That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  I’d gained at least a pound in less than two days, not what you wanted to happen when you were about to start college. Between breaking up and the freshman fifteen, I’d be a water buffalo by May.

  I tore open a Krackel and watched as Farah unrolled her hijab turban, reworking it vertically. “What do you think? I’m thinking of experimenting with height.”

  “It looks like you have a unicorn horn on your head. Or a phallus.”

  “Ugh.” Farah tossed her scarf aside, undid her topknot.

  As she shook her hair out, I said, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel.” Her magenta was growing out. It was the first time I’d seen her hair mostly black. She’d drawn a small flower at the tip of her widow’s peak. It looked like a daisy.

  Everything reminded me of Jamie.

  “Rapunzel, my ass. I’ve got barbed wire and a moat around this tower.” Farah frowned at the chocolates. “I don’t want any of these. I should have gotten Kit Kats. Or Jelly Bellies. Did you know Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups aren’t made with real peanut butter? I mean, what the hell is it then?”

  I stretched facedown on the bed, pushing the chocolates out from underneath me. “Bad week, huh?” Farah said.

  “It hurts,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It hurts so much,” I continued. “And Jamie’s aunt all but admitted I’m one of a string of broken hearts.”

  “God. He’s such a mofo.”

  I rolled onto my back, resting my feet on Farah’s lap. “But I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time my phone buzzes, I run to it like, maybe it’s him, maybe it’s him. Do you think I gave up too easy? Maybe I should text him, to see what he says.”

  “No way. He doesn’t deserve you. Forget about that dickwad.”

  “I can’t,” I moaned.

  Farah made a grrrr noise. “I want to kill him. I wish he were still here so I could find him and rip his face off.”

  “Jesus, what’s up with you? I’m the one whose heart he broke and I’m not that angry.”

  “I’m angry on your behalf.”

  “I don’t need you to be angry, I need your support,” I said.

  “I can’t do this,” Farah announced, lifting my legs and getting up from the bed. “It’s giving me heart palpitations.”

  “What is?”

  “Lying to you.”

  “Lying to me about what?”

  She took a step back, wringing her hands. I’d never seen Farah wring her hands. “I wasn’t sure what I should do, but I can’t keep this inside me, and anyway if I didn’t tell you it would be like I was protecting him, and he doesn’t deserve that, that piece of—”

  “Farah!” I cried, and she looked at me, startled by my vehemence. “Stop telling me what a dick he is and tell me . . . whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, picked up a Mr. Goodbar, made a face at it, threw it down, rubbed her palms together, bit down on her lower lip, went back to wringing her hands.

  Whatever it was, it was tormenting her.

  My body began to clench and fold into itself, bracing for the awfulness to come.

  What could she possibly have to tell me about Jamie?

  Oh my God.

  Deep down, I’d known Jamie was as fascinated by her as he was by me. More, even. But I’d ignored it, because even if he thought she was cool, it wasn’t like he’d act on it.

  “So there’s this thing that happened,” she began. “And I had nothing—”

  “Don’t,” I said. “Tell the story first. From the beginning, no bullshit.”

  “No bullshit,” she repeated. “Tuesday night, I went to Trenton, remember, for the Rebel Antigone show. I’m at the show, and it’s amazing, and I’m in the back, by myself, rocking out—”

  “I thought your cousin went with you.”

  “He stayed in the car, FaceTiming with his girlfriend, this dental student who lives in Minnesota. They met through Facebook. He told me he wants to get engaged but he needs to see her without her hijab on first so he knows what he’s getting into.”

  “Farah.”

  “Sorry. So I’m alone at the show, and I’m headbanging so hard I’m hoping my scarf doesn’t fly off. Anyway, the scarf is staying on, and the band is awesome, the lead singer has so much charisma, and I’m having the time of my life, and there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and it’s Jamie.”

  “What? He told me he had to drive Aunt Marianne to Philly that night to see her dying friend,” I said. Such a blatant lie, right to my face.

  “Yeah, well, Aunt Marianne wasn’t with him, and apparently by Philly he meant Trenton, and by dying friend he meant Rebel Antigone concert. Anyway, he says ‘Hey,’ and I’m kind of in shock, so I say, ‘Hey,’ and then he starts headbanging next to me, and I don’t know what to do. I keep dancing for a minute, and then the song ends, and I’m like, I have to get the hell out of here, because he’s making me uncomfortable, and I knew you didn’t know he was there because you would have told me. So when the song ends, I tell him that I have to go, and he says, ‘And miss the rest of this stupendous show?’ and I tell him my cousin’s waiting for me outside, and he says, ‘Well, in that case, I don’t have much time,’ and then he . . .” Farah threw up her hands. “Then he tried to kiss me.”

  oh God. oh God oh God oh God.

  My heart had sank. I’d always thought that was a figure of speech, but I could literally feel my heart descending with each and every word.

  “And I said, ‘Jamie, no,’” Farah continued. “And then he tried again.”

  Liar Jamie. My lying Jamie. Lying liar pants on fire Jamie.

  “I ran away, left the club, got into my cousin’s car, hung up his call, and told him we had to get out of there fast. When he asked me why, I told him the mosh pit started getting ugly and I was worried a fight would break out, which sucks because he totally told his mother who told my mother, but anyway. I haven’t seen Jamie or heard from him since. That’s it, that’s all of it. No bullshit.”

  Farah kneeled next to the bed, touched my waist gingerly. “Are you okay?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m so sorry, Qureshi. I had no idea . . . the whole thing was so surreal, except it was real. But the guy you love, he doesn’t exist. The real Jamie isn’t an honest person.”

  “I can’t believe it. How could he? He was so nice to me. He listened, he made me feel special. God. I wrote him a ghazal,” I said, knocking the sides of my head with my hands. “So stupid. So stupid.”

  Farah grabbed my wrists, holding them down so I couldn’t hit myself. “You weren’t stupid. He was really charming and manipulative. Who stands a chance against that combination?”

  “You did.”

  “And if I decide one day that I do want to get married, who knows what douchebags I’ll meet? As far as I know, there’s no matrimonial service with a ‘no douchebag’ guarantee.”

  “You would never use a matrimonial service.”

  “Never say never.”

  “I can’t believe he made up a dying friend!”

  “Yeah, you guys had a lot of fake death for such a short relationship,” Farah noted.

  I hadn’t told Farah the annoying things he’d done that I’d forgiven him for, like what he said to Dino, or his dream that turned Partition into a fantasy video game, because I wanted to protect him, because I didn’t want Farah to think badly of him. Ha. What a goddamn joke.

  I loved him, and he hit on my best friend.

  Is it real, or merely a a web / Spun by the spider of my delusion

  It was never real. It had always been a delusion.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket, unlocked it with angry jabs. “I’m going to tell him off, that lying bastard, that piece of sh—”

  “Hey.” Farah yanked the phone away. “You can’t call him right now, you’re too upset. You’ll scream incoherently and start to cry. If you want to call him, wait for the rage to subside, then think carefully about w
hat you want to say, so that you can completely eviscerate him.”

  “Eviscerate him,” I repeated. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll give you your phone back, but you have to swear by Allah you won’t call him tonight,” she warned me. “Or even tomorrow.”

  “What Allah?” I said.

  “Fine. Swear by your mother’s life.”

  “I’ve already ruined my mother’s life.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, just take it back,” she said.

  “Put it on my desk.”

  She opened a desk drawer and shoved it beneath all the papers and pens, as if that might further deter me.

  “That day, after we all hung out, he asked me what your hair was like,” I said. My voice was so hollowed out with pain I could barely recognize it. “I meant to say it was thick but instead I said it was limp, because I didn’t want him to think about you more than he already was. God. I’m so stupid.”

  “Stop saying that! Trusting someone isn’t stupid! It’s how you should be. He’s the one who’s screwed up, not you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey.” She pressed her forehead to mine. “Are you angry with me?”

  I wasn’t angry with Farah. I trusted her. I knew she’d never betray me like that. Except.

  I pulled back. “Why didn’t you tell me that night? After it happened?”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she confessed. “I was still in shock when I got home from the concert. I thought of calling you, but I thought, what if he denies it, and you don’t believe me?”

  “I’d always believe you,” I said.

  “I know, but it would be like, your beloved versus your best friend. I knew he was leaving in two days, so I decided to wait and see what happened. I figured if you guys stayed together, I’d tell you. And if you didn’t stay together, I figured I’d play it by ear, because I didn’t want to hurt you, or for you to be mad at me, and things have already been so fucked up between us. But you know me, I’m a shitty liar. And then when you were talking about texting him . . . I’m so sorry. It sucks. He sucks.” Farah pretend-spat over her shoulder.

  “Have things been that fucked up between us?” I said. “I mean, I know we haven’t talked about what happened, but I didn’t think we were that bad.”

  “We . . .” Farah shook her head. “Let’s not talk about us now. You’ve got enough going on.”

  “You might as well pile it on,” I said.

  “I don’t want to pile it on,” she protested. “I want you to feel better.”

  “I want to know the other stuff you haven’t said,” I insisted. “About us. No more secrets. I’m done with pretending. I’m done with secrets.”

  “Do you seriously want to talk about this now?” Farah asked, incredulous.

  “I’ll start. You hate me because you feel like I abandoned you,” I declared.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “But you’re pissed.”

  “I’m hurt,” she said. “But—”

  “Stop it,” I exclaimed. “Stop tiptoeing around it because you feel sorry for me. Bring it. I’m serious. Honesty hour starts now.”

  “Well, I think it started like twenty minutes ago.”

  “Farah!”

  “Fine. I . . .” Farah walked over to the window, rapped her knuckles against the glass. “I don’t think I’m ready to have this conversation.”

  “I’ll start then,” I said. “I made out with Ryan. Even though I knew he was a douche. Even though I knew it would hurt you, maybe even because I knew it would hurt you. I was in a Jacuzzi, and I was already tipsy, and we drank champagne, and he was half naked, and I kissed him. And then I lied to you about it.”

  Farah didn’t turn around. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “You suspected. You were pissed.”

  “I was pissed way before Ryan.”

  “Why?”

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  Farah surveyed the room, walked over to the chair, tipping it so the clothes fell off, sat down across from me, took a deep breath. “You know, if you chose to wear a paper bag over your head, I would have your back. But when I needed you most, you bailed. You didn’t even want to stand close to me. And even when you did, you weren’t really there. I could feel it from the beginning, how tense you were, how you only relaxed when you and I were alone in your house. I was really hurt, but the day you laughed at Ryan’s dumbass joke, that day you broke my heart. I mean, I know we’re not nightingale and rose, but friendship is a kind of love, isn’t it? I felt like you betrayed me.”

  She was right. I did betray her. I was a terrible, terrible person.

  “Remember when you came to see me, at the masjid?” she continued. “We’d barely spoken in a while, and you came up to me as if nothing had ever happened, forget about sorry, you didn’t even ask me how I was doing.”

  I tried to recall our conversation. “I didn’t?”

  “No. At first, I thought you’d come to apologize, but instead you launched right into what you needed from me, which was listening to how in love you were. Since we started talking again, it’s been all about you.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me how upset you were?” I said.

  “I don’t know. You’ve been so busy with Jamie I’ve hardly seen you anyway. And when we did meet, you were taking up all the space, and it never felt like the right time to rock the boat. But, listen, even though, yeah, I was mad at you, I never in a million years wanted to hurt you. If I’d known what Jamie was going to do, I would have skipped the show.”

  “I know,” I said. “Did he mention me at all that night?”

  “No. We hardly talked before he . . . went for it.”

  One night, we were hooking up in the Theater of Dreams. The next night, he was trying to kiss Farah. And the next day, I’d lain in his arms, listening to his stupid dream.

  “Are you okay?” Farah asked.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  She jumped up, brought over my wastebasket. I shook my head. “I’m not really going to. But I think I need to be by myself right now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I love you. Call me whenever, wherever.”

  I was alone again. I uncurled my toes, unclenched my fists, shook out my arms, forcing myself out of the rigor mortis of despair. Then I wept.

  And wept.

  I wept until I had nothing left, until every last memory of Jamie and me reeked of salt.

  Twenty-Eight

  THE GREAT URDU POET Mirza Ghalib once wrote, “Though sorrow is life-destroying, we cannot escape it, as we have a heart.”

  Goddamn heart.

  I didn’t leave my room all day on Saturday. In the evening, my mother set a plate of hot food outside my door, knocked, and disappeared, a gesture which made my sorrowful heart splinter with remorse. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be okay again, but I knew nothing would be okay if I didn’t make up with my mother, a woman so kind that even when you were mad at her you still wanted to hug her.

  Sunday 10:00 a.m. My mother was right where I thought she’d be, on the couch, watching Cooking and Conversation with Yasmeen Bhatt. Every week Yasmeen made one dish with a Pakistani celebrity. She had definitely had a face-lift: her skin, always heavily layered with makeup, stretched good and tight across her bones. Depending on who the celebrity guest was, she did more flirting than cooking, but my mother said her recipes were always good.

  It had been three days since we’d spoken, which was completely insane.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” My mother had a green face mask on, which cracked as she smiled.

  I knew that if I didn’t mention what happened, she wouldn’t either, that she’d already forgiven me, that I didn’t need to apologize. Except she deserved an apology, and I wouldn’t let her settle for less.

  “Can I join you?” I asked.

>   “Of course,” she replied, patting the cushion next to her.

  I practically ran to the couch, curling up next to her, my head against her chest. Oh, to be five again, when your mother’s embrace truly could make everything all right.

  “I missed you,” my mother said, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Listen, Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry I said those things. I’m sorry I was rude about your angels. You should put them back.”

  “It’s all right. They do look a bit silly,” my mother replied.

  “Okay, they kind of do, but I shouldn’t have said it. And I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. You can say it, you know, that what I did was horrible. That I broke your heart. That the family you have isn’t the family you wished for. It’s okay to be sad. I know your life is good compared to the women you help, but you’re allowed to feel sorry for yourself sometimes.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then how come you never act sad? How come you’re always so nice, and grateful? Dad can be a crappy husband, and I can be a crappy daughter. I mean, does that never bother you? Be honest.”

  My mother muted Yasmeen Auntie and her handsome actor guest. “Oh, Shabu. Yes, it’s true I always imagined a big family. Sometimes, when I’m in the grocery store and I see a mother shopping with her three children, I do feel a little sad. But this is my life. You and Dad are who I love. I wouldn’t trade you two. And hey, at least one of you knows my birthday.”

  It took me a moment to realize she was kidding. “Wow, Mom, that was pretty funny.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Dad has no idea how lucky he is,” I declared.

  “Maybe not,” she conceded. “And you? Are you all right? You still haven’t told me why you were so upset.”

  Even in this genuinely tender mother-daughter moment, there remained a gaping chasm between us. Would there ever be a day when I felt comfortable talking to my mother about matters of love, and heartbreak, and betrayal?