That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  “I was fighting with Farah,” I told her. “I wasn’t very supportive of her when she started wearing hijab, and we fell out, and then we became friends again, but there was still tension because I never said I was sorry, and she never said how upset she was with me, but it’s okay, we’re going to work it out.”

  “Good,” she said. “Farah and you are too close not to stay friends. Are—the saag gosht is already done.”

  She unmuted Yasmeen Bhatt, who was ladling a spinach and goat dish onto plates. “Look what you made!” she exclaimed, nudging the handsome actor.

  “Don’t tell my wife,” he warned her. “She’ll stick me in the kitchen.”

  Twenty-Nine

  FARAH KEPT TEXTING TO check in, and I texted her back, but, even though I needed to apologize to her, too, I wasn’t quite ready. I’d thought my life was one thing, and then I found out it wasn’t that at all, and having to recast everything in the light of what I now knew was a form of torture. I looked at photos of Jamie, selfies of us, remembered his compliments, his kisses, his gaze, his touch. How could he do and say all that he did, with such intensity and sincerity, and turn out to be such a liar? I assumed people capable of such betrayal wouldn’t seem so nice, like you’d talk to them and you’d be able to sense their dishonesty. But Jamie had me completely fooled. And it wasn’t like he’d hit on some random girl. He’d gone after my best friend. Who knows, maybe he’d hit on random girls, too, and I just didn’t know.

  I’d love to hang with you, Morning Dew, but I have to drive Aunt Marianne to Philly to see a dying friend.

  I’d been so naive.

  How could I trust anyone again? If only you could see into people’s hearts, know if they were true.

  I came close to calling Jamie at least ten times a day, but changed my mind at the last second. I wanted to eviscerate him, but I was in too much pain to think straight. When it was time, I knew Farah would help me with the words.

  A week later, when I texted her asking if she could meet me at Ye Olde later, she responded immediately.

  Hell yeeeeeeeeeeeeeessss!

  It was my first time in Ye Olde since I’d come with Jamie, and the first time I’d come with Farah in ages.

  As soon we stepped inside Dino called out, “Shabnam! Farah! Hello!” the rest of the line turning to look at us.

  We waved back, minor celebrities in the world’s greatest donut shop. It felt good to be together again in our old haunt, like we were reclaiming a part of our history, one that hadn’t been tainted by the guy I’d loved.

  When we got to the register, Dino said, “I’m so happy to see you ladies here together. Today’s donuts are on me.”

  “No way,” Farah said as we both took out cash.

  “I won’t accept it,” Dino said.

  “But your tip jar will,” she shot back, stuffing a ten inside.

  “All right, you win,” Dino said, then pointed to her head. “Nice style.”

  He was referring to how she’d managed to wrap her headscarf into two buns on either side of her head.

  “Thanks. It only took me forty-five minutes to get it right,” Farah said.

  “Well, it looks very good.” Though we assumed Dino, being Bosnian, was probably Muslim, he never brought it up and neither did we. When Farah started wearing her headscarf, he hadn’t praised her or questioned her or raised his eyebrows. All he’d said was, “New look.”

  “You should do a YouTube tutorial on how to tie your scarf like Princess Leia’s hair,” I suggested.

  “There already is one,” Farah said.

  “Is that so?” Dino replied.

  “You have no idea,” Farah told us.

  The guy behind us coughed politely, and we quickly ordered two donuts and two American coffees. Dino asked me, “How is your friend Jamie?”

  “He’s not my friend anymore,” I said.

  “Oh. Sorry to hear this,” Dino replied.

  “She’s better off without him,” Farah declared, and Dino gave me this kind, crooked smile that made me want to cry and reach across the register and hug him.

  As I went to the jukebox to line up Radiohead, waving at the old Bosnian men playing cards, I had this crazy thought, about how Dino must have witnessed terrible atrocities but still exuded such happiness, how Dino was the kind of guy my mother should have married, because they shared the same depth of kindness, and cared about other people, and they would have cared for each other in the same way, and grown old happily.

  Except then of course I wouldn’t exist.

  “What are you thinking about?” Farah asked when I returned to our table.

  “About how my mother would have been happier if she’d married Dino.”

  “Your father’s not so bad.”

  “He’s great to talk to about Urdu poetry, not so great to be married to.”

  “He’s better than my dad. Plus, your mom’s a saint, so very few men would be worthy of her.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Hence Dino.”

  “Ah. I see your point. But how do we know Dino doesn’t have a dark side? Like maybe he has a secret gambling habit. Or is really into monster truck races. Or BDSM.”

  “Dino?”

  “Yeah,” Farah conceded. “He’s probably always nice. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring; maybe he and your mom still have a chance.”

  “My mom would never leave my dad. He wouldn’t survive one week on his own. And it’s not like I want her to. My dad’s an idiot, but I love him, too. I just wish . . .”

  “What?” Farah prodded.

  I sighed. “Before this summer, I didn’t pay much attention to my parents’ marriage. Maybe ignorance is bliss. Maybe it’s better not to know.”

  Farah folded her hands, one of which was decorated with an intricate peacock, drawn in electric blue. “Do you think it would be better for you not to know about Jamie?”

  “No,” I said. “It destroyed me, but I’m glad I know the truth.”

  “Listen, I want to say again—”

  “Wait,” I interjected. “Before we talk about him, I want to start with us.”

  “Okay. Let’s start with us, and the peanut butter Nutella,” Farah said, breaking apart the donut.

  I didn’t touch my half; I couldn’t indulge until I’d apologized properly.

  “So I’ve been thinking about why I bailed on you,” I began, “and there’s the obvious reason, that I was embarrassed by all the attention. For you it’s this big political statement, and it’s your identity, but being Muslim doesn’t feel like a big part of who I am. I mean, I don’t think about it as I’m going about my everyday life like you do. It doesn’t move me like it moves you. I wasn’t ready for all the attention, for people to assume I was religious too because I was your BFF. But I was thinking about it more, and I realized there’s another reason, too. I was hurt when you started wearing hijab, because I felt a little betrayed.”

  “Betrayed?” Farah said, the gravity of the word prompting her to set down her donut. “By what?”

  “You said yourself it was such an important decision. But I’m your best friend, and you didn’t talk about it with me at all. I found out when you walked into school, along with everyone else. I was hurt that you didn’t include me, or even give me a heads-up. But instead of talking to you about how I felt, I let it simmer inside me, which wasn’t fair.”

  “Right,” Farah said. “I can see why that would piss you off. I guess I didn’t tell you because I was worried you wouldn’t support it, that you would try to get me to change my mind.”

  “Since when do I have so much sway over what you do?” I joked.

  She smiled. “I’m not saying I would have changed my mind. Do you think, if I had talked to you about it beforehand, you would have behaved differently?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “I’d like to say yes, but maybe I would have done the exact same shitty thing. Anyway, the point is, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you like I should have been, and I ne
ver want to hurt you like that again. I’m sorry I kept questioning your choice instead of supporting it. And I’m also sorry I busted back into your life and talked about myself constantly like a selfish idiot. God, I was worried about Jamie not seeing me, and didn’t realize all the things I wasn’t seeing about myself. Anyway, if I ever do that again, will you call me out on it? I mean, I hope I won’t, but if I do . . .”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I will.”

  “And I think we should promise each other that if we’re ever angry again, we’ll talk to each other about it right away.”

  “Definitely,” she agreed. “What should we swear on?”

  “Something secular.”

  “How about pinkies?”

  As we linked fingers, I said, “I’m really really sorry.”

  “No worries, friend. You had me as soon as you texted Ye Olde,” Farah joked. “And now I want to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “When Jamie tried to kiss me, I should have kicked him in the balls, I should have told him off, and I should have told you right away. But I was completely flummoxed. I didn’t know what to do. What if he said he loved you and wanted to be with you? And then denied he’d ever kissed me? It would have killed me if you didn’t believe me, if you stayed with a guy like that.”

  “I would have believed you,” I swore. “At least, I’m pretty sure I would have.”

  “This sounds terrible, but I’m really glad he dumped your ass.”

  I laughed out loud, for the first time in days.

  “You totally dodged a bullet,” she continued.

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “What was he thinking, messing with my best friend?”

  Even though I’d been laughing a second ago, I could feel the tears coming on. I covered my face with my hands, willing myself not to lose it in Ye Olde Donut Shoppe, where people came to be happy.

  “Hey, hey,” Farah said, rubbing my arm. “He’s a loser who was thinking only about himself. I think you and I were like the exotic flavors of the month for him.”

  I wiped my eyes, looked up at the lovely scrolling shadows the glass lamp above our table cast upon the ceiling. “How could I not see it?”

  “Because he was charming. And the whole sneaking into the theater thing, I mean, he obviously cared about impressing you. It was a thoughtful, pretty cool thing to do.”

  “Except he tried to kiss you the next night! All those times he told me how much he loved my curls, how beautiful I was, and I actually believed him.”

  “I don’t think he was lying about that,” Farah said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “We don’t live in some 1950s comic book. No one’s all good or all evil. He wasn’t honest, but it doesn’t mean he lied all the time. It doesn’t mean he didn’t like you, in his own screwed-up way.”

  “But he liked both of us!”

  “At least the man had good taste,” Farah said.

  We burst out laughing, and Farah slid my donut half toward me. “Eat already.”

  “I have to go soon,” I told her. “I promised my mother I’d help her cook for tomorrow. Chotay Dada is coming tonight, can you believe it? He was there when it all began, and now he’s back.”

  “The infamous Partition survivor returns? Are you going to ask him what really happened?”

  “No—why would I?”

  “You’ve lied so much about him, aren’t you curious to know the truth?” she challenged.

  “Uh, what am I going to say—please pass the biryani and by the way, do you happen to be the sole survivor of a bloody train massacre?”

  Farah laughed. “How about, would you like some more water and by the way, did your pregnant lover happen to drown herself in a well?”

  Did they still drink the water?

  God. I made up lies about Chotay Dada to pique Jamie’s interest, and where had it gotten me?

  “Can you ask him, please?” Farah said. “What if his story is almost the same as yours? That would be so awful and weird.”

  “But I hardly know him.”

  “Well, fictionally you do.”

  Dino appeared at our table with another donut. “New experiment,” he said. “Maple pecan. Give your honest opinion. I think they’re a little too sweet.”

  I hoped he hadn’t noticed me almost crying. “Oh, Dino, I’ve got to lose at least five pounds before college,” I demurred.

  “Well, I don’t,” Farah said, and took a bite. “Mmmmmmm.”

  “Well?” Dino asked.

  “Tone the sweetness down a tiny bit, and it will be perfect,” Farah told him.

  Dino nodded. “As I thought.”

  “Dino, by the way,” I said, “I’m sorry about what happened before, when I came here with Jamie.”

  “No need for an apology,” Dino replied graciously.

  “Still, I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

  “You know,” Dino answered, “I was talking to an Iraq war veteran, and he said people always ask him, ‘What was the war like?’ But how can you answer a question like that? How can you explain something so complex? All you can do is give them a, a sound—”

  “Sound bite?” Farah offered.

  “Yes, a sound bite,” Dino said. “So, when people sometimes ask me, I give them a sound bite. But I was glad that Jamie had heard of the genocide. Many people in your generation don’t even know what happened in Bosnia.”

  A group of leather-clad bikers entered the shop, and Dino excused himself to take their order.

  “What did Jamie do to Dino?” Farah asked.

  I lowered my voice. “He asked Dino if he was a refugee of the Bosnian genocide. And when Dino said yes, Jamie was like, Cool, can you tell us about it?”

  “What? He said cool?”

  “Uh-huh.” I told her the rest of what happened, Farah shaking her head the whole time.

  “Of course Dino was totally nice about it. He’s still nice about it.”

  “Bless his heart,” Farah said. “Man, Jamie. Such a lame ass. You should call him up and tell him he inspired Dino to change the name of his shop to Genocide Donuts.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  But Farah wasn’t finished yet. “It could be pastries from places of genocide. Don’t feel too bad, citizens of America—the people may have died, but their desserts live on.”

  “That’s really terrible,” I said, smiling. “But how come you think what Jamie did was lame but you want me to ask Chotay Dada about Partition?”

  “That’s different,” she explained. “You have a vested interest.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your history. And if he doesn’t want to talk about it, he’ll say no, right?”

  “But what if the mere mention of it gives him PTSD?”

  “Dino seems fine.”

  “Dino’s obviously not a typical genocide survivor.”

  “What is a typical genocide survivor? But seriously, I don’t know enough about it. You should do what feels right. I gotta go, too. My mother wants me to scrub the tile grout in the bathrooms tonight.”

  “What?”

  “What can I say? I’m friggin’ Cinderella. The first thing I’m going to do when I start making money is hire a cleaning lady. And I will never use white tile grout in my bathroom. Live and learn, Qureshi, live and learn.”

  As we got up to leave, I noticed that one of the old Bosnian men was singing along to Radiohead’s “Karma Police” while staring intently at his card hand. Meanwhile, the four bikers were now sitting in a row at the counter, Riders on the Storm written in white cursive across their black jackets.

  I was really going to miss this place. In less than a month, I’d be in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people and a wounded, wounding heart, and no Ye Olde donuts.

  “You should go on ahead, though,” Farah said. “I’m going to quickly check out what’s new on the bookshelf.”

  “Okay—but we didn’t even talk about what’s going on w
ith you,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” she assured me. “You can find updates on my new blog, Life of a Hijabi Renegade.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “It’s cool. We still have the rest of the summer to talk about me.”

  As we hugged I said, “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Q.”

  As awful as it was, at least the Jamie incident had actually brought Farah and me closer together. My black cloud had a true silver lining, and maybe even a promise of sun.

  Thirty

  I WENT DOWNSTAIRS THE next morning to a scene of déjà vu: my father and Chotay Dada in the dining room, my father grunting disapprovingly behind the New York Times, Chotay Dada seated across from him, wearing the same impeccably stiff shalwar kameez and leather sandals. Either he had shrunk or my memory had built him up, because I realized he actually wasn’t much bigger than me; the fullest thing about him was his beard. The prayer dent in his forehead seemed darker and deeper, like he’d spent most of his time in America in prostration. The orange tasbih in his hand, though, was exactly as I remembered.

  I set down a plate of glistening puri bread and my mother’s homemade tamarind chutney in a silver gravy bowl carved with grapevines.

  “As’salaam alaikum,” I said.

  “Wa’alaikum salaam,” he said. “Kaisi ho?”

  “Fine,” I replied in Urdu.

  My mother entered with a bowl of chole, and became immediately distressed that no one was eating. “Take food, please,” she insisted, spooning some onto Chotay Dada’s plate.

  “Why have you cooked so much? You should sit and eat now,” Chotay Dada told her.

  “I’ll come soon,” she promised.

  “Your mother works too hard,” Chotay Dada said.

  This prompted me to go into the kitchen to ask if she needed help, but she insisted she was fine and asked me to please talk to Chotay Dada.

  When I returned, Chotay Dada’s tasbih was moving through his fingers, his lips silently forming the same words over and over.

  La ilaha illallah.

  Karma police arrest this man he talks in maths.

  If I hadn’t gone to the mall with Chotay Dada, if I hadn’t met Jamie, what kind of summer would I have had? I felt like a different person than when he’d first visited. Broken, but determined to put myself back together, hopefully into something stronger.