“He’s gone, jaan. Your mother is right. We have to continue.”
Tariq reached for Hadia’s hand and he kissed her knuckle then held it. In that instant, Layla saw Hadia give up: a vacant look came over her face. The photographer instructed Huda to stand by Rafiq. Layla took her place at the other side of Huda. She heard the photographer say smile.
“Hadia, look at me,” the photographer said. “That’s better.”
“Perfect,” the photographer said, “I got the one.”
Layla knew she would never replace the photograph above the mantel.
Years ago, when she had opened Amar’s box and seen photographs of him that Amira Ali must have taken, she had been surprised not only by their existence but also by how unguarded he was, how happy he looked in a way she’d never seen. Back then, Layla remembered thinking that humiliation was a deeper wound than heartache. She had wanted to protect them all from it. Now, as they stood beneath the spotlight on the stage, before the remaining guests who surely must be whispering to one another—where is their son, does he not care for them enough to stay for the family photograph?—she knew better. Knew that it did not matter what anyone thought if her own heart were not at peace. Only after her worst fears were confirmed did she realize there had been no use in letting her fears determine her decisions. She was finally free of them. She finally knew: she wanted Amar there in any state, under any circumstance, regardless of what anyone had to say about it.
Now her son was gone again. He would be the test of her life. She would have to remain graceful and patient and without despair when thinking of him. It would not be easy but it was not impossible. What was impossible was the wish, the prayer that rose in her again: Just one more moment. Just give us one more. But maybe her heart would never be satisfied; maybe it was ever-enlarging in its want for more. Because she knew that if she were granted one more moment, then another one was what she would ask for. She could live around her son for a hundred years and even then, when it was time for them to part, she would think—but it has been too brief, as brief as stepping from the shade out into the sun, and she would wish to hear again his knock at the door, look up from the duas she was reading to that simple sight of him leaning against the door frame, and he would ask if he could come and lie in her lap, and she would not even have to say yes, he would already know.
* * *
IN HER PURSE was the small package from Amar. She needed to open it alone. It could not wait. It could contain a clue. Huda walked with her to the restroom, holding the trail of her heavy dress.
“What are you hiding from me?” Hadia asked her.
“Can you at least try to enjoy the rest of your night?”
Hadia looked at her coldly. Huda sighed. The hall was half-empty, and quieter now.
“He fought with Mumma. It was about Amira.”
“What has Mumma got to do with Amira?”
“Mumma had known. She had told Seema Aunty. He spoke with Amira tonight and was devastated. That Mumma didn’t believe in him, or that if it had been one of us she would have acted differently.”
Hadia told Huda she needed a moment alone and stepped into the golden bathroom light. Her hands shook as she reached into her purse. Gently, so as not to tear the wrapping, she tugged at the tape. She drew her breath in so sharply it startled her. It was her watch. Her Baba’s watch, her Dada’s watch. Not a single scratch, the face spotless as if polished, the tick announcing each new second. She wondered if it had always been his plan to return what was not his and then disappear again. She was shaking. She leaned against the door. She turned the wrapping paper over, then again, held it up to the light, but there was no note. This, more than anything else, upset her.
Does the watch always go to fathers?
Amar asked the strangest questions, the ones none of them thought to.
You mean sons.
She had taken from him what, in another life, would have belonged to him by birth. She had worked hard to be as valuable as any son. Her betrayals to her brother were scattered throughout the years, but perhaps being given this watch was the culmination of them all. No one could see it on her wrist and deny what it meant.
Hadia opened the door and let Huda in. She held up the watch. Huda’s mouth opened in shock.
“Will you tell Mumma Baba?”
She shook her head. “I’ll say I found it when packing to move.”
Huda nodded and said, “It will be as if he never took it.”
Hadia wrapped it again and placed it back in her purse. She did not even want it anymore.
“Do you think this means he was saying good-bye?” Hadia’s voice was small.
Huda did not answer. Without a note she could only guess at what he was trying to tell her: Here, take what is yours, what has always been, what will always be—I am no contender. Giving it back was both admitting he had taken it and attempting to apologize. Hadia had behaved in ways that she not only could not take back, but also could never admit to.
She never told Amar what it was like for her to look up at his test all those years ago, to see his handwriting that was so like hers the sight of it threatened her. Or that she had hinted about Amira and Amar’s affair to Mumma. She did not even know why she had done it. Maybe to distract Mumma from Hadia’s decision, still recent then, to step toward Tariq. Maybe just to disturb the golden lens through which Mumma regarded her cherished son. And she never told Amar that she and Amira had spoken years ago. Hadia had power in that moment and she had done nothing with it for her brother, had made no attempt to steer Amira back to him. Don’t tell, he’d ask her, and what did she do but tell, and tell, and the only thing she kept from telling was her part.
All Amar had done to her was take this dumb watch. He had not even reaped the benefit of his betrayal the way that she had, and would continue to. To be the child her parents could count on. To be the one they were proud of. Any hurt he caused, any disappointment he brought—it only amplified her place in their parents’ life, and their love for her.
In the hall, Baba recited the adhaan for the ruksati, though it was the brother’s duty to. It was this moment she had wanted Amar to come back for. She hugged everyone from the community who had stayed to say good-bye, then her friends, she hugged her sister tight and her mother for so long. She knew there was no point in looking around but still she looked for him: just the empty stage and tables and flower vases lined up on one.
“What will I do without you?” Baba said to her, when she said good-bye to him.
She remembered watching brides cry during their ruksati as a child and fearing her time would come and she would not shed a tear. Now she cried like a little girl. Her shoulders shook and Baba’s hug steadied her. The overwhelming feeling now, as it was almost over, was that she wanted only to love them more, to love them better.
“I’ll be back,” she said. “I will not leave you two.”
She took Tariq’s hand. Mumma held the Quran above them as they stepped out into the night. Everyone clapped behind them. The air was cool. Their decorated car was waiting. Tariq stopped walking. He pointed up at the sky. She looked and saw nothing. Just some stars. She turned to Tariq’s profile.
“Keep looking,” he whispered.