by Nina Monroe
“Some people are meant to be together. Like you and Kaitlin.” She swallows hard. “Others—maybe we just got it wrong from the start.”
“Peter should never have left you,” Ben says.
“I made other mistakes too. I wasn’t paying attention to our marriage.”
Ben goes quiet for a while. Then he asks, “Is he going to stay for a bit, to make sure Astrid’s okay?”
“I don’t think so. He’s got work. And someone to go home with.”
“I’m sorry about that. About everything.”
“And I’m sorry about the things I said about Bryar. And about you.”
They lock eyes.
“It’s been a hell of a week, hasn’t it?”
She nods.
“You really think things are going to work out—between me and Katie?”
The openness in his face—the willingness to be so vulnerable—stops her breath.
“Yes. I do.”
“Thank you for saying that.”
The grandfather clock chimes. They both look up.
“You still want to go to the opening?” he asks her.
She doesn’t know what she wants to do any more or where she wants to be. But the thought of turning up in Ben’s red truck, after everything that’s gone down between them, strikes her as so absurd that it makes her smile.
“Yes,” she says. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The audience watches Ayaan Sayed walking across the stage to the microphone. He takes his speech from his jacket pocket and looks out at them. A few times he opens his mouth and they think that he’s going to start, but still, he doesn’t say anything.
Behind him, Governor Warnes uncrosses and re-crosses her legs and then looks at her watch. As soon as this is over, she has somewhere else to be.
The imam leans forward and whispers something to Ayaan, but he doesn’t seem to hear. He’s so distracted, it’s like he’s not even here.
The audience members shuffle in their chairs, waiting.
When Ayaan looks round at his twins and then back out at the audience, everyone thinks that now, at last, he’ll start.
But still, he stays silent.
That’s when Avery stands up from her seat at the end of the front row. She walks up the steps onto the stage, pats Ayaan on the back and then leans in to the microphone.
“I think we got our order of service mixed up, didn’t we, Ayaan?” She smiles at him. “I was meant to go first, remember?”
She says it with such conviction that the audience believes her.
Ayaan looks at Avery and nods. He heads back to his chair, next to the twins, and everyone expects him to sit down, but he keeps walking. Past his children. Past Wendy Warnes. Past the imam. Down, off the stage. Along the rows and rows of chairs and out toward the parking lot.
People keep twisting around, looking, but then Avery’s voice comes through the microphone and they turn back to the stage.
“It’s an honor to be standing here today,” Avery says. “What a special moment for our community: one we should all be proud of.” She looks out and waits until everyone’s with her. “I’d like to tell you about two people who taught me a great deal about how complicated—and beautiful—life can be.” She pauses again. “I’d like to tell you about my mom and dad …”
* * *
Before Yasmin sees him, she feels his footsteps, the sway of the dock under her body.
And then he’s sitting beside her, in his silk sherwani, a sheen of sweat running along his hairline from having run through the woods.
He takes off his shoes and socks and puts his feet into the cold, rain-swollen water. Their toes brush against each other.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” she says.
He shakes his head. “No.” And then he adds, “I’m sorry for forgetting.”
“Forgetting?”
“Who you were. Who you wanted to be.” He pauses. “I’m sorry for making you so unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy—I have you, and the kids. We have a beautiful home—”
“Please don’t pretend. Not any more.”
She nods, slowly. “Okay.”
“I was scared that I’d lose you again,” he says.
“Again?”
“When we were first together—in New York—you were so free. So good at making friends. At adapting to life here. I was scared that you’d leave me behind.”
“But I loved you—”
“I know. But I was still scared. In Lahore, things felt easier. You seemed less distracted. You felt closer.” He pauses. “And you picked up your faith again. I thought—”
“I did it to please my parents. And you. And, I suppose, because it felt familiar. But my heart wasn’t in it, Ayaan.”
“So I’ve been blind for even longer than I thought.”
She puts her hand over his. “You said you found things easier in Lahore—why did you want us to come back to America, then?”
“Because I thought it would be different. We were married. We had kids. We had a project to get behind—the mosque. And we were older. I told myself that this time, when we came here, I’d be enough for you. That you’d be proud of me.”
“I’ve been proud of you since the day I met you, Ayaan.”
He goes quiet. They look out at the pond, so still today that the trees are reflected like in a mirror. Soon, the leaves will turn orange and red and gold.
“How did you know where to find me?” Yasmin asks.
“You remember the dock—in New York. Off 79th Street?”
She nods.
“When we went on our walks, that’s where you always led us. Standing on the water, looking across the city.”
She closes her eyes and smiles. “I loved it there.”
“Me too.”
On long Sunday afternoons, they’d take a break from studying and walk for hours along the Hudson.
“And I followed you out here—a few times,” he says.
She opens her eyes. “You followed me?”
“When I came home from work and couldn’t find you. When you left our bed, early in the morning, before the kids were awake.”
“I didn’t think you noticed—”
“I’ve been blind to a lot—to most things, as it turns out. But I did see it: how you were pulling away from me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because if I said it out loud—if I admitted it to myself, then I couldn’t pretend any more.”
“Pretend?”
“That everything was okay. That I wasn’t losing you.” He holds her hand tighter. “But I get it now,” he goes on. “That by holding you back—by holding the twins back—I’ve been pushing you away.” His voice breaks. “It’s my fault you kissed Ben Wright.”
She looks down at his hand, still gripping hers, and brings it up to her mouth. She presses her lips against his palm.
“I want you to be happy, Yasmin. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve just got it wrong—”
“You have to trust me, Ayaan.”
“I know. I was just so scared of losing you.”
“I love you, Ayaan.” She pauses. “You’ll never lose me.”
He nods. “I’m going to try really hard to believe that.”
She looks at him, sitting on the dock, his feet dripping, the hem of his silk trousers wet, knowing that this is the moment when she gets to decide whether their marriage is going to survive.
And the truth is, she doesn’t know, not for sure. Whether they’ll be patient enough with each other to make it work. Whether he’ll allow her to become the person she needs to be. Whether she’ll find a way to stand by him without losing herself. But he’s right. They should try.
She stands up and holds out her hands. “Come on,” she says.
He looks up at her, confused.
“People will be wondering where you’ve got to.”
He bows his head. “I don’t think I can go back.”<
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She reaches down and takes his hands and pulls him onto his feet. Then she hands him his shoes and socks and starts putting her own shoes back on.
“You okay with me looking like this?” she says, pulling at the old sweatshirt she’s wearing.
“You’re coming with me?” he says.
She leans in and kisses his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under her lips. “Yes, I’m coming with you.”
* * *
Yasmin walks with Ayaan onto the stage. She sits down next to the twins and they look at her, wide-eyed.
“You came, Mom?” they whisper together.
She smiles. “Yes.”
Ayaan leans into the microphone. “Thank you for your patience.”
The audience falls silent.
“I have many people to thank today—and rightly so,” Ayaan goes on. “Hundreds of you have helped, in big and small ways, to make this possible.” He sweeps his hand to his right where the mosque stands, gleaming in the sunlight. “But there’s someone I haven’t thanked yet. Probably because it’s easy to take for granted those who are closest to us—and who do the most.” He turns toward Yasmin. “Yasmin Sayed, my wife, has more of an understanding of what the word ‘community’ means than I ever will. I might be good at designing buildings—at understanding how marble and cement, glass and steel work together—but Yasmin understands about joining hands, about bringing people together. Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here today, watching this dream come true. Yasmin has taught me that we all have to respect the journey of faith that we’re on. That there is no clear path. That sometimes we have to move backward to step forward again. That sometimes, we need to stop and rest. That sometimes, we’re just walking in the dark.” He squeezes her hand. “She’s taught me that this building isn’t enough—that it’s going to take a great deal more to heal the divisions in our community—and in our country. But I believe that today is a start. And that’s why I want her to be here, at my side.”
“This mosque is the beginning of a conversation. It’s the beginning of a new way of understanding how we relate to each other as human beings and through our faith. It’s the beginning of being okay with how we’re different from each other.”
He turns to Wendy Warnes, who looks furious that so much of her time has been taken up by delays she could never understand.
“As you know from the publicity for this event, Governor Warnes was going to cut the ribbon—to officially open our mosque. And we are grateful that she made time to be here today. But I’d like to change that plan.”
Cameras flash. Reporters bend their heads and type furiously into their phones. He notices Wendy Warnes’s cheeks burn red. She turns to her aides, as though they could fix whatever it is that is going wrong right now.
Ayaan looks over to Yasmin. She feels hundreds of other eyes on her.
“She may not be a political figure or a religious leader. Many of you may never have seen her before—though that’s going to change from now on.” He looks back round at the audience. “But, years ago, she’s the one who saved me from myself. And she’s saved me many times since. She’s also the most incredible mother. And if there’s one thing we’ve all learned this past week, it’s that the mothers—and the fathers—from different backgrounds and from different places in our country and in our world, with different beliefs and priorities and hopes and fears, the mothers and fathers who get it wrong, terribly wrong sometimes, but still show up, day after day, for their kids—they’re the people who unite a community like ours, more than a church or a mosque or any other religious building ever could.”
Yasmin’s eyes well up.
“So, I’d like to ask my wife to honor us by cutting the ribbon.”
People start clapping—a deep, warm clapping that tells him that, even though they might not know who Yasmin is, they feel it too: that she’s the right person to do this.
Ayaan takes Yasmin’s hand and, together, they walk off the stage to the front of the mosque.
Yasmin picks up the scissors from a table set up to the side of the ribbon and then she walks over, takes Ayaan’s hand and joins it to hers.
“I want us to do this together,” she says.
After it’s been cut, the red ribbon floats in the breeze and there’s a silence, as though everyone’s holding their breath. And then, it drops to the floor.
Two months later
Thursday, 28th November
Thanksgiving
PRISCILLA AND ASTRID climb off their bicycles and prop them against the sign for Woodwind Stables.
They’ve been going on short cycle rides together to build up Astrid’s strength. In fact, they’ve been doing more together than they have in years. Priscilla’s taken a few months off work. Last night, they baked pies for the Thanksgiving party at St. Mary’s. They stood together in the kitchen of the cottage, their faces dusted in flour, until the last pie came out of the oven.
The pies are packed into the basket of Priscilla’s bicycle.
“See you at the church in an hour or so?” Priscilla says.
“Yes, Mom.”
“And you won’t push yourself too hard—you’ll get off and wheel the bike when—”
Astrid rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “I’m going uphill or if I feel tired or if my chest hurts. I know, Mom.”
Priscilla steps forward and tries to give Astrid a kiss but their bicycle helmets bump against each other. They step back, laughing.
Priscilla looks over her shoulder, up the drive. She sees Bryar and his parents standing in the front yard. She gives them a wave and they wave back. The Wrights are coming to the Thanksgiving party too. Most of Middlebrook is. It was Avery’s idea to bring everyone together rather than people eating their turkeys in their own houses.
Priscilla looks over at Astrid one last time and then turns back to the road and freewheels down the hill that leads into Middlebrook.
* * *
As he cycles down the driveway, past the maples, bare now, Bryar fixes his eyes on the girl standing by her bicycle at the end of the driveway. He gets a flash of the eight-year-old friend he used to know: the friend he thought he would have for ever, and then lost—and now, miraculously, has found again. She nearly died, because of him. And he got to start over. This time, he’s not going to let anyone take her away.
He brakes hard and his bike skids to a stop next to her.
She turns around.
“Ready?” he says.
She smiles. “Ready.”
They cycle next to each other, the wind whipping their cheeks. They can feel something changing in the air. The sky feels closer. And brighter. And colder. After all the rain in early September, October was beautiful. The brook shrank down again. Soon it will freeze over for winter.
When they get to Main Street, they stop in front of the brown bungalow opposite the Sayeds. There’s a to let sign in the front yard.
“I wonder who will move in next?” Bryar asks.
“Mom says they’re not going to use it for the university any more, not until they do it up.”
He remembers the first time he came here to visit Lily. How Mom had dragged him out of his bedroom, saying there was someone she wanted him to meet. That it was their neighborly duty to welcome new people into the community. He’d hated the way she dragged him out, forcing to socialize when he just wanted to be on his own, but then it turned out that he liked Lily. More than liked her. When it felt like things would never be good again, she’d made life bearable. And she was the one who brought him back to Astrid.
* * *
“Hey! Bryar! Astrid!” Laila calls from across the road.
She and Hanif are sitting on the doorstep of their house.
“I like the clothes,” Astrid says as she gets off her bike.
“Thanks,” Laila and Hanif say at the exact same time.
They look down at their sneakers and their jeans and the Patriots sweatshirt Dad got them for today. The Pats are playing in
one of the Thanksgiving games and he said that, now that they were true New Englanders, they should show their support. Ben Wright’s been coming over to teach Mom and Dad the rules of football: he says it’s the key to understanding everything they need to know about America. Dad’s totally taken to it.
And it’s more than that. The twins feel comfortable in these clothes. Like they can be one of the other kids.
“Dad got us all sweatshirts,” Hanif says. “Even Mom’s wearing one.”
Hanif and Laila look up at the scaffolding where their parents are standing in their navy sweatshirts and yellow hard hats.
“So, run this by me again,” Astrid says. “You’re tearing down a mansion to build a house that looks like all the other houses on the street?”
“That’s the idea,” Laila says.
A few days after the opening of the mosque, Dad announced that they were going to do some remodeling on their house. They wanted it to blend in a bit better with their neighbors, he said. A smaller house with fewer rooms. A house that looked more like it belonged here.
He and Mom have been working on it ever since. Dad’s taken a break before starting on his next project. Sometimes, late at night, when the twins tiptoe out of their bedroom and stand on the landing, they see Mom and Dad sitting on stools at the kitchen island, their heads bent over plans for the house.
“Still seems crazy to me,” Astrid says. “I’d love to live in a massive house with big columns and marble floors.”
“Mom said it never felt like a home,” Laila says.
The twins hadn’t really thought about it before, not until she said it. But then they realized that she was right. That it had always felt a bit echoey and cold.
“This house is going to be better,” Hanif says.
“I think it is too,” Bryar says.
The two boys exchange a shy glance. Hanif’s gone over to see Bryar a few times at Woodwind Stables. Bryar’s been teaching Hanif about his rocks. Sometimes, Hanif likes spending time with Bryar even more than he likes spending time with Laila, though he’d never tell his twin sister that.
