Ayesha At Last(87)

Amir hugged Khalid. “I’m going to make this up to you, K-Man,” he said. “I’ll find a way to make this right with Sheila.”

But Khalid’s thoughts were not on Livetech anymore.

He had more pressing concerns: how to help his pregnant sister, Zareena, and how to save Hafsa from public humiliation.

KHALID paced the living room of his sister’s basement apartment, fingers raking his hair. Zareena’s Ikea furniture lay in unassembled piles on the floor. He couldn’t concentrate on anything, couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened at Livetech.

The worst part, worse even than the contempt on Sheila’s face, was the disappointment on Clara’s. He had expected Sheila to jump to conclusions, but Clara wouldn’t even meet his eye or give him the chance to explain. In the end, she couldn’t reconcile the Khalid she had invited into her home with the person he looked like: the women-hating, backward-thinking Muslim man.

That thought hurt most of all.

Zareena sat on the newly assembled Po?ng armchair and watched him with amusement.

“You’re going to wear a hole in my carpet, and I want to get my security deposit back,” she joked, but he ignored her. She took another sip of chai and looked around her new home.

His sister had a peaceful expression on her face, and Khalid paused in his pacing, struck once again by how much she had changed. The old Zareena had worn her discontent like a dark cloak. The old Zareena would have been unhappy with everything in this room.

“Well, if you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong, let me at least make you dinner.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned fifteen minutes later with an overcooked egg that had somehow cooled to freezing, paired with dry toast. One thing at least was the same: She was a terrible cook.

“Iqram used to do most of the cooking back home. His chicken karahi is amazing,” she said wistfully.

Khalid stopped pacing but remained standing, taking a small bite of toast. He mulled over Zareena’s use of “back home.” If India was “back home,” what was she doing here?

“Home is wherever my family is,” Zareena said, reading Khalid’s mind. “You’ll know what I mean when you get married.”

“But you were forced into marriage,” Khalid said. “Ammi didn’t give you a choice.”

Zareena became very still. “Your memory is very clear. Do you know the whole story?”

Khalid shook his head, feeling a familiar frustration.

“There was someone else, before Iqram. I was obsessed with him,” Zareena said, sighing. “The way you are at that age.” She glanced at Khalid. “The way most people are at that age,” she amended. “We were only seventeen years old, and we were crazy about each other. I used to sneak out almost every night to see him. I was so happy,” she said, closing her eyes. She looked at her brother, who shifted uncomfortably. “Then I found out I was pregnant.”

It was Khalid’s turn to be still.

“I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want to be a mom at seventeen. So I made arrangements at a clinic, and I had an abortion.” Zareena was silent now, cradling her stomach. “I don’t regret it,” she said softly. “I went on a school day during lunch and was back for gym class. Nobody knew except Lauren.”

“Who was he?” Khalid asked.

Zareena didn’t answer. She looked like she was in a trance, thinking of events long ago. “I thought I was okay. I didn’t want anyone to know or suspect, and I didn’t take care of myself. I collapsed after school by my locker. There was so much blood.” Zareena was speaking into her lap now, wiping her eyes. “That’s how Ammi and Abba found out. The doctor told them I had nearly died from the hemorrhaging.”

“I didn’t know,” Khalid said, leaning forward to grip his sister’s hands.

“If there’s one thing our family is good at, it’s keeping secrets,” Zareena said, smiling. “When I got to Hyderabad, the nikah was done before I knew what was happening. Afterwards, when they left me alone with Iqram, it was terrible. He had no idea what was going on. His mother had arranged the whole thing. He was pretty surprised to be stuck with me.” She laughed. “By that point, I wasn’t crying anymore. I was angry.”

“A nikah is not valid without the bride’s consent,” Khalid said.

“He never gave up on me,” Zareena said, a note of wonder creeping into her voice. “He was so gentle, even when I was throwing things at his head and swearing at him in English, French and Urdu.”

Khalid shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“He made me donuts,” she said simply. “All the things I was craving: poutine, pizza, spaghetti, cheeseburgers. He showed me the Charminar temple and the Taj Mahal. He waited for me. He never left, not once. I fell in love with the person I saw reflected in his eyes.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t . . . Stockholm syndrome?” Khalid asked carefully.

Zareena’s laughter was buoyant, contagious. “Let me show you something.” She rummaged through her suitcase and extracted a photo album. She passed it to Khalid, and he looked through Zareena’s life in Hyderabad with her husband. In one picture, they posed in front of a squat, whitewashed house with adobe tile; in another, they stood beside a small blue hatchback car; another featured the couple in front of a street vendor.