Love from A to Z(11)
Squish is not a stuffed animal per se but some sort of cross between a puffer fish (round and spotty with bulging eyes and knowing lips), an elephant (longish snout), and a cat (perky ears—well, previously perky, now loved to nubbins).
Squish was my first stuffed being.
I have no idea whether someone weird gave it to me as a baby or whether Mom and Dad found Squish at some stuffed animals–factory mishaps sale (they don’t remember its origins either), but the most important thing about Squish is it’s the first thing I learned to love—after Mom and Dad, I mean.
Before my sister, Sadia, or my brother, Mansoor, took shape in my eyes as beings, Squish was there, squat and dependable for tears-and-fears duty, for soaking up rages and confusions.
? ? ?
I lay in bed now, not ready to completely wake up to a new day just yet, and saluted Squish on the night table, and pulled up Binky the blanket, my second cozy must, to my chin.
Sigh. Old, soft, and comfortable. Like Daadi, my grandmother, Dad’s mom, who’d knit it for me when I was five.
Who passed away in October in Pakistan.
My whole life, she’d lived six months of the year with us in Springdale and six months in Pakistan. Every year she’d leave us in November to spend the winter months there, but last year she’d wanted to go earlier in order to attend a grandniece’s wedding. Even though Dad had not wanted her to.
He always worried whenever Daadi did something different. Like leaving the city of Islamabad, where she lived in Pakistan, for any reason—out-of-town wedding or not.
I don’t know the exact details of how she passed, but I know it had something to do with a car accident. Dad and Mom claim they don’t know everything.
I wonder if they’re just protecting us kids.
Our entire family was wrecked for months.
I closed my eyes and brought the bunny-white, bunny-soft blanket up over my nose, even over my eyes, trying to hold Daadi’s face still in my head. Graying black hair loosely parted and spun daily into a slack knot at the back; quiet, studying eyes; and a small, ever-present smile—these features wove in and out of my mind’s canvas.
But the image of her hands stayed static and accessible. Because those hands were always moving. Toward my face to cradle it in gentle greeting when I came home from school. Holding out food for me to try. Knitting me winter things in a mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin colors, like I’d request whenever she asked me what I wanted.
And, before that, knitting me Binky.
I wondered, if I’d seen her before I left home—if I’d felt her arms around me—would I have cried so easily on the plane here? Would her hug have transferred some of her calm—because she was the essence of peace itself, being the purest, softest, gentlest soul?
I miss her so much.
? ? ?
Exhibit B: Cold food.
Just as I was getting ready to fall back to sleep, Auntie Nandy, not only taller than Mom but louder, too, startled me by singing something about someone who left her, who hurt her, who was now back, but She Will Survive!
I got out of bed, grabbed my glasses—it being crazy early for my contact lenses—and opened the guest room door.
“?‘Oh no, not I! I will survive!’?” she sang, advancing from the kitchen with a plate of scrambled eggs. She spotted disheveled, just-woke me. “Hi, Zoodles! You still love eggs, right? Because I made them three ways.”
I nodded and emerged into the combination living-dining room. The center of the dining table was covered with small plates of food. “Thanks. Do you always sing in the morning, Auntie Nandy?”
“Only after nine a.m. on weekends. And only the best seventies hits. Grandpa’s fault, sorry.” She pulled a chair out for me and patted it. “Eggs: French toasted, scrambled, or omeleted? Also, mall or souk?”
“I haven’t gotten up yet. I’m jet-lagged.” I sat in front of the French toast, which promptly called on me to take a bite. It was strangely cold. “I thought you didn’t cook. Mom even warned me not to ask you for anything. She told me to just fix my own stuff. What happened?”
“I’m glad you’re bringing this topic up early on. Okay, time for operational details of your stay in Doha. I only cook breakfast, and it’s usually a lot of choices, like so,” she said, indicating the plates of charred tomatoes; boiled potatoes; yogurt with muesli flecks on top; cheese cubes and slices; several types of shelled nuts; chopped cucumber, celery, and green peppers; oranges, figs, and grapes; and the aforementioned eggs. “And then it’s nothing until I order dinner in or we go out. This is like a nibble-whenever-you’re-hungry table, like a buffet.”
“So no lunch?” My stomach rumbled in anticipatory upset. “I’m into lunch.”
“Worry not! I stuck a sheet on the fridge with the names of local restaurants that deliver here, plus my ordering info. Just go online and choose your lunch when I’m at work.” She punched my arm. “I am not going to starve you. I’ve heard teens are ravenous creatures.”
“Good, because I like to sleep in, eat a lot, and go out at night during vacations.” I ripped French toast with my teeth to emphasize my wild nature.
“Then you’ll love Doha. It comes alive at night, especially the souk.”
“I remember from last time. Remember I shopped so much, Mom had to buy more luggage?” Last time I visited was when I was ten, but it was one of my favorite trips, so I’ve held on to the memories. Auntie Nandy had worked in Dubai and other places in the Arabian Gulf, but she’d stayed in Doha the longest. She said she found it a “less hectic but happening” city.