Amal Unbound(8)

Parvin came in and out, helping so quietly I could forget she was there, but it was Parvin who always double checked we had everything we needed to prepare our meals and keep the household running. She was the invisible arm propping the family up.

“Just . . . thank you,” I told her. “We don’t say it enough. Thank you for everything.”

“What is this thank-you for?” she asked. “This is what family does. You’ll get through this. Come here.” She hugged me. “Everything will be fine.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, and I wasn’t a little kid like Rabia or Safa who was easily comforted by her hugs, but with Parvin’s arms around me, everything did ache a little less.



* * *



? ? ?

“How was school?” I asked Seema when she came home that afternoon.

“It was good!” She smiled.

“Do you need me to look at your poem? It’s due Monday, right?”

“Of course you have to look at it,” she said. “But you have your own to write.”

“Seema, Abu isn’t going to budge.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

“What do you mean?”

She stuck a hand in her book bag and handed me a folder.

“What’s this?” I asked her.

“Take a look.”

I parted the folder. The poetry assignment. The spelling test. The math test.

“But, Seema, I can’t write a poem without a lesson on it. And how can I take the tests—”

“I’ll test you,” she said. “I talked to Miss Sadia, and she agreed: As long as you keep up with your work and take the tests, she’ll keep you on the roster. I also promised her I’d take good notes and teach you the lessons myself. Even the poetry lesson. Don’t look at me like that! I can do it! And I’ll teach you everything I learn. Because you are coming back.” She gripped my shoulder.

I read Miss Sadia’s familiar scrawl on the first paper.

Hi, Amal—This is a lot, I know. But if anyone can do it, you can! I’m rooting for you.

I hugged Seema. I thought hope had vanished. But hope was a tricky thing. It found its way back to me.





Chapter 9





The girls were busy watching television and Seema and I were getting settled at the table to go over her notes for the day’s geography lesson when my mother’s friends knocked at the door.

“I come bearing laddus this time,” Fozia said, stepping inside with Mariam. “Is your mother up for visitors now?”

“She’s still not feeling well.”

“Now, this is too much! She has to start meeting people eventually,” Fozia said.

Fozia was right. Something had to be done to snap her out of her fog. Maybe visitors would help.

I stepped inside my mother’s room.

“Amma,” I said, “Fozia and Mariam Auntie are here to see you and the baby.”

“This isn’t a good time.” Her voice was dull. Even though the room was dim, I could still make out the circles under her eyes etched so deep, I wondered if time would ever erase them.

Lubna lay swaddled tightly, fast asleep. It’s what I was calling the new baby, though it wasn’t officially her name. My mother didn’t name us until we were a year old and she knew for sure we would survive. I picked her up and cradled her in my arms.

“They only want to say hello. I’ll straighten up the room a little and tell them to come in.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached out and stroked my arm. “I’m foggy lately. I’ll shake it off soon.”

“I know you will,” I managed to say.

Her gold bangles from her wedding dowry, the ones she never removed because they were her most valuable possessions, clinked against her arms when she touched me. Her frame seemed smaller than it did a few weeks earlier.

I drew open the curtains and put away the handful of clothes scattered on the floor.

“You can come in now,” I told her friends.



* * *



? ? ?

    I took my time making chai and arranging a plate of biscuits on a wooden tray. By the time I carried the tray into my parents’ bedroom, I was surprised to see my mother sitting up and chatting.

“It’s devastating,” Fozia was saying. “I’ve been there myself, you know.”

“I’m not sure how one even recovers. Or if you even can,” my mother responded.

I stared at my mother. It was one thing to feel this way when my baby sister was born, but to still think it now?

“Munira can’t possibly recover. He burned their orange groves to a charred crisp,” Fozia continued.

“I heard it was her children playing with matches in the field,” Mariam said.

“Yes, of course you heard that—who would dare accuse him openly? Mark my words, one day he’s going to hurt the wrong person,” Fozia said. “These things catch up with you.”

“He runs this town. Men like him suffer no consequences,” my mother said.

My hands unclenched. It was the Khan family they were talking about.

“Never thought I’d say this, but it was better when his father was running this town,” Fozia said. “Sure, Khan Sahib threatened all sorts of things, but did he ever do them? To teach a lesson here and there, yes. But his son Jawad? Ever since he took charge, things are out of control. I really think he enjoys punishing people.”