I was happy to see Fazeela dressed and seated on the couch, her feet in Fahim’s lap. She looked tired. Her black hijab was draped casually around her head, and her baby bump protruded under an oversized Toronto FC jersey.
“Did you have a fun day?” she asked, smiling at me. Her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of Aydin lurking behind.
“Assalamu alaikum,” he said. “Hana invited me.”
I shot him a dark look. “He insisted on coming inside,” I clarified.
I plopped down on the couch and handed her a tiny Toronto Blue Jays onesie. “For the cantaloupe.”
“Cantaloupe is going to play soccer, not baseball,” Fazeela said, but her eyes softened as she held up the tiny garment.
“With you and Fahim’s genes, Cantaloupe will play everything. Where is Kawkab Khala?” I asked, knowing my aunt would get a kick out of Aydin.
Kawkab had gone out with her friend Afsana for the night, Fazeela informed me as Aydin took a cautious step into the living room. I tried not to feel sensitive about our unfashionable furniture, the framed prints of Quranic verse on the walls, and the plain Corelle dishes on the small kitchen table. Aydin’s presence made me instantly re-evaluate everything through his eyes.
As if he knew what I was thinking, he said, “I like your home. It feels warm and welcoming.” He put his hand out for Fahim to shake, and they did that bro thing where they flexed their bicepsand talked about the Toronto Raptors. Fazeela rolled her eyes at me.
“My parents are outside,” I said. The whole thing felt weird. “You wanted to say salaam,” I added meaningfully.
Aydin took the hint and wandered out to the back patio, but not before stopping to peek inside the galley kitchen. I hoped it was clean, with no dishes in the sink. He left the patio door open.
I appreciated that Fazeela and Fahim weren’t making a big deal out of Aydin’s being there. Once he was gone, Fahim sat down again and tugged my sister’s feet into his lap, gently massaging them. She leaned back, letting the tiny onesie rest against her rounded belly.
“What’s this I hear about you and Rashid organizing the street festival?” Fazeela said, voice drowsy. “You’ve never organized anything like that before. Is it because of what Junaid Shah said at the BOA meeting? Mom says he’s all thunder, no rain.”
“Three Sisters is your future. I want to help you fight for it,” I said.
Fazeela straightened up and pulled her feet out of her husband’s hands. “Maybe I don’t want it to be my future.”
Fahim froze. “What do you mean, babe?”
Fazeela sighed, the shadows under her eyes even darker. I could see the beginnings of fine lines fanning out around her eyes and mouth. “Maybe I want to do something else. I’ve had a lot of time to think in the past few weeks, sitting alone in my bedroom,” my sister said. “Maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe this is a sign from Allah that it’s time to consider our options—all our options.”
Fahim looked at his wife and they conducted one of those silent conversations couples have.
“I’m going to help you fix this mess,” I said, interrupting their subliminal dialogue. “It’s time to climb a tree holding a gun, not to fold and surrender.”
Fazeela smiled at me. “You’ve been talking to Kawkab Khala.”
“We should at least let Hana and Rashid try to help,” Fahim said, pulling his wife’s feet back into his lap. “They’ve already put up flyers and canvassed the neighbours. We’ll be okay, but what about your mom? This is all she’s ever done.” His fingers were working on Fazeela’s toes as he talked, and she winced when he pressed too hard. “Sorry,” he said, letting go.
She reached across, squeezing his hand, and I felt a sudden pang at their easy affection. I wondered what it would be like to have someone on my team like that, someone to massage my feet when they ached and talk through life decisions when I was confused. To tell me I was fearless but who stood beside me when I was afraid. Because after looking into those men’s eyes today, Iwasscared, no matter what I had said to Aydin about laughing through the pain.
I left my sister and Fahim and made my way to the patio door. Aydin was standing near the barbecue, stooping over my father’s diminutive form. Baba was having a good day; his hand rested lightly on his four-pronged cane, face animated as they chatted. I didn’t know if he realized who Aydin was, but Mom seemed relaxed as she rotated chicken pieces on the grill.
Aydin noticed me by the door and smiled tentatively. For a moment I was struck by déjà vu, his hesitant expression was so familiar. I combed through my memories trying to place it but came up short.
“Your father and I were debating the merits of NPR, CBC, and BBC radio shows for style and technique,” Aydin said.
“My Hana is a gifted storyteller,” Baba said. “Did you know she will soon have her own radio show?”
Aydin raised an eyebrow at me. “I’ll be sure to listen,” he murmured, before turning back to my dad. “She’s lucky to have your support.Not all parents are happy when their children want to pursue a non-traditional career, especially in the arts.”
Baba shook his head. “Parents are happy when their children are happy. My Hana must tell stories. That is who she is.”
“Aydin doesn’t want to hear this, Baba,” I said, mortified. My father didn’t realize what he was saying. He had never met Junaid Uncle and couldn’t know how sharply his comments would land.
I caught a shadow of something in Aydin’s brown eyes, something that wasn’t quite jealousy, wasn’t quite sadness. A puzzle piece slotted into place and I realized who he reminded me of—Sad Aunty, the first time I had seen her, sitting in Three Sisters waiting for Kawkab Khala and looking as if she had all the world’s sorrow resting on her narrow frame.
