Ayesha At Last(72)

Khalid felt a current of excitement rush through him at the thought. He hoped he would be able to steal a moment to speak with her, now that he finally had something to say. If all went well, he would soon be standing before Allah and pledging his love and loyalty to the right woman.

Amir returned from the bathroom. He picked up the room key from Khalid’s desk and slipped it into his pocket. “What time is this meeting? I have a hot date with a Pilates instructor after work.”

THE nearest AA meeting was held in the basement of the Holy Ghost Baptist Church, a five-minute walk from Livetech. Amir was in a good mood as they walked, smiling and joking as he chatted with Khalid, but he stopped abruptly at the entrance.

“Listen, maybe you should go on without me,” he said.

Khalid took note of the semi-wild look in Amir’s eyes, the grimace masquerading as a smile. “Amir, I’m not an alcoholic.”

“The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

Khalid paused, unsure what to do. Then he grabbed Amir’s arm and pulled, hard. Amir planted his feet firmly on the ground, but after a second he went limp and allowed himself to be led, like a child, to the basement of the church. The meeting was already in session, a small group of about fifteen people who took no notice of the new members. The participants were sitting on metal folding chairs or standing at the back of the room while a young woman talked at the front.

“It wasn’t until I ran out of money to buy diapers for my three-month-old son that I knew I had hit bottom,” the woman said. She was a petite white woman, dressed in a pastel sweater set straight out of 1995, with matching slacks. A string of pearls hung from her neck, and she reached for them often as she spoke. “My husband and I weren’t really talking. He didn’t know how to tell me I had a problem, but I knew. I just didn’t know what to do about it.” There was sympathetic nodding from the crowd.

The moderator squeezed the woman’s shoulder and read from a book, going over the twelve steps. The group broke for coffee and biscuits, and the participants milled around; a few exchanged smiles with Khalid. Amir kept his eyes on the ground, arms tightly folded. He looked terrified.

An older woman with long greying hair approached Khalid. “Welcome, friend. My name is Joyce. First time?” Khalid nodded.

“I am here with my friend,” he said, pointing to Amir, who had his back to Khalid and refused to make eye contact.

“Taking the first step is incredibly brave,” she said to Khalid. “I know your religious tradition forbids alcohol, so good for you.”

Amir glanced over at Khalid, who looked confused. His usual smirk began to creep back onto his face and he put an arm around his friend. “I kept telling him the same thing. He isn’t going to get better without help.”

Joyce patted Khalid on the arm. “Do you drink because you’re angry at the United States and their foreign policy?”

“I am sorry, Joyce, you have made an error. I am not an alcoholic.”

“Alcoholism is a disease that convinces you that you do not have it,” Joyce said, smiling. “Your friend was right to convince you to come. We’re going to be sharing more stories soon, and I hope you’ll feel comfortable speaking to the group.”

Looking far more cheerful and at ease, Amir filled a Styrofoam cup with strong coffee, grabbed a jelly cookie and took a seat on one of the chairs arranged in a circle.

The moderator, a preppy-looking white man with blocky glasses and a careful comb-over, began with the non-denominational prayer and welcome. “AA is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength and hope with each other. Welcome new and returning friends. We recognize that alcoholism is a disease, and we ask for a higher power to help us deal with our addiction. Would anyone else like to share their struggle today?”

Amir lifted his hand. “My friend Khalid would,” he said.

A dozen eyes looked at Khalid, taking in his white robe, skullcap and unruly beard.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Khalid said.

“She’s called Cleopatra—the Queen of Denial!” an older black man said from across the circle, and everyone laughed.

Khalid sighed. If this was the role he had to play to help his friend, he would do it. He sat up straight. “My faith is strong, and it has carried me through many dark times. I love Allah, and when I pray I feel at peace. But for the past little while, some things have bothered me. My mother wants me to be the perfect, dutiful son, but I am afraid I have lived by her rules at the expense of my own desires. I thought I knew what I wanted from life. I thought I knew exactly how my life should be lived, but I was wrong.”

The group was silent, thoughtful, and Khalid continued.

“Then I met a girl, and I started to wonder—maybe there was another way.”

“Khalid, can you be more specific?” the moderator asked.

“My mother is very controlling,” Khalid said, and as the words left his mouth, he realized they were true, even if he had never acknowledged them before. “I used to think she knew what was best for me, but lately . . . Well, I had to reconsider everything when she forced me into an engagement with a stranger.”

“How awful,” Joyce said. “That’s barbaric!”

Khalid shook his head. “It’s not awful. It’s what I thought I wanted, but after I met Ayesha, I realized there were many paths to love and happiness, and they didn’t all involve arranged marriage. When I came to that realization, it made me wonder what else my mother was wrong about. Like my sister.”