if you put a gun to my head!”
She snatched her car keys from his numb fingers and drove out of his life.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Khalid couldn’t move. He was afraid his legs wouldn’t support his weight and he stood still, a mannequin rooted to the spot.
Ayesha thought he was a monster.
He was still engaged to Hafsa.
And what about Zareena? He didn’t even know if his only sister was safe or not. Ayesha was right: He was shallow and selfish.
Shame washed over Khalid in great, heaving waves, and he wanted to bury his face in his hands, but he still couldn’t move.
He was such a fool.
What had Ayesha heard about Zareena?
And what was he thinking, asking another girl to marry him when he was still engaged to her cousin? Or before he heard back from his sister?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Nothing could possibly make this moment worse. Nothing.
“K-Man! Where’s the party at?” Amir asked, Ethan and Mo ambling beside him.
AYESHA was shaking so hard she had to pull over to the side of the road. She buried her face in the steering wheel.
A tap on her window made her look up from her sodden arms, but there was no one there. She wiped her eyes and drove to her neighbourhood park. She didn’t want to go home, and she didn’t trust herself to call Clara. She couldn’t talk to Nana, or Hafsa, or her mother. They would just pat her on the shoulder while she sobbed.
She didn’t want their pity. Ayesha didn’t want to explain or cry, because she was furious. She hadn’t been this
angry in a long time. Probably not since she’d first moved to Canada, when her anger had been a dark ball that sat where her heart should be, and she so desperately missed her father.
The park was nearly deserted, only a few teenagers talking quietly by the swings, a mom and toddler by the slides. She sat down on a bench near the geo-dome.
She’d thought Khalid was different from other men, but her first impression had been correct after all. Ayesha recalled the judgmental way he had spoken about her at Bella’s. He looked down on every Muslim who didn’t live up to his narrow views of piety and goodness.
At least with Tarek, you expected it; he was a player, and there was always a game. Even Masood was predictable, with his ridiculous self-importance. But Khalid was the worst. He was a hypocrite, so convinced of his moral superiority that he almost had her fooled.
But what about the way he encouraged you to perform poetry at the conference? a nagging voice whispered in her mind. What about the way he speaks of Zareena? He isn’t a woman-hater. He is a person, complicated and confused. Just like you. But she pushed those thoughts away. She would not be taken in again.
He said he loved her.
He had called her poems “little.”
He said he loved her.
He had insulted her family, thrown his wealth and privilege in her face.
But he said he loved her.
Ayesha stood up from the bench, hands curled into fists. She started running, away from the park, toward the track beside the baseball diamond. Blood pounded in her ears as her feet smacked against the soft brown gravel of the field. She was wearing black heels, but her rage urged her on.
No man had ever told her he loved her before.
Ayesha hated him for that, probably most of all.
All of this would have been different if her father had still been alive. Her mother wouldn’t be at work all the time or have such a negative view on marriage. They might still be living in India. Right now, that sounded like a good alternative to her life here.
If she was still in India, she never would have met Khalid. She would have been at peace.
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