She shook her head. “Fazeela has been having a more difficult pregnancy than we anticipated. She has been having trouble keeping up with things. And business has been slowing down lately, so...”
My heart clenched. Was Fazeela okay? Had she left early because something was wrong? Or was the restaurant in real trouble this time? Aydin’s words floated back to me:The only thing you can count on is change.I hated change.
I looked at my mother, so proud, so strong. “What can I do to help? I can work here full-time if Fazeela needs to rest.”
She shook her head. “You have your radio internship to finish. I know how important that is, how hard you worked to get that position. But I also can’t afford to hire anyone new.”
“I can pick up more shifts, learn how to cook things...” I trailed off, thinking about the opportunity to co-produceThe Wrap-Up. That job would go to Thomas now.
“Hana, please stop jumping to conclusions. What I’m trying to tellyou is that Rashid will be moving in with us for a few months. You remember, your cousin from India. He wants to study in Canada. His parents are worried he’ll get in trouble if he lives on his own. I told Aneesa we would keep an eye on him.”
It took me a minute to place Rashid in my large mental catalogue of relations. He must have been eighteen years old by now, the son of my mother’s first cousin Aneesa. I remembered a shy boy who hid behind his mother’s salwar kameez and had solemnly bested me at tic-tac-toe the last time we visited India.
“You don’t even know this kid,” I said. “Can he manage in the restaurant?”
Mom shook her head. “He’s family. Aneesa would never let him live by himself, and we need the help. This is the best solution for everyone.”
Or you could ask for my help,I thought, and instantly felt foolish. Could I really sacrifice my internship now, just when I was getting somewhere?
“Can you get his room ready? Rashid will sleep in the basement,” Mom said.
I promised to change the linens and prepare the space for a cousin I barely knew. She also asked if I could pick him up from the airport on Friday after jumah, and I agreed. It was the least I could do.
IT WAS PAST TEN P.M.when we arrived home, and Mom immediately went to her room and closed the door. Baba was likely already asleep.
I was bone-tired, the excitement of the day finally catching up with me. Which was when I discovered that my mother had forgotten to share a second, tiny detail: Rashid wasn’t the only one moving in.
The front door of our house opened into a square family room that led to a galley kitchen and attached dining room. There were three bedrooms upstairs. My parents shared the largest room, which had a tiny ensuite bathroom, on the far side of the upper floor, leaving the two smaller rooms and full bathroom on the other side for me and Fazeela.
Fazeela had started sleeping in the basement during high school, ostensibly so she could have a quiet space to study, but I knew it was so she could sneak out of the house to hang with her friends on school nights while our parents worked. In exchange for my silence, she let me have her closet and stored her clothes on a rack in the basement.
I used her empty room to organize my carefully curated hijab-friendly wardrobe—cardigans, long sweaters, flowy dresses, palazzo pants, overcoats, and boxes and boxes of scarves in every print, colour, fabric, and style. Yes, even leopard print. Colourful hijabs were my vice.
So I was surprised when I entered my bedroom to find the contents of my second closet dumped unceremoniously on my bed. Just then Fahim walked in, holding another armful of my clothes.
“Hey, Hana, what’s up?” my brother-in-law said, dropping the second pile on top of the first.
“Oh, hey, Fahim,” I said, leaning against the door frame. “Need somewhere to store your basketball shoe collection?”
Fahim’s smile faded. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you. Fazeela is moving back here for a little while. Your dad can keep her company while we’re at the restaurant. The obstetrician Lily recommended said she needs to be on bedrest for a while. Fazee’s been so worried, and that’s not good for the baby...”
He kept on talking, but I had stalled onbedrestandLily recommended.
“Is Fazee okay? Where is she?” I rushed past my brother-in-law to the small room next door. My sister was curled on the bed, asleep, and I stared at her for a moment. She looked pale but her breathing was even. I removed the final load of clothes from the closet and closed the door gently behind me.
“She’s fine, Hana,” Fahim said. He was in the hallway, and I could see shadows under his eyes. “She just needs to take it easy for a few weeks.”
I wanted to trust Fahim, but what if my family wasn’t telling me the whole story? Lily would know what was going on.
I grabbed my phone from my desk. “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Seven
Iclutched my phone tightly and walked in the direction of my old elementary school. It was a warm spring night and the air felt cool on my face, carrying the promise of chlorine-scented rain. A car passed, headlights momentarily blinding me, but I knew the route so well I could walk it blindfolded. I had grown up playing on those streets and riding my bike with friends, pint-sized masters of our small domain. It was past ten, yet I felt completely safe walking alone in the dark. Because of Three Sisters, everyone knew who I was: Ghufran Khan’s youngest daughter—not the one who used to play soccer, but the shorter one.
Weather permitting, during the day the streets would be filled with children skipping and playing hopscotch or conducting street-wide games of hide-and-seek, of which I had been the undisputed champion. Yusuf had been heavily involved in rotating local games of basketball and cricket, usually played on the biggest driveway. Lily and I preferred softball, or we would ride our bikes to the local library, where uncles dressed in starched kurtas paired with cardigans lounged on well-worn sofas, reading newspapers from around the world. Olderwomen watched grandchildren while their adult children worked. As a child I had become used to seeingnanisanddadisdressed in saris, cotton salwar kameez, or long abayas chasing after toddlers and keeping a close eye on all the neighbourhood kids. To be scolded by somebody’s grandmother was an almost daily occurrence for me when I was young.
I passed a few families in their garage-turned-gathering-spaces, drinking tea and chatting quietly, a nod to faraway homes with central courtyards. Many of my neighbours had grown up in extended families or small villages; they were used to communal living. My own family was usually too busy to hang out that way. Entire weeks would sometimes go by when we would see each other only while working at Three Sisters. I felt a pang at my neighbours’ intimacy, even as I waved to familiar faces.
