I Have Lost My Way(49)

“I’m out of practice,” Freya says. “My dad’s the Ethiopian, and he left years ago. My mom never liked Ethiopian food, so after he left, we stopped eating it.” Freya wonders why that is. For the past few years, she has had plenty of money of her own, access to an entire city of tastes. She could’ve had Ethiopian food if she’d wanted to.

“But you remember the spices,” Harun’s mother says. “That part of you never goes away.”

“I hope so,” Freya says.

“You should cook your food from home.”

“I don’t really know how to cook.”

“It’s easy. I can teach you,” Harun’s mother offers. “I’m sure learning Punjabi food wouldn’t be so different.”

“I’d like that,” Freya says.

“It’s settled. You can come for a cooking lesson while Harun is away.”

Away? Freya absorbs this news. Away where? She glances casually at Harun, but his face is frozen into a screen grab of horror. And Freya understands, suddenly, belatedly, that she and Nathaniel were not invited to this dinner just because.

“I have a favor to ask,” Harun had said as they’d sat on the bleachers, watching Finny and his friends play the game. At that point, Freya would’ve done anything for either of these boys. And a family dinner didn’t seem like a big ask.

“How long are you going away for again?” Freya asks Harun, her voice easy and light, not because she wants to know but because she wants Harun to know she’ll play along, she’ll keep him safe.

“Six weeks,” Harun’s mother answers. “I’ll be so lonely. I’ll need something to fill my time.”

“Excuse me,” Halima says. “Sitting right here.”

“Yes,” Harun’s mother acknowledges. “But you don’t want me to teach you to cook.” She looks adoringly at Freya. “And Freya does.”

“Freya does, does she?” Halima says in the universal needling tone of the younger sister.

“Maybe we can learn together,” Freya tells Halima. For a second she forgets that she’s just playing along for Harun’s sake, and she imagines herself in Harun’s mother’s kitchen, the steam rising out of the pots simmering on the stove, a wooden spoon, dipped and blown on, for them to taste.

She glances at Harun, who looks utterly miserable. There’s that yank on her cord, and Freya feels Harun’s misery as keenly as if it were her own, even if she doesn’t understand its source.

“If you learn Punjabi food, you can cook for your Nathaniel,” Harun’s mother says.

Your Nathaniel. Hearing Harun’s mother say it, validate it, warms her. She cannot hide her smile. Doesn’t even try. “Maybe I will,” Freya says.

“He seems to like the food very much,” Harun’s mother says, watching Nathaniel wipe up any last smears of sauce with a piece of naan.

“No. I love this food,” Nathaniel says.

“Not too spicy?” Harun’s mother asks.

“I can take it,” Nathaniel says.

“Not bad for a gora,” Abdullah says.

“Gora is a white person,” Leesa tells Nathaniel, emerging from the kitchen holding a plastic tumbler full of ice cubes and, presumably, wine in one hand, the half-empty bottle in the other. “Isn’t that nice?”

“It’s not derogatory,” Halima says, “just descriptive. Like calling someone a blonde.”

“Complimentary in this case,” Abdullah says. “Not everyone can handle Ammi’s food.”

“By ‘not everyone,’ you mean me?” Leesa says.

“I meant people who aren’t used to spicy food,” Abdullah says. “Like Nathaniel.”

“Is that a challenge?” Nathaniel asks.

“Well, you haven’t tried the achar gosht yet,” Abdullah says. “If you can manage that, you will earn my undying respect.”

Nathaniel helps himself to a ladle full of the mutton stew. Freya can see that the bite he takes has a small green chili in it.

“Wait,” she calls out. But it’s too late. Nathaniel’s face is a three-alarm fire. He reaches for his water.

“No water,” Halima says. “It only makes things worse.”

Nathaniel ignores her, reaching for the water.

“You need yogurt,” Harun’s mother says, going to fetch some.

Freya glances at Harun, whose face is as ashen and pale as Nathaniel’s is glowing, his plate as full as Nathaniel’s is empty. If Nathaniel has noticed Harun’s discomfort, he doesn’t show it. She tries to catch Harun’s eye, to send a silent message, but the shades are drawn.

When Nathaniel has cleared his plate a third time and everyone else has pushed their dishes away, Harun’s mother rises to clear the table. “Please,” Freya says, putting a hand on her wrist. “Let us do it.”

“I couldn’t,” Harun’s mother says.

Nathaniel stands and nods. “We insist.”

“Harun? Help us?” Freya says. She wants him in the kitchen. She wants him back in the safe huddle of their trio. She wants him to tell them what’s going on and how they can help.

But all he says is “I’ll be just a minute.”