Footsteps

by Umm Zakiyyah

  Alika knew before her mother that there was someone else. In the beginning, Alika thought her and her father’s frequent trips to Nigeria were for her, Alika’s gift, from father to daughter, shared just between the two of them. And, perhaps, initially, they were. Her mother last visited the country when Alika was four, and the memory of that trip would be the one Alika would recall as her first sojourn to a country so colorful, so full of life, so full of her. But, of course, it was not her first. Alika had been there at least three times before, with both her mother and father. But this would be the one to leave its indelible mark. It was as if she knew, even as a small child, it would be a time marker, the first on a timeline, or perhaps the last. Either way, there was no “other” family trip after that.

  Alika recalled nothing out of the ordinary on the trip itself, but she remembered the shouting, the sounds of things thrashing against the floor and walls as she lay awake, though exhausted, on the night of their return. She knew then in the loneliness and largeness of her room, that they had been holding back in Nigeria, on the plane, and even during the taxi ride home, holding themselves together beneath the restless tension that was all let loose once they crossed the threshold of their suburban Virginia home.

  Years later, Alika remembered it only as a terrifying night. She didn’t sleep, and at moments she pulled the covers over her head. At others she ran to their door in fear, seeking refuge in the very ones who were the source of her fright. The horrible sounds coming through the wood would make her halt, and a crash would send her bolting back to the soft blankets of her bed. But, of course, there was nothing soft, not even in her comforters and pillows, that night.

  Alika looked behind her as she pulled out of the parking lot and then glanced in her rearview mirror as she pulled the car forward after shifting gears. The glow of the banquet hall windows grew smaller in her mirror as she drove, and she knew then, that that’s what she wanted of her life. Driving slowly and carefully away from what she would leave behind. She knew at the moment, as the rhythmic ticking of the left turn signal filled the car, that whatever parallels her newfound religion required her to make between it and her mother’s life, she vowed she would not allow those parallels to lead her down her mother’s path.

  Chapter Four

  It took several minutes for Aminah to recover from the grogginess she felt from the nap she had taken after Fajr prayer Saturday morning a week after Tamika’s graduation and walimah. Even with the curtains drawn, sunlight had escaped into the room, however meekly, and coaxed her to consciousness. She sat up on her elbows, and squinted as she glanced around her room, finding comfort and sadness in the familiar surroundings. Her eyes paused at her dresser, and to her disappointment, she saw nothing there, at least not what she hoped would be.

  Aminah threw the covers from her body and sat up completely, erecting herself with the backboard of her bed. She rubbed her eyes, now recovering more completely from the dream. Loneliness settled over her as reality set in, and she felt her heart, as if lead, grow heavy until her shoulders slouched. She ached for Durrah so completely that she feared she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and confirm, more definitely, her loss. She felt the fullness in her ears and the dryness in her eyes, and she feared, though she had been counting down to this day for three weeks, even if her parents allowed her to marry Zaid, she would be dissatisfied still. She couldn’t be happy. She no longer knew how to be, and she couldn’t will herself to try. Not when she couldn’t share the good news with her best friend.

  She squeezed her eyelids shut and pinched the space between her eyes and breathed, opening her eyes a moment later and staring at the dresser top again. Knowing it wouldn’t be there either, she climbed out of bed anyway to look inside the drawers. She pulled open the first drawer and peered inside, the sight of tousled clothes greeting her instead of the soft cloth cover of the book she had dreamt Durrah had left for her on the dresser of her room.

  Aminah pushed the drawer closed and sighed, feeling her ridiculousness right then. If Durrah’s journal was in the house at all, it would be in the basement with the remaining boxes from college that Aminah had yet to unpack. But it didn’t make any sense to be there. The boxes had been sealed, she remembered, when Sulayman and Omar had come to move the things from Aminah and Tamika’s university apartment they had shared with Durrah that year. And Aminah remembered finding the diary after she finished packing and had already sealed the boxes that were stacked in the corner of the living room. She was stripping the beds, having brought herself to touch at least that much of what had been her childhood friend’s, when the book sprang from the bedding as she yanked off Durrah’s blanket and sheets. It sent her heart racing and she had let out a scream that lost its sound before it escaped her throat. She calmed a moment later as she saw the book lying open face down at her feet. She recognized the soft purple of the hardback cover immediately and hesitantly picked it up, flipping through the pages, her heart a nervous pounding as she realized what she held. She knew then she would claim it as hers. She knew Durrah wouldn’t mind. At least she knew Durrah, more than anything, would want to keep it from her family.

  Aminah saw the familiar ink strokes of Durrah’s handwriting that had matured to an attractive, almost artistic penmanship over the years, a significant improvement over the illegible scribble-like writing Aminah had often made fun of. But Aminah had not read anything right then. She had closed the book, her mind racing in search of the best place to put it.

  Aminah returned to her bed and sat there, realizing this was the part where she couldn’t trust her memory. She thought, was absolutely certain, that she had slipped it into her duffel bag. And she remembered keeping it with her. But maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she had just planned to.

  There was a knock at the door, and before she could answer, the door opened and her mother stood in the doorway.

  “I was hoping you were up. I need your help in the kitchen.”

  Aminah left the room a minute later but stopped to go to the bathroom first. She met her mother downstairs and slid into a kitchen chair, deciding to observe before offering her assistance. Her mother’s back was to her as Sarah faced the counter where she was cutting carrots and tossing them into a large salad bowl. Sarah wore a red paisley handkerchief scarf tied on her head, and her blond hair spilled out underneath the triangle of the fabric. The off-white strings of her apron met at her lower back in a looped tie that made Sarah’s white T-shirt gather above her jeans, its cuffs meeting the heels of her bare feet.

  The sound of the knife against the wood chopping board was rhythmic and Aminah found solace in the sound. She turned her head toward the patio where its glass was slid open exposing the slight tear in the screen that Aminah imagined mosquitoes would use to slip inside. The smell of cut grass drifted into the kitchen, and she saw her father in the backyard wiping his forehead with the back of his arm as he pushed the lawnmower to the side of the house until she no longer could see him. She heard the machine’s choppy motor hesitate then start, and seconds later its sound grew so loud she imagined him coming into the house with the mower. The noise then waned somewhat and Aminah knew her father was pushing the lawnmower back down the length of the house.

  “I don’t like it,” Sarah said, and Aminah turned to look at her mother’s back again. Her mother had raised her voice louder than usual, most likely due to the sound of the lawnmower and chopping, but Aminah sensed an irritation in her tone that suggested the loudness was not circumstantial. “I’m only participating because he’ll be a guest in our home. Otherwise, I’d have no part.”

  Aminah felt herself growing frustrated, but she bit her lower lip to keep from speaking. Her gaze rested on the lower cabinet door her mother was using to support her bent knee.

  “Marriage is not something you sneak off and plan on your own. Your parents should know about it before you, if things are done right.”

  “Things were done right,” Aminah said, unable to hold her tongue in
the face of the false accusation. But she kept her voice as low as the outside noise allowed. She didn’t want to disrespect her mother.

  “Things were not done right,” Sarah said, turning to face her daughter, inadvertently using the carrot stained knife instead of her hand to gesture her point. “If they had, I wouldn’t be standing here mixing salad for a meeting where I’m the one who will be the guest.” She turned abruptly and continued cutting, this time, more forcefully.

  Aminah drew in a breath and exhaled. “Abi knew.”

  “I said parents, not parent.”

  “But, Ummi, I didn’t do anything.”

  There was a brief silence as Sarah set down the knife and scooped up the carrots from the board and dropped them into the bowl. Aminah saw her mother’s hands reach back to untie the apron before pulling it off and tossing it on the counter. A second later, Sarah sat across from her daughter, separated only by a glass vase filled with freshly cut flowers.

  “And that’s exactly the problem. You should’ve done something.”

  “But, Mom,” Aminah said, reverting back to the English term for mother as she often did, “why should I be the one to say something? He called Abi, not me.”

  “And did you know he called?”

  “When Abi told me.”

  “Then that’s when you should’ve told me.”

  Aminah felt herself growing more upset. She wondered if this was really about what her father should have done. Wasn’t it his responsibility to tell his wife, and not his daughter’s? Yes, Aminah knew that they wouldn’t talk to her mother about it, but it was more a silent understanding of what was best than a conspiracy. Her mother’s every waking moment seemed to be dedicated to the ins and outs of Sulayman and Tamika’s walimah, and even small talk between them, including between her father and mother, was a rarity during the preparation. If Aminah wanted to go somewhere, she was allowed, as if being waved off and out of the way so Sarah could run her errands, talk on the phone, or just have time to think so that the menu would be accurate, the tablecloths the precise color, and the awards printed and shipped on time. Even if her mother hadn’t been so preoccupied, Sarah wouldn’t have given Aminah, or Ismael, any ear about the proposal. Since meeting Faith, Aminah’s mother had decided that Abdur-Rahman would make a perfect son-in-law. But Aminah, though she would never vocalize it, was leery of him. He made her uncomfortable. Who went around carrying their best friends in cages?

  “And don’t turn this into pointing fingers at your father.” Sarah’s brown eyes met Aminah’s. It was as if she were reading her daughter’s mind. “That is none of your business.”

  Aminah lowered her gaze and toyed with the place mat before her. She didn’t know what to say. Perhaps her mother was right. But it being none of her business didn’t change the obviousness of it.

  The lawnmower’s noise picked up, and a second later Aminah heard it grumble and silence itself. The kitchen grew uncomfortably quiet, and she heard the distant sound of a dog barking. A moment later, she heard the squeaky wheels of the lawnmower being pushed toward the shed, and she turned to see her father putting it away.

  “Do you really want to do this?” Sarah said, her voice softer now.

  Aminah looked at her mother and saw the laugh lines around her eyes, and the aged freckles across the bridge of her nose, in that moment seeing the humanness of the woman sitting opposite her. Aminah’s eyes fell to her hands again, unable to confront the love, fear, and experience-born exhaustion she saw right then. She nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I do.” She didn’t always use the formal term ma’am when she spoke to her mother, but it felt right to say then.

  “Why?”

  She had no idea how to answer that. She thought of what she knew of Zaid, and what she admired most was his commitment to Islam. Her mother’s biggest concern was his family, and for Aminah it was the biggest attraction, given that he was the pioneer in a mostly non-religious household. Most of his relatives didn’t pray. His mother prayed only on Eid. His father prayed on Eid and Jumu’ah, the latter of which was in itself a sign of religious devotion in Zaid’s family. None of his sisters or cousins covered in hijab, though some of them, like Zahra, prayed regularly, but even they were few.

  “I don’t know.”

  Aminah heard her mother draw in a deep breath, and she lifted her head to find her mother’s gaze on Ismael, who was approaching the screened patio now.

  “Sounds like the lawnmower’s due for a repair,” Ismael said, sliding open the screen and stepping inside. “I was able to do the lawn,” he said as he slid the door closed. “But I’m gonna take a look at it sometime this weekend, inshaAllaah.” He pulled the work gloves from his hands, seeming then to notice Aminah sitting across from his wife. He smiled.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum, pumpkin.”

  “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam.”

  Ismael walked over to the kitchen sink and picked up the bottle of dishwashing liquid before squeezing a small amount into his palms. His gloves were now tucked under an arm, and he turned on the water to wash his hands. His white T-shirt hung damp with sweat, and his beige work pants were smeared with grass and dirt stains from their frequent use in the yard.

  “Ismael, please,” Sarah said, an edge of tired frustration in her voice as he walked over to peer into the salad bowl before withdrawing a carrot and popping it into his mouth.

  “I washed my hands.” His voice was slightly muffled by his chewing.

  “But look at you.”

  “I didn’t put my clothes in the bowl, sweetheart.” He grinned and winked at Aminah, who turned away, suppressing a giggle.

  “Go shower. You smell like a burger,” Sarah said.

  Aminah laughed.

  “Seems to me that goes well with the meal.”

  “Ismael.”

  “Alright, alright.” He was still chuckling as he served himself a glass of water before removing his Timberlands and disappearing up the steps.

  Sarah exhaled and shook her head. “Just make sure you make Istikhaarah if your father should decide he likes him. Islamic commitment is not a sufficient reason to marry someone.”

  Aminah started to say something, but Sarah lifted her palm to stop her.

  “It’s a prerequisite,” Sarah said. “Just like good character is. Once you’re sure he has both, then it’s time to see if he’s good for you.” She laid her hands flat on the table and stood. “You think about that. Think about you, then think about him. In that order. Then see if this is something you really want to do.” She rested her hands on the back of the chair she had been sitting in and leaned forward to meet Aminah’s gaze. “If you don’t know what I mean, I suggest you not marry him until you do.”

  Alika laughed from where she sat a comfortable distance from Faith on the couch in Faith’s living room. “Freddie and Freda?”

  “Yes,” Abdur-Rahman said, lifting the other cage. “And this is Charlie.”

  “Well, hello, Freddie, Freda, Charlie.” She nodded at them then looked at Faith amused, who smiled back at her.

  “I used to have a dog, Nels,” he said, sitting down on the loveseat across from them. “But he died on our way back from a trip five years ago.” Alika noticed the sadness in his countenance as he spoke with his eyes cast down toward the cages he had set at his feet. She couldn’t help feeling sad too. Abdur-Rahman crossed his arms across his gray T-shirt that bore the fading black of “GAP”, and he tucked his hands under his armpits. “A German shepherd. I had him for ten years. Mom and Dad said I should replace him.” He shook his head, forcing a smile apparently for Alika’s benefit, because she could tell he wasn’t happy. “But how could I replace Nels?”

  Alika nodded. “That’s how I felt when I lost my cat.”

  “What was its name?” he asked.

  “Princess.”

  He smiled and nodded as if he had known her himself. “How’d you lose her?”

  “Got hit by a car.”

  Abdur-Rahman winced and shut his eyes
momentarily. He shook his head. “Damned roads.”

  “I know. All I could think was, what happened to ‘look both ways’? It doesn’t apply only when you’re outside of the car.”

  “I never had a cat.”

  Alika’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

  He shook his head. “I wanted one. But I always had this fear Nels wouldn’t get along with him. And I didn’t want that.”

  She nodded. “That’s why I never got a dog.”

  “You had Princess here?” Faith asked.

  Alika shook her head. “In Virginia, before I left for college.”

  “You moved to Atlanta for college?”

  She nodded. “But only for my master’s. I went to UV for undergrad. I didn’t want to be too far from my mother.”

  Faith smiled and looked at her son. “It’s good some children think like that. You’d think the girls would stay put. But Teddy’s the only one who didn’t run off.”

  “You have other children?”

  “Four girls. Teddy’s the second oldest. My oldest is thirty-one this year.”

  Alika lifted her eyebrows in astonishment. “You look so young.”

  Faith laughed. “I do not. Besides, Teddy here is a dead give away.”

  Alika smiled. “The girls are in college?”

  Faith nodded. “Two are. One is married, and the other is…,” she shook her head at a loss for words, “finding herself.”

  “They’re Muslim?”

  She laughed. “No. They wouldn’t dream of it.”

  A smile creased a corner of Alika’s mouth. “I know that feeling.”

  Faith licked her lips and folded her arms. “I do too. So I don’t blame them.”