She applied a light layer of foundation, smoothing the liquid over my blemishes with a deft hand, before picking up a container of blush, intent on her work. “Fahim and I are thinking of moving to Saskatoon after the baby comes.” She passed a fluffy brush over my cheeks as I stared at her, astonished.
“What happened to no more secrets?” I asked.
She smiled at me. “It’s not a secret—I just told you. Mom and Baba moved continents when they were our age. We can move a few provinces. His mother said she would help with the baby and we’re thinking of opening a restaurant of our own. Maybe a restaurant like Wholistic Grill.” She reached for a peachy golden pressed powder and dabbed it onto my cheekbones, nose, chin, and forehead as I processed her words.
“Everything ends, and maybe this is the right time for Three Sisters to close,” my sister said. “Mom is getting tired; she could use a break.Things aren’t so dire. We can always sell the store or liquidate our assets and try something new.”
Fazee was right, I realized. We did have options, beyond what Junaid Uncle had so callously offered. But that left me with an even greater dilemma. “I’m worried about Aydin,” I said, almost to myself.
Fazee grinned up at me, pulling back to look at my face. “We’re talking about some guy you met just a few weeks ago, someone we’re not supposed to like. Or is that the problem? Do you liiiiike him?” She tickled my ribs as she elongated the word.
I flushed and swatted away her hands.
Fazeela was laughing now. She motioned for me to close my eyes so she could apply eyeshadow. “From what I hear, you’re always talking about Aydin and Wholistic Grill. Fahim would be happy to send a rishta for you.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, and my sister laughed again. She brushed something over my brows and then motioned me to half-close my eyes while she applied mascara.
My smiling, easygoing brother-in-law and my serious, intense sister. He was the ying to her yang. I was so glad they had found each other. “How did you know Fahim was the right person for you?” I asked, curious. “Getting married is the biggest decision people can make.”
My eyes rested on Fazeela’s swollen belly. She was almost six months pregnant now, her cantaloupe more like a small watermelon. She rested a bottle of finishing spray on her stomach. The sight was so adorable I wanted to take a picture.
She snapped her fingers at me. “My eyes are up here,” she said. “Deciding to marry Fahim was easy. He’s kind and smart and we love and support each other. It wasn’t a hard decision at all. No, the biggest decision I ever made was to quit playing soccer after the hijab banwent into effect. I could have made pro, but there was no way I was going to take off my scarf. So I left. I miss it every day.”
“You could have kept playing house league or pickup,” I said. The FIFA headgear ban had eventually been lifted, but too late for my sister to realize her dreams of turning pro.
Fazeela glared at me, her movements jerky, and I realized it was still a painful subject, so painful she rarely talked about it. “If soccer couldn’t accept all of me, I wouldn’t let it have any of me.” Her shoulders drooped. “I was punishing myself too, really, because I loved it so much. Walking away from soccer changed me. I got married and started working at the restaurant with Fahim. And when this bowling ball came along, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kind of world my daughter would be born into.”
“You could be having a boy.”
“It’s a girl. Trust me.”
We were both silent, and my eyes travelled back to her stomach, where a fragile new life had sprouted only a few months ago. In another few months’ time, a tiny person would join our family. I was still wrapping my head around that. No wonder my sister was wondering who she was and who she wanted to be after the new addition arrived. Aydin had been right; he wasn’t the cause of our family’s identity crisis. But he hadn’t helped, either.
“Do you regret not taking off the hijab and continuing to play soccer?” Fazeela and I had never really talked about this. She had never wanted to.
“Yes,” she said simply. “And I hate them for putting me in that position. I hate that I was a pawn in some stupid political game. I just wanted to play.”
Fazeela placed a small mirror in my hand. A more polished versionof me stared back. I admired her handiwork: my eyes seemed larger, the smoky effect dramatic above nude lips. She had somehow unearthed my cheekbones, highlighting them with a subtle glowing blush.
She gathered her tools, putting them neatly back in the bin. “The reign of Three Sisters is coming to an end, and it’s time to think about what you want to do next. It’s okay to be selfish sometimes, Hanaan.” Fazeela grinned at me. “And it would be really awesome to have a filthy rich brother-in-law willing to invest in an exciting new restaurant in western Canada.”
Feeling lighter than I had since I learned Afsana’s secret, I left for my shift at the restaurant. I texted Aydin on my way, asking if he was busy and if we could meet that night. I needed some time to figure out how I would tell him about his mother, how best to reveal a secret that had been concealed from him for decades. I knew that, no matter how carefully I told him, the knowledge would upend his entire world.
Except Aydin didn’t respond to my text, not in the next hour and not that night. Instead, I received word from an unexpected quarter.
Soufi’s, tomorrow 9 am. Heard what happened with Marisa. Let’s talk about next steps. Bring your podcast.
Big J was ready to talk.
Chapter Forty-One
Soufi’s was a tiny, quirky, family-run Syrian café located near the radio station. I was so nervous about meeting Big J that I was fifteen minutes early.
He must have heard all about the unceremonious way I had left Radio Toronto. What if he had written me off as flaky and unreliable? But then why would he want to meet? Maybe he wanted to remind me that walking away in a huff doesn’t help one’s career path, especially considering that I was an intern with no money or useful contacts.
I hadn’t yet told my parents I had quit my internship; I was afraid of disappointing them, especially Baba. Kawkab Khala, on the other hand, would probably wonder why it had taken me so long to grow a backbone. Then again, she was the rich daughter of anawab. Access to ready money has a way of smoothing the path of dissidence.
Soufi’s was mostly empty when I arrived. I claimed a table at the front, near the window, after ordering an orange blossom latte and knafeh, white cheese topped with phyllo pastry soaked in a sweet rose-flavoured syrup.
