In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  I walk and walk until my feet are tired and a sheen of sweat and humidity covers my skin. And I keep walking. I don’t know how far away I am from the hotel when I see him, not sure how long I’ve been walking when it happens, but I’m in the middle of the street when I spot him.

  Uncle Raj, sitting on the patio of a bistro. Which is no big deal, except he’s with a woman. I’m trying to convince myself she’s a client, but when he slips his tongue into her mouth, the denials fall away.

  Farah’s words come back, about the separate vacation, and now I understand why he’s got a different room than Aunty Gul. The questions crowd each other: Does Farah know? Does Grandma? How long has this been going on? Each question shrieks louder than the last. I stumble back, knowing I was never to see this, afraid of the conversation if he spots me.

  “Nira.”

  Farah’s in front of me, and for a second, I think I’m hallucinating. This is all a terrible dream, a wretched nightmare, and I’ll wake up. But she’s solid and real as she blocks my path, as she grabs my arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “How did you find me?” I croak the question, think of what’s waiting for her on the other side, and I can’t risk her seeing her dad. If she doesn’t know, this will kill her. “Never mind. Let’s go back. I’m hungry.”

  “We shared locations on our phones at the airport.” She remains immobile. “When you didn’t come back, I went to find you.”

  “Okay, okay.” I push her. “Let’s go. We can talk it over in the room.” I take her arm, yank her, but she pulls away.

  “Let’s go. The pool is nice.” I shove her in the opposite direction from where her dad and his mistress sit, but Farah whirls aside.

  “What’s your problem?” Her gaze goes from me to whatever is over my shoulder.

  The world stops, and I can’t breathe as she scans the landscape, her eyes tracking, tracking, track—stopping. Locking.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure if she can hear me, wondering if she hears the same roaring in her ears that I do.

  Slow-motion horrible, her gaze slides to me, and she stares at me for a long time. I’m still not breathing. The gears of her brain are whirring, I can feel it, but I don’t know what they’re processing. And I don’t know how to ask her.

  Farah’s face is shifting, tightening. I know she’s trying not to lose it in front of me, but I don’t know why. Did she always know and she’s embarrassed? Did she never know and now she’s shattered and humiliated? How do we pick up the pieces? How do we go on knowing the things Uncle Raj purchases aren’t out of love, but that he’s buying off his wife and daughter?

  And the biggest question looms over me. “Are you okay?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I realize what a stupid question it is. Of course she’s not okay.

  The tightness in her face shatters, and her makeup, her perfect hair, her perfect clothes, can’t cover her vulnerability. She looks so small and young and easily broken, and I wonder if this is the girl that Grandma sees whenever she looks at her.

  Farah spins from me, walking, walking, then running—speeding—from me. I don’t bother chasing her. Our conversation is in the rapid footfalls as she pulls away and increases the distance between us. I head back to the hotel.

  “Nira, are you Nira?” The guy at the front desk calls my name as I step into the cool of the foyer.

  I nod and go to him.

  “Your aunt left this,” he says. “She said it’s from your grandmother.”

  I take the envelope. In the elevator, I turn it over and over in my hands, hoping there is a magic solution to all I’ve seen, to all that’s happened. The elevator bings on my floor. I step out, pause, and rip open the sacred seal. I unfold the paper, catch the objects wrapped inside it, and read the note. Have some tea.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RECONCILIATION IS A REVERSIBLE COAT

  Farah’s not in the room. I use the tea bag Grandma put in the envelope to make a cup. I let it steep, then douse it with the creamer and sugar she included. I don’t want to text Farah, mostly because I don’t know what I would say. But as the minutes tick up, I get worried.

  I take out my phone. Noah’s texts are on the notification screen, but I can’t bother with them now. I unlock my cell and search for Farah. The app says she’s in the hotel, and I wonder if she’s in the pool room.

  I wait, try to watch TV and fail, then try to lose myself in the activities on the street and fail. The minutes become an hour, then an hour and a half. I’m starving, but what do I do?

  Uncle Raj said to charge everything to the room, but am I allowed to eat without Farah? It feels like such a stupid question, but he’s the kind of guy who would get mad if I stepped wrong, the person who would say, “I’m paying. You eat when I tell you, and only eat when one of my family is around to make sure you’re not wasting my money.”

  Dad’s words about money haunt me. I wish I hadn’t spent so much on clothes. Looking cute is all well and good until you’re starving. Grandma would know what to do. She could give me permission to spend Uncle Raj’s money. But if I call, Mom and Dad will want to talk to me. I’m terrified everything I’ve seen will come gushing out of my mouth.

  In the end, I shove my phone in my back pocket and head downstairs. I have enough money for soup, and that’ll have to do. But when I get to the restaurant, Aunty Gul is there. For a minute, I watch her, the tight set of her shoulders, the hard line of her mouth, and I wonder if there was ever a time her lips were soft from laughing, if her shoulders ever shook because her body couldn’t contain the joy inside.

  I go to the table. Her gaze flicks my way. “Sit. I’m going to eat.” She doesn’t ask about Farah, and I don’t say anything.

  I listen to her order her dinner—salad, no dressing, no croutons. Salmon, poached only, no spices. Rice on the side, no butter. And I feel like a rebel when I order the clam chowder and the chicken alfredo, and agree when the waiter asks if I’d like extra cheese and garlic bread.

  Dinner is silent, and we’re halfway through when Farah comes. She sits beside me, takes my garlic bread. I split my pasta with her, one plate, two forks. Aunty Gul doesn’t ask where Farah’s been, doesn’t ask about the day. When it’s done, and Farah and I have shared the last of the New York–style cheesecake, I stand and go to the room by myself because Farah says she needs to talk to her mom.

  Curiosity is acid-on-fire, and it’s burning through me, but I don’t say anything. I climb in my pajamas, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed. After I turn on the TV to something mindless, I check in with Mom and Dad, text them to let them know everything is good.

  There are endless questions about the flight, the food, what about the hotel and the room. Then there’s the question I’m dreading.

  HOW ARE GUL AND RAJ?

  It takes me a second to come up with the answer. HOW DO YOU THINK? ;-)

  That gets an LOL from them, as well as BEHAVE AND BE RESPECTFUL. THEY’RE BEING GENEROUS WITH YOU.

  We text for a bit more, then I sign off. I do a lap around the room, then open the text thread I’ve been avoiding. Noah. I take a breath and read them.

  NIRA?

  I KNOW YOU’RE PISSED, BUT SHE HAD HER REASONS. TALK TO HER, OK?

  CHECK IN WITH ME, 2. I WANT 2 KNOW YOU’RE OK.

  I text back. I’M GOOD. SO IS SHE. UR RIGHT. SHE HAD HER REASONS.

  The text bubble forms immediately. U WANNA TALK?

  NOT ON TEXT. MAYBE WHEN I GET BACK?

  IT’S A DATE, SUPER SPY.

  I doubt it, but I’ll take what I can get. I shoot him a smiley face, get a couple in return, then shut down the app.

  Farah’s still not back. I do my best to stay up, but between the flight and the stress I’m tired to my bones. I turn off the TV and climb into bed.

  I’m not sure when Farah gets in. Sleep fog surrounds me as I hear her in the bathroom, changing. The sheets of her bed get pulled back. I’m falling into the ether when I feel the shift on my mattress. Farah cli
mbs in. Then she wriggles closer. Closer.

  I turn and, moving to her, put my arm around her waist. She holds my hand.

  I whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for—her dad, her life, knowing her secrets. “I’m sorry.”

  Her breath shudders, her shoulders heave, and I know she’s trying not to cry. I hug her tight and say nothing.

  The sun’s streaming through the window when I wake up. Farah’s sleeping on her back, her mouth wide open, her makeup smeared across her face and pillow. When I get out of the shower, she’s awake and rummaging through her suitcase. I notice she’s wearing my pajamas.

  “You said you were going to throw them out,” she says, “but they’re still good, so I took them.”

  “They’re literally worn through. I can see through them.”

  “They’re your favorite, and I like them.” She pulls the shirt to her nose and inhales. “It smells like your mom’s curry.” She inhales it again, closing her eyes as if savoring every spice. Farah climbs out of bed and heads to the shower. It takes her an hour to get ready.

  “I’m sorry.” We head to the restaurant for breakfast. “I should have been honest about what I was doing about the NASA thing.” She punches me on the arm. “But you shouldn’t have taken off. You scared me. It was lucky I could track your phone.”

  “I told Noah I was going for a walk.”

  Her eyes go wide. “That’s helpful, you know, because he’s on the trip with us. God, Nira, you can be such a ninny. You should’ve told me.”

  “No, but I figured he’d tell you—”

  That gets me an eye roll. “Noah is a one-way street, doofus. Whatever you say goes in, but it doesn’t come out.”

  “Yeah, but I thought—”

  She rolls her eyes, and I shut up.

  After breakfast, Farah says, “We’re going to the space center.”

  “I thought—”

  “God, Nira, for once, stop thinking.”

  We take a cab to Cape Canaveral. When it comes time to pay, for a brief second, I envy her, the money they have. Something happens to Farah and me, somewhere between us stepping into the building and showing our passes. We forget about our parents, Noah, and the Farahbots, and I leave my worries about Emily at the door. It’s just my cousin and me, giggling about pooping in space and how much we’d miss ice cream.

  Farah and I wander around, taking pictures of the rockets, doing the virtual landing of the shuttle, and listening to an actual astronaut, Dr. Scott Parazynski, talk about his experiences. I’m not sure if I’ll tell my parents about him. They already think I don’t push to my potential. The last thing they need to know is about a guy who’s a medical doctor, went to space, and climbs mountains when he’s not scuba diving.

  Halfway through the tour, I turn to her. “Let’s bail and do something else.” We spend the rest of the day touring Cape Canaveral, eating food from the street vendors, and window shopping. When we head back to the hotel, my bag is stuffed with brochures and a purse Farah bought me. She leans her head against my shoulder as we sit in the back of the taxi, and I can tell from the rhythm of her breathing that she’s asleep. I wonder if it will be like this from now on, us getting along, or if reality will push in and separate us.

  We’re sitting outside, at a café close to the hotel, enjoying the wind and the breeze when Farah says, “It’s been happening since I was a kid.” She uses her tongue to catch a dollop of hot fudge dripping from the spoon.

  “What?”

  “My dad cheating on Mom.” She’s so matter-of-fact about it that I almost believe she doesn’t care. “He says in a lot of cultures it’s commonplace. The man has a wife and a mistress. He didn’t like it when I pointed out there was a difference between having a designated mistress and having a series of hookups like he does.”

  “Doesn’t your mom care? Don’t you?” I’m afraid to ask the questions. I don’t want to break the fragile bond between us, but my curiosity is proving too much.

  She heaps a giant spoon of ice cream and nuts in her mouth, slowly chews and swallows. Then her gaze drops as she scoops up a second serving. She catches my eyes for a second, then goes back to watching her dessert. “I didn’t know any different. It was normal for him to bring the women home.”

  The ice cream turns sour in my stomach.

  “Then we got here, and—” She swallows some sundae. “I saw your dad and your mom.” She pauses, as if reliving the moments with my parents. Then she digs to the bottom of the dish, upending a cherry. “And I realized not every kid lives like me. What Dad’s got going on isn’t normal.”

  I take a spoon of ice cream and ponder what her life must be like when there’s no protection for her because someone’s witnessing the Raul and Gul show. Grandma’s visits must be like a break from hell for Farah.

  “The weird thing is the more Dad indulges in his women, the more my mom denies herself. As though, somehow, the two actions will cancel each other out. Like not eating carbs makes up for his so-called conferences.”

  I don’t even know what to say. Nothing in my life has equipped me to deal with the bombshell of a serial philanderer, let alone him being my uncle.

  “It’s okay.” She points to my face. “You look like you’re in pain trying to think of what comes next, but it’s fine. This is just my life.”

  “But it’s not fair,” I tell her, loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons in the restaurant. “What about the long-term damage? What about when you get married? This can affect the kind of guy you choose.”

  She becomes evasive. “I don’t worry about that; I have a plan.”

  Something tells me she’s thinking of Noah, and there are splinters in my heart when I think of her and him together. I feel like a jerk. If anyone deserves some happiness and a good guy in her life, it’s got to be Farah, but I’m conflicted. I want her to be happy, but I don’t want to pay for her happiness. “I’m just saying, stuff like this can impact your growth and development.”

  She laughs, chokes on her food, and punches her chest to clear her airway. “God, Nira. You’re so good. My long-term growth and development? What are you, seventy-five?”

  “I took psychology last semester. They said—”

  “Only you would worry about the future me.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and gives me a soft smile. “Like yesterday on the street. Trying to get me to go the other way so I wouldn’t see my dad because you didn’t know I already knew.” She reaches across and takes my hand, and the wind sweeps her hair. “You really are the sweetest person I know.”

  “You asked me why I did this, forcing you on the trip.” She takes a breath and gives me an unsure smile. “I wanted to hang out with you, but there are always people around. Mom and your mom, fighting over food and weight. Dad and your dad, fighting over possessions and whose kid is the best. I thought if I could get us away—maybe we could be friends, maybe even a real family.” Her face darkens. “But you can never get away from your life, can you?”

  “I’m happy to be away from the Farahbots.”

  “Them.” She rolls her eyes.

  “If you don’t like them, why hang out with them?”

  “They’re the kids of Dad’s clients. I have to play nice, or he doesn’t make money. But all those girls talk about is stupidness. Boys and clothes and drinking. It’s fine, but can’t we talk about other things as well?”

  “Like what? Pooping in outer space?”

  She laughs. “Or maybe how a guy should treat you, rather than what kinds of dirty stuff you can do to him.”

  “I wouldn’t know about any of that,” I say, and feel young and foolish.

  “You wouldn’t. You’d never sell yourself short for a guy.”

  I’ve never been given the opportunity to make the decision, but I don’t tell her I’ve never been asked out.

  “Your friends are fun. I like them.”

  “But we’re not talking about saving the ea
rth or thinking about anything big.” I think of McKenzie. “Half the time, I’m not sure we’re thinking at all.”

  “You guys have fun, actual fun, with each other. You’re not mean about other kids or anything.”

  “You don’t have to hang out with those girls. There have to be other kids at school.”

  “It’s not that easy.” She reaches over, helps herself to my bowl of ice cream. “I have obligations to my family. We’re brown, Nira—you know it’s always about family when you’re brown.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I have to hang with them. It’s connected to Dad’s business. If I don’t, then it means less money—”

  I’m about to open my mouth, play Nira the Conscience and tell her money isn’t everything.

  “—and if he’s not making a certain amount, he gets mad. Me, I can handle it, but it tears Mom apart. I may not like my mom, Nira, but I love her. I have to do what I can to help. Sometimes it’s easier to do the thing everyone expects you to do rather than fighting for the thing you want to do.” She traces a path between the melting ice cream. “Besides, I’m queen to the Farahbots. It’s nice to be worshipped, even if you can’t stand your subjects.” She won’t meet my eyes. “I’m not like you, Nira, I’m not good. I don’t like those girls, but I like being in their spotlight.” She digs in the dish for more ice cream. “That’s why I like hanging out with you and your friends. You make me feel like I’m a decent person.”

  “You can hang out with us anytime you want.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’m even speaking them. I’m coming from a place of pity rather than logic. Even as they disappear into the air, I’m regretting them. I’m already having problems with McKenzie taking Emily, Noah liking Farah. The crystal ball says in three months, they’ll be together, and I’ll be home alone. But the words are out. I can’t take them back, no matter how much I want to, and it makes me feel miserable on all levels.