She was speaking into Hadia’s shoulder, her voice muffled. There was truth to what her brother was being accused of. Little by little, year after year, Hadia had given up any expectations of Amar, had tried to encounter him only as he was.
“What is it you want, Amira?” she had asked her.
They were both dressed entirely in black, flowing abayas, so her face looked even more pale and vulnerable. Amira did not answer right away. She bit her lip and looked to the mosque entrance, where people had begun to exit and head to their cars.
“I know Amar is good. I know Amar wants to be good. But I want to be with someone who is a harmonious fit. Do you think his heart is open to the life we have?”
“If that is what you want, my brother cannot be that for you. He cannot be that for any of us.”
For years afterward that would be the line she returned to, asking herself why she had replied the way she had. But in that moment she had not wanted to deceive Amira, had not wanted to draw her any closer to the same chaos they were all suffering from.
“Thank you,” Amira said at last. “I’ve been so conflicted. I think this will make it easier.”
Again she held Amira and Amira let herself cry. Before Hadia turned to leave, Amira stopped her, and hesitated before saying, “I really do love him. If he wanted this life, even if it was a struggle for him to live it—I would stand by him.”
Hadia did not know what to say. She told her so.
“I just wanted someone to know that. I just needed to say it to someone out loud.”
* * *
HE WAS WAITING for the seasickness to pass. Then he would return to the wedding, be again the brother of the bride. He had missed more than he had attended and if he did not go back now Hadia would notice. They had to stand together for the family photograph. They had to say good-bye to Hadia. And he did want to speak to his father. Hours earlier, when he watched his father stand in the blue light of the backyard, Amar told himself he was still angry, but in his heart he knew he was like a child who refused to allow himself the one thing he wanted: to drop the fuss and go to him. Amira had once told him he would feel something other than anger and he had not believed her. He thought his anger would never be extinguished. Now he had exhausted his anger, exhausted himself, and found that what was left—what was inexhaustible—was longing and regret, each feeling fueling the other.
Sometimes, Amar thought he could blame the distance between himself and his father on his own lack of steadfast belief in God. He could not claim to know God existed with any certainty. But there was love in his heart for the men and the women from the stories, the people of the holy book, love for the man whose name Mumma traced on his forehead, or pointed out on the moon, whose name was evoked in the naray; and even if Amar said to himself he did not believe, still his mouth opened to respond to the call.
What was this love, he wondered, as he twisted open and closed the cap of the bottle, and why was it still such a part of him, when all that could go had gone? First the rituals went and were replaced by guilt, and then the guilt went, and soon his belief faltered before vanishing almost entirely too—belief in hellfire and the narrow bridge one had to cross to reach heaven, as thin as a hair, as sharp as the blade of a knife. But the love for them remained, the Prophets and the Imams, the characters from the stories he heard as a child, balanced on Mumma’s knee, curling her hair around his finger, and it was a love untarnished by the resentment of his father that had so afflicted everything else.
The whiskey burned when swallowed. He sank his face into his hands and hoped to feel steady soon. Every minute he remained outside was a minute that sped toward the end of his sister’s wedding. He took a deep breath. Tonight had threatened all the work he had done—telling himself he did not believe and therefore did not belong. That his belonging depended on belief. If only he could tell his father: Look. I have kept this. I have held on to it. I open my mouth to criticize someone but then I close it, thinking of how the Prophet did not even tell the little girl to eat fewer dates when her mother asked him to, knowing he too shared her habit. My heart clenches at the thought of twelve brothers leading their youngest to a ditch, snatching from him his father’s gift, that colorful coat. And I think and think again of that child, climbing onto his grandfather’s back while he knelt in prayer, oblivious to everyone who was watching and waiting for his grandfather to set the standard for them all.
3.
VASES OF ORCHIDS HAD BEEN GATHERED ONTO ONE TABLE. The staff was busy clearing clutter from the others. Final families waited to be photographed, close family friends waited for the ruksati. Layla sat alone at a far table and watched the hall blur before her—either exhaustion or tears—the lights of the chandelier becoming geometric shapes that twinkled.
“Mumma?” Huda said, snapping the hall back into focus. Huda took a seat by her and leaned in to look at Layla’s face.
“Ma,” Huda said again, her voice more loving.
“What have I done?”
Huda sighed. Huda, the daughter she counted on to speak her mind and take a balanced stance, neither comforted Layla nor criticized her.
“Was he all right?”
“Amar will always be Amar, Ma. There is nothing we can do for him.”
She had tried, hadn’t she? She had tried her best. Her intentions were good, were they not? It was hardly a comfort now. Intentions shrank next to actions. Actions took on their own momentum. Amar had not come back into the hall after his outburst. She had underestimated his care for Amira Ali, then and now. She had put too much faith in the passage of time.
When Amar was little she stayed up late after putting him to bed, secretly read books for an answer on how to parent him. She sat through every parent-teacher meeting mortified at how his teacher spoke slowly, assuming Layla could not understand. She tried to become the mother he needed. Preparing herself, enlarging herself, educating herself, only to have let him down the way she had. Does she love him? she remembered Rafiq asking, as though he believed Amira’s love could change the outcome for their son. Layla had not believed—not in the girl’s love, nor in her son’s ability to win over Amira’s family. She could say nothing when Amar accused her tonight, could do nothing but sit and wonder just how the limits to her belief in her son had so dangerously destroyed his possibilities.
Now she deserved any outcome. No longer could she say this was a test from God to prove her faith—it was that, but it was also her own actions returning to haunt her. Rafiq walked over to her. He had been managing last-minute jobs. Huda left them as soon as he approached.
“Time for our photograph soon,” he told her.
Dani was on the stage now, smiling brightly, Hadia’s oldest friend who Layla loved cooking for, who still came over anytime the two of them were back home for a visit.
“What’s happened, Layla?” he asked, alarmed.
Again the lights became a blur of moving shapes. She blinked until it returned to normal. Rafiq took a seat by her.
“Will you find Amar?” she asked. “Will you call him back for the photo? He won’t come if I go.”
Rafiq sighed. There was no time for him to ask why. She had been foolish. She had asked Rafiq to not speak to Amar all night, thinking Rafiq was to blame for their troubles with Amar. Now she knew better. A saying her father had taught her when she was very young came back to her as Rafiq stood to go and bring back their son.
“Be careful who you point your blame at, Layla. And remember that anytime you point your finger to accuse someone, there are three fingers beneath it, curled to point right back at you.”
* * *