The Writing on My Forehead (24 page)

I
SPEND THE NEXT
few hours in a frenzy of housekeeping. Two loads of laundry, folded and put away. Bathrooms scoured, tables dusted, carpets sucked clean of dust and debris. The kitchen swept, mopped, and wiped down, made ready for the groceries I go out to purchase. Then, I shower. And dress with more care than I have in weeks. I strap on my watch and see that there is still too much time to spare, evidence of the manic pace that I have kept in vain to drown out the calls of the past, to shrug off the burden of choices I have made, which must be reckoned with in the present.

I cannot sit and wait for the bus to return Sakina home. I get in the car and drive around until it is time to go to the school, which was mine and Ameena’s. I park and wait for the bell to ring. When it does, I stand near the bus so that I can catch Sakina before she boards. A playground supervisor is there to move things along. Sakina appears and puts her hand in the one I have offered her.

The playground lady smiles and nods. “Mommy here to pick you up today, Sakina?”

The connection of our hands is severed. Did I pull away? Did she?

In the car, I tell Sakina, “Mrs. Walker will take care of you for a little while this afternoon. I—your dad and I—have an appointment with your teacher. For a conference.”

She says nothing. I glance at the clock on the face of the car stereo and see that there is time for a detour. “How was your day?”

Sakina nods, too wearily for a child her age.

“You wanna go for ice cream?”

She nods again, with such an effort that I know she agrees only to humor me.

I watch her lick listlessly at her cone and throw my own cup of ice cream away only half-eaten. It is the only thing I have had to eat all day, I suddenly realize. But the realization is unaccompanied by any form of hunger that I can recognize. I drop her off at Mrs. Walker’s house and head back to school.

Shuja’s car is not in the lot. I make my way to Sakina’s classroom and wait on the bench outside the door. At four o’clock, Mrs. Myers opens the door and lets out the three-thirty parents. They look relieved, as if Mrs. Myers has assured them of something they themselves had doubted—that their child was all right and not in any danger of flunking first grade. I stand and greet Sakina’s teacher.

“Hello, Mrs. Myers. I am Saira Qader. We met about a month ago.”

Mrs. Myers nods. “Sakina’s aunt. Won’t you come in?”

“Uh. Shuja—Sakina’s dad—is supposed to meet me here.” I stand awkwardly, looking out across the playground at the parking lot in the hopes that I will see Shuja there, hurriedly striding toward us so that I won’t have to begin this discussion with Sakina’s teacher by myself.

“Why don’t we wait for him inside?”

It would seem strange to refuse, though the urge to do so is overwhelming. I follow Mrs. Myers into the classroom and take the seat she indicates, folding myself awkwardly into the chair designed to accommodate the small body of a six-year-old.

“How are you all holding up?”

My eyes meet her sympathetic ones and a door in my throat seems to slam shut. I nod, the way that Sakina nods, wordlessly. Now, I understand. Sakina doesn’t say anything to me because she doesn’t know what to say. Mrs. Myers moves her hand to cover mine and I resist the urge to flinch. The sympathy of a stranger. Again, I can relate to how Sakina must feel with me when I occasionally try to touch her—a hand on her head, a pat on the back—through the chatter I subject her to.

I hear the door open behind me and the relief that shoots through me is powerfully palpable. Shuja is here to lead us through this. He sits down and Mrs. Myers pulls out a file, shares samples of Sakina’s work, and guides us through the carefully constructed language of the report card, which she hands to Shuja. I understand the three-thirty parents’ expressions of relief—Mrs. Myers thinks that Sakina is motivated and intelligent, a high achiever who takes pride in her work.

She asks if we have any questions. Shuja asks a few—the kind a parent should ask. How can we help her? Is there anything she needs to work on?

And then he asks what other parents don’t need to ask. “Is she—does she seem to be coping with—with her mother’s—with what happened?”

Mrs. Myers takes a deep breath. I realize that I am not the only one who has been dreading this conference. “I—well—you’ve told me already that Sakina is seeing a counselor. I wanted to share something with you. Something that you might want her counselor to see.” From the file, Mrs. Myers pulls out a booklet, construction paper–covered newsprint that has been stapled together. “This is Sakina’s daily journal. The students write and draw about their day. What we’ve done, how they’re feeling, what they like and don’t like. And why. They’ve learned to use the word ‘because’ in order to make their sentences more complex.” Mrs. Myers is flipping through the pages, going backward, as she speaks. “As you can see, Sakina writes very well. With a lot of detail and attention to spelling and grammar and punctuation. Above grade level, really. She proofreads and checks her own work and reads everything she writes back to me.”

Both Shuja and I can see already what Mrs. Myers would like us to see. In every entry, Sakina has written what is expected of her.
Today we had music. Today is Monday. I like to read. I like stories. I like school because I like to learn. I am happy because we have PE today. I am happy because it is Friday. I am very happy because today is pizza day. I like pizza a lot because it is yummy. I am happy because I love my dad. I am happy because I love my mom. I like my doll.

In every entry, Sakina has drawn a picture. The same one every day. A picture of a woman lying on the ground. She is wearing a scarf on her head—a
hijab
—and there is a splash of red color on her chest. A little girl stands beside her. There is a gun in the picture, floating over them both. Off to one side, there is a man standing alone. On the other side, there is a woman. Shuja? Me?

I close my eyes. Here it is. What I look for on her face in the middle of the night. But the schedule of Sakina’s subconscious is out of sync with mine. The images that haunt me by night stalk Sakina by day.

Mrs. Myers is still speaking. “What she writes about and what she draws about—they’re completely unrelated. When I have asked her to describe what she has drawn, she’ll only read and reread what she has written. I haven’t pushed her. She was there, I believe? When it happened?”

Shuja looks at me helplessly. I nod.

“She’s still staying with you?” Mrs. Myers is asking me.

I nod again.

“Will she be going home again soon?” It is Shuja’s turn to be questioned.

He doesn’t answer.

I open my mouth. I want to explain. But to explain something, you have to understand it yourself.

More sympathy wells up in Mrs. Myers’s eyes. “This is—I know this is difficult. But I just thought you should know.”

I have to say something—to know something. “She—she doesn’t talk about it. With me. Hardly talks at all. About anything. Does she—does she talk here? At school? With you? With her friends? Not about this.” My finger taps the open page on the table. “About anything? Other things?”

Mrs. Myers’s hand is on mine again. She is nodding. “She’s fine. In every other way. She participates in class. Laughs and plays at recess. Other than these pictures, you’d never know what she’s been through.”

That hurts. I remember the way she lit up at the sight of Mrs. Walker when I dropped her off. How she chatters on and on with Shuja when he comes in the evening. Her reticence is personal. It’s not that Sakina has withdrawn from the world. It’s only me she won’t respond to. I find myself taking quick, shallow breaths and feel light-headed. Shuja sees and pushes my head down between my legs. “You’re okay, Saira. Take deep breaths.” His voice is clipped, businesslike. He asks Sakina’s teacher, “Do you have a brown paper bag?” Mrs. Myers goes to the supply cabinet and gets him one. Shuja opens the bag, squeezes the top portion of it into a neck, and gives it to me, saying, imperiously, “Breathe in and out of the bag. It’ll help.”

O
UR CONFERENCE TIME
is over and we are seen to the door. The four-thirty parents are waiting outside.

“Are you all right?” Shuja’s hands are in his pockets, his eyes narrowly focused on me.

I nod.

“You want to get coffee?”

“Yes!” I hear the eagerness in my own voice. Anything to avoid going back to Mrs. Walker’s. Back to Sakina.

“Let’s go in my car.”

“No. I’m okay. I’ll follow in mine.” It isn’t mine really. It’s Mummy’s car. A Honda Accord. I like driving it. More than Daddy’s. I like to put my hands on the wheel she used to steer herself with. That is what I think of when I drive.

I pull into a space one removed from where Shuja has already parked. He waits for me to get out of the car and we walk together into the coffee shop halfway between his house and my parents’. We sit down and order coffee. His is black. Mine is milky and sweet from the raw sugar packets I have opened and dumped into it.

I stir mine vigorously and say, “Shuja,” an opening for a conversation neither one of us wants to have.

Shuja’s jaw tightens slightly before he says, “Have you heard from your dad?”

So he has entertained the same idea that I have. That Daddy will arrive and solve this ridiculous, unspeakable impasse. King Solomon–style, I suppose.

I shake my head. “No. But Lubna Khala called.”

I see him brace himself—the absurd auntie solution to every problem, which has already been offered, has made him wary, too. “What did she say?”

“Daddy and Asma are married.”

Shuja frowns. “Lubna Khala told you?”

I nod.

“I’m sorry, Saira. Your dad should have called you himself.”

“Yes. He should have.”

“You knew he was going to marry her. He told you.”

“Yes. I knew. But—I—I wasn’t surprised. Shocked. But not surprised. If that makes sense?”

Shuja nods because he is supposed to. But it doesn’t. Make sense. Of course it doesn’t. Nothing does.

“Saira.” It’s his turn to pretend to move.

My turn to resist. I cling to the subject at hand in order to do us both the favor of avoiding the lump under the rug. “I’m the one. I know I’ve told you this already. I’m the one who introduced them. Asma and Daddy.”

“You told me.”

“I—I wasn’t upset about it. Not when he told me he was going to marry her. That he was going to stay in India.”

“But you’re upset about it now.”

“Lubna Khala said that Mummy would have given her blessing.”

Shuja takes a sip of his coffee. He sets the cup down on the saucer. And rests his chin on one hand. Every move is deliberate and thoughtful. As if he were running through a patient’s symptoms in order to be able to make a diagnosis. “I think she’s right.”

“What did Ameena say? When she got my e-mail?”

“She was surprised. Uncomfortable. Relieved, for his sake.”

“Did she tell Sakina?”

Shuja frowned. “No. I don’t think she did.”

“Will you tell her? Tonight?”

“Saira. You should tell her. He’s your father.”

“Shuja. I can’t talk to her. She won’t let me in.”

He stares at me for a long moment and I see the conflict in his face—the inverted, mirror image of what I feel.

Reluctantly, he asks, “Do you
want
her to let you in, Saira? Maybe she’s waiting for you to let her in first.”

I don’t have any reply to give him. And the silence descends upon us again.

Shuja closes his eyes. He opens them. What I see in them makes me want to shrink away.

Too politely, he says, “Is there anything you’d like me to pick up for dinner?”

“No. Thank you. I’ll cook up something.”

“Thank you, Saira. For everything. For taking care of Sakina.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that, Shuja. For anything.”

“Saira—”

“Shuja—”

We have begun at the same time. Both of us wait, deferring to the other. And realize, at the same time, that neither one of us really wants to say anything. Too much hangs in the balance.

Shuja stands up, tosses some bills on the table, and walks out of the restaurant without a backward glance.

I try to rein in the pace of my breathing. Panic hovers at the edge of my consciousness as I realize how close to the edge Shuja is, too. It occurs to me, suddenly, that he and Daddy were equals for a while. Both of them widowers. Daddy’s bereavement had been a needy one. And Shuja’s—his suffering is twofold. I don’t know how to help—I know, in fact, that I am part of the problem.

A little while later, I am in the kitchen with Sakina. She is at the table, working on her homework while I stand at the stove, stirring what I hope will be a palatably healthy meal. I have told Sakina about the conference with her teacher. I set the rice to simmer and have a seat at the table to look over her work. She packs up her pencil and eraser, her crayons and glue.

“Sakina, I have something I want to tell you.”

She lifts her face and her eyes meet mine so directly that I have to resist the urge to look away. “You know that Nana’s in India? Well, he’s going to be there for a while. He—he’s gotten married, Sakina.”

Sakina’s nose wrinkles. She looks down at her papers. Begins to shuffle them together, to put them carefully into her folder, and I am afraid that this news, too, will be greeted with silence.

Her eyes are still cast downward and I barely hear the words she utters, “But. Nana is already married. To Nanima.”

“Yes. But—Nanima’s not here anymore. And he’s very lonely. So—he found a very nice lady. And asked her to marry him. They’ll visit us soon. Maybe early next year.”

“So?—he’s not married to Nanima anymore?”

“He—he is. But she’s not here. With us.”

She looks up and I see it all. Clear and undisguised. The hurt. The bewilderment. I realize what I have done, the worry I have caused her. The parallel I myself drew—at the café—has not escaped Sakina’s thoughts.

“Will Daddy find a new wife, too?”