Ayesha At Last(73)

The moderator looked puzzled. “When did you start to drink?”

“Throughout,” Amir interrupted, catching Khalid’s eye. “He’s been drunk pretty much every day for the last year. That’s why he’s so broke. His roommates kicked him out when he used his rent money for booze for the fourth time. He can’t go home to his dad, not after the last time he messed up. His friends are no help either, and he has a lot of pride. Maybe too much.”

Khalid nodded, holding Amir’s eye. “I’m only sorry I didn’t realize it earlier, so I could help . . . myself.”

Amir half-shrugged. “This is a good first step. Maybe now you won’t feel so lost and alone.”

“Wherever you go, there you are,” Joyce said, patting Khalid on the knee.

Khalid wasn’t sure what she meant, but he appreciated the support. The meeting wrapped up soon afterwards, and Amir and Khalid walked out together.

“That felt really good,” Khalid said. “Let me know if you want me to come with you again.”

Amir laughed and then stopped in front of the crosswalk to face Khalid. “I came to Canada from Afghanistan when I was fourteen,” he said. “When I close my eyes at night, I can still hear the bombs. My mother and my sisters are still there. We buried them a week before we left.” Amir’s arms were crossed tightly once more, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Sometimes I just want to drown out the bombs, you know?”

Khalid nodded, even though he didn’t know, not really. “My mosque is hosting a youth conference this weekend,” he said instead. “No alcohol, but there will be a Singles Mixer. Why don’t you come?”

Amir grinned at his friend. “You can’t turn it off, can you?”

KHALID waited until he returned home to call Zareena’s landline, the number she’d told him to call only in case of emergency. His bedroom door was locked, and his nervousness grew the longer the phone rang.

Finally, after the twentieth ring, someone picked up. “Haaaallow?” a man’s voice called into the receiver. Was this Iqram, Zareena’s husband? He sounded angry.

“Assalamu Alaikum. This is Khalid Mirza, Zareena’s brother. I’m calling from Canada. Can I please speak to my sister?”

There was a moment of silence as the message floated across the ocean. Then the man started to laugh, a choking, wheezing sound that chilled Khalid.

“Gone!” the man barked. He reverted to Urdu and said, “If you’re her brother, where have you been all these years? She’s never spoken about you, not once.”

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Khalid asked, his heart pounding. He’d known something was wrong. “Where did she go?”

“Ungrateful girl, lazy and selfish. You know she burned my breakfast every morning? On purpose too. You can have her back.”

“But, but . . . she’s not here,” Khalid said. “Please, sir. Where is my sister?”

The man cackled, his voice nasty and insinuating. “Are you really her brother? Maybe you’re her boyfriend, the one she’s always texting and emailing. I tell you, she’s gone. Long gone! Forget her!” The man slammed the receiver down, and Khalid frantically called back, but it was no use. The phone rang and rang, forty times, a hundred times, but no one picked up.





Chapter Thirty-Two

When Ayesha entered the mosque at nine on Friday morning, she was surprised to see Farzana, not Tarek, ordering around the crew of volunteers who were setting up for the conference. Everyone was petrified of her booming voice, and they jumped to attention as she strode around, criticizing everything they did.

“Where is Tarek?” she asked.

Farzana didn’t look at her. “I am not his keeper. Brother Tarek informed me he was finishing up a delicate matter that required his attention. He requested I step in to ensure things progressed smoothly.”

You didn’t even want this conference to happen, Ayesha thought. What’s going on?

Khalid stood on the stage, untangling power cords for the microphone and projector. He looked distracted but waved when he saw her. She frowned and walked away.

By noon, the gym was set up with enough tables and chairs to accommodate over five hundred conference attendees. The registration table by the front doors was staffed by three frightened-looking members of the youth committee, and conference signs had been posted everywhere, zealously taped to concrete walls by Aliyah Aunty’s teenage children. Other volunteers had set up tables and assembled copies of the conference program.

Ayesha was inside the large outdoor tent that would host the Singles Mixer that night. Khalid found her counting out cutlery for dinner.

“Assalamu Alaikum,” he greeted her. “Can I help you with that?”

He looked tired, as if he had not slept well last night. She wondered if he was worried about something. Ayesha returned his salams, her tone wary. Clara had cautioned against jumping to conclusions, but she wasn’t sure what to think of Khalid, not after Tarek’s disclosure.

“I’m fine,” she said, and she turned away. “I’m sure your mother needs your help inside.”

Khalid spoke from behind her. “If you have some time later tonight, I would like to speak to you regarding a personal matter.”

“We have nothing more to say to each other,” Ayesha said, dumping a pile of forks on a table with a clatter.