Chapter 19: Asma (1989) - The Daughters of Rosebud

Asma hated Christmas Day. If ever there was a day that made her feel like an outsider, Christmas was it. She didn’t mind the manger scenes set up in front yards or even all the “Jesus is our Savior” talk in Christmas songs. In that way, she was more tolerant of Christianity than Islam. It was just the day itself. Even though she felt aflush with expectation the month of December—the drumbeat of music on the radio, commercials depicting myths, and lights everywhere you looked—there was no avoiding the sad and bitter fact of Christmas morning. While the rest of the world opened presents and had a festive breakfast or brunch with cousins and grandparents, their house was as cold as every other day. There were no special meals or special people or the possibility of receiving that one magical thing you’d always wanted. It was just a day.

Ruby was with her family in Chicago. Judging by the soft snoring coming through her closet, Salma was still sleeping. Mamoo and Aunty were with Aunty’s family. After the debacle at Thanksgiving, Mamoo had offered for Asma to come with them to Wisconsin, and she had seriously considered it. But even though she was angry with her, she couldn’t bring herself to leave Salma, alone, at home with her parents for two weeks. It simply wasn’t fair.

It had been a week since she had swum, and she felt like she might explode. She had snuck her swimming suit home hoping that there was somewhere she could swim in Rosebud and knowing that there wasn’t.

She had tiptoed upstairs early in the morning to make herself a glass of chocolate milk. The snow was still coming down. Through the back window, she could make out the dim, small shape of the Kohlmanns’ house. The light emanating from it looked warm and welcoming and as though it was a thousand miles away. Her family was stranded and isolated. Whatever happened within the walls of their house felt like it was the only thing happening in the world. Everything else felt like it had never existed. She counted the days until break was over.

Her parents’ door was open. Her father, half asleep, lying on top of the covers. Her mother, sitting on the floor, forearm resting on a propped-up knee and leg folded beneath her. In one palm, she held a string of small wooden beads. Eyes closed, lips softly moving, she rocked back and forth and rubbed a thumb gently on a bead, rolling it down one incremental notch. Her face was unlined. In that moment, Asma could almost see what her mother must have looked like when she was her age.

Asma had never seen her mother doing whatever it was that she was doing. But as was so often the case, her body understood before her brain did. Her mother was praying. With beads. What was that called? If it couldn’t be named, it didn’t exist, did it?

Her mother opened her eyes and smiled. “Asalam aleikum, baitay. Kya hall hai?”

Asma turned to see if someone was behind her. Her mother never spoke to them in Urdu unless they were in the company of other people. If Americans were present, to say something private like a reprimand or make a catty comment. If they were in the rare company of another Pakistani family, it was a kind of showing off, a “Look how authentic we are that our children understand Urdu.” But never did her mother speak it to Asma at home with no one around.

“Uh. Fine?” Asma turned away before her mother could say anything else and went back to bed without her chocolate milk. She knew she’d have to face them eventually. The conversation from the dinner table the night before played again in her mind. Did the car really need maintenance, or was her father just finding ways to keep her at heel? She had no leverage. She had no power. And once her grades arrived, she knew things would get worse.

Asma had finally broken down and told Ruby everything the week after Thanksgiving. Almost everything. For weeks, she had been scared of disclosing anything too personal for fear she might scare Ruby away. But when it became clear that Ruby felt the same way about her as she did about Ruby—this was no casual dating affair—she stopped trying to be mysterious. She told her about her difficult relationship with her father in general terms, but nothing about the night of the play. She told her about her family and how they would never, ever understand their relationship. She told her about how important Salma was to her.

She had also told Ruby about how far behind she was in her classes, especially in chemistry. Ruby, it turned out, had been a chemistry minor and took it as a challenge to teach Asma a semester’s worth of chemistry in two weeks. She insisted that they couldn’t see each other until Asma had studied for several hours and then only if they first reviewed chemistry materials together for thirty minutes. At first, Asma’s time, intended for studying, was spent daydreaming about Ruby and the night before because, by that point, they were spending almost every night together. But eventually, in that way that fear can focus the brain, she started making up ground in all her classes, turning in missing papers and assignments. By the time finals week came around, she was feeling generally good. She knew she would get by with A’s and B’s, except in chemistry, where she was simply hoping for a C. She had until the second week of January before grades would be mailed home, and with any luck, they would arrive after she was back at school.

For dinner that night, their mother made dal and yellow rice with potatoes. Nothing complicated or extravagant to mark Christmas, just a simple, cozy, hunkered-indoors kind of meal for people who weren’t cozy. Like expecting to hear a certain note in a song, Asma waited for her father to make some biting comment about not having meat for dinner, but there was nothing. No one ate together. Everyone served themselves from the pot on the stove when they were hungry.

Salma had told Asma that The Year Without a Santa Claus was on that night and asked if she wanted to watch it together. Asma had said yes. She knew how much Salma loved watching Christmas specials and felt guilty that she hadn’t watched Charlie Brown the night before. There was something about seeing TV shows that were only on once a year. The heightened sense of anticipation, the not wanting to miss a single word or song, the feeling of magic-releasing nostalgia before the opening credits even rolled so the entire experience of watching was rinsed with a kind of high, part expectation and part its fulfillment.

They were still in their pajamas from that morning and served themselves a bowl to eat before the show started. Her mother stood in a darkened kitchen, eating a small bowl of rice with plain yogurt. Salma ate hurriedly at the kitchen table; the show was going to start in just a little while.

The phone rang half a ring. Asma’s head jerked up like she was hearing a sound on a different frequency. She practically ran downstairs. Five minutes later she returned and put on the kitchen light to see her mother animatedly whispering. They were each caught off guard by the other, and in reaction, her mother stopped abruptly, and Asma hurriedly said, “I’m ready to talk about whatever you want to talk about.”

“Oh. Oh. Did you hear that? Acha. Good. Okay. She said she’s ready. Sit, sit. Musharraf! Come!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Asma could see Salma take her bowl of rice and glass of chocolate milk and start to slink downstairs. She didn’t blame her; she would have liked to do the same.

Their father appeared, looking rumpled and confused.

“Salma?” their mother called with faux cheer. “Why don’t you join us? Look! The girls want to talk about their prospects.”

Asma cringed. Salma had been right. After they made Asma a rishtha, Salma would be next.

“I have a show that starts in a few minutes. I don’t want to miss it,” Salma said and continued down the stairs.

“No, we should all do this together,” their mother said.

“But I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“You don’t need to watch all this Christ stuff.”

“They’re not religious or about Jesus. I watch them every year!”

“Salma,” Abu said almost like he was pleading.

Begrudgingly, Salma stomped back up the stairs, tripping on the final step.

Asma felt terrible that she was making Salma miss something she’d been looking forward to. How angry she would be at Asma for sacrificing her plans for Asma’s convenience. And Salma wouldn’t be wrong about any of it.

Salma slammed her bowl on the table and stood at attention next to Asma.

“Sit. Sit.”

Asma sat on the edge of her seat while her father pulled out his chair, looking skeptical.

Her mother grinned. Sometimes, it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “We knew we were going to do this while you were home, but still I’m not organized.” She laughed while moving papers and digging under others. “That’s okay. We’ll sort through it together. Okay?”

She looked at everyone gathered around the table with a hopeful smile. Asma was reminded of how Mamoo had demonstrated the way to look just above people’s heads when publicly speaking. Ami opened a large, reused manila envelope and shook it out on the table. Smaller envelopes spilled out along with paper-clipped notes to various photos ranging in size from the kind that come in school packages to one large portrait.

Music from The Year Without a Santa Claus wafted upstairs. Salma shifted from one foot to another. Asma pushed a chair out with her leg, silently inviting Salma to sit down. She tried to meet Salma’s gaze, but Salma looked stoically ahead.

Her mother scooped up the photos and gathered them in a pile, tapping and aligning their edges on the table like a deck of cards. She started shuffling through them quickly as though in search of a particular candidate. Her father watched Sadia and Asma, frowning and thoughtful.

“Oh, here. This is the one I was looking for.” She held out a three-by-five snapshot to Asma. Asma didn’t reach for it, so her mother slid it in front of her on the table. Asma stared at it with no expression.

The color photo had a white border and captured a person somewhere between boy and man, his longish hair whipped off his forehead by a strong wind. He wore what looked like jeans or dark pants and a white, billowy kurta. The sun was in the boy’s face. It was difficult to tell through the squinting what he actually looked like. He could be young, sophisticated, and handsome, or a cross-eyed middle-aged man trying to look Americanized and hip. Asma sat unmoving, as frozen as the image. She imagined this boy walking into the grocery store, asking Mr. Miller in which aisle the maxi pads were kept.

Her mother reached for the photo and flipped it over to look at the back. “This boy is nice-looking, no? Your aunts know his grandmother. He’s going to go to medical school too. What do you think?”

Asma’s body was rigid, all straining muscle, taut and tight. She kept her eyes focused on the white border of the photo and gave a noncommittal “Uh-huh.”

“Here’s a letter from him to you.” Again, she passed it. Again, it sat there like an empty bag of potato chips on the side of the road.

“I don’t think she’s ready for this,” her father said.

Asma looked up and said flatly, “I’m waiting for Ami to show me everyone.” She could see Salma out of the corner of her eye, arms crossed and not moving.

“Everybody?” her mother asked giddily.

“Yeah, sure.”

Her mother, encouraged, quickly flipped through pictures, as though she was looking for specific ones. There were pictures of middle-aged men who didn’t even try and hide their paunches and graying hair. She shuffled past those quickly. She passed photos of younger men across the table and mentioned the connection through which the introduction was being made.

“Here’s one.” She slid a picture across the table and consulted her little notebook. “He’s from Karachi, and he has a family business he’s going to take over.”

Asma put her hand out in slow motion, gingerly touching the edge of the picture in front of her. “So I’m supposed to move back to Pakistan for these marriages?” She spoke slowly and enunciated clearly, not even trying to hide her disbelief.

Her mother didn’t respond. Salma ground her toe into the carpet. Her father looked somewhere between bored and sleepy.

“Oh, oh. This is the one I was looking for. His name is Pervez, and he’s the youngest of four boys.” She turned the pages of her notebook scouring for some hidden fact. Not finding what she was looking for, she started rifling through the actual letters.

Asma looked at the dark, unsmiling eyes staring back at her. The rest of the world was toasting Christmas cheer, and she was here looking at pictures of strangers in another country with whom she was supposed to spend the rest of her life. She felt ridiculous. She already knew whom she was going to be with.

“Oh, this. This is what I was looking for. I wanted to make sure I didn’t misremember. Look. He’s been accepted to college in Maryland.”

Asma nodded in acknowledgment but otherwise didn’t give any indication of what she was thinking. Her mother seemed to take silence for assent and kept going through her stack of people, each time looking for the next best one. Asma sat sideways on her chair, ready to take off. Not that there was anywhere to go.

No one passed any pictures to Salma. Asma, who was focusing on anything but what was happening in front of her, could tell that Sama was breathing softly and shallowly, trying to avoid detection. She recognized that regardless of how this went, Salma’s road was being paved. She would be in this position eventually, and her fate would largely be determined by how Asma handled hers. If she succumbed, Salma’s process would closely hew to hers. If she rebelled, their parents would be fixated, even more committed to making sure Salma was married off successfully. She felt a sense of responsibility and the need to protect Salma. Just not at her own expense.

After going through a dozen candidates, her mother paused and asked, “What do you think?”

Asma took a deep breath and with her most authentic, in-character voice, mustered, “Thanks for going over these. There are, uh, a lot of choices. I need time to think about it.”

Her mother seemed heartened by the response, perhaps expecting an out-of-hand rejection. “Oh, and those are only some of the choices. There are more.” She fanned her little photo deck of misfits. Asma couldn’t tell if it was a threat or her misplaced belief that more options would give Asma more comfort.

“Why are we doing this?” Salma blurted out.

Both parents looked over at Salma as though they had forgotten she was there.

“Uh. I mean, why are we doing this now?” she asked, this time less animatedly. “Asma’s, um, we . . . still in school. It’s too early.”

Abu waited for Salma to finish her halting speech and then looked at the floor for a few interminable seconds. Finally, he said, “This American notion of going to college and getting an education . . . boys and girls all together at a time when it’s natural to be . . . to be interested in each other . . . you can go to school. But you should finish school as a married girl. A lady.”

Asma thought of Ruby’s long legs and the way her fingers fit so perfectly into the muscular ridge on the outsides of her quads and wondered what her father would do if he knew what she and Ruby did. She couldn’t imagine telling her parents about Ruby, but surely coming out would be safer than being found out. She shivered.

“You don’t have to make a decision today, huh?” her mother said, reclaiming the conversation. She tilted her head trying to catch Asma’s downcast eyes as though she were a small child whom she was placating. “Maybe we can look at a few a day and you can read their letters yourself? The ones in Urdu, your Abu or I can read to you.”

In high school, Asma’s German teacher had once live-translated a letter written in German during World War II from his aunt to his mother. He had stood in front of the room, a brief pause as he read each sentence and almost simultaneously found the corresponding words in English. Listening to him had made her feel like she was doing something illicit, hearing something not intended for her. Her body had leaned forward, unconsciously waiting for something private to be revealed. The idea of her parents translating a letter from someone who wanted to marry her, sight unseen, was almost funny.

“Okay,” Asma said flatly. She continued sitting there and put her hands on the table like she was making to go, but then, almost as though she’d just had a thought, she asked, “Did you both talk about me going to Chicago, by the way?”

It was clear that Asma had subjected herself to this entire conversation just to get to her question.

“I still don’t understand why you need to see your friends from school over break. You’ll be together in just a few weeks,” her mother said tersely while putting the pictures in some kind of order, flipping back and forth through the stack and inserting pictures and accompanying paperwork, like card dealing in reverse.

“This is just what Americans do, okay? I don’t know. I might even have a friend come visit over a break.”

Her father said, “There’s no money for this kind of thing right now.” He shook the back of his hand at Asma, dismissing her.

The next day, sun as sharp as shards of glass reflected off the pristine snow. Christmas was done for another year. The world was anew. Asma shook Salma awake and said, “Let’s go sledding.”

They layered up. Asma wore her father’s boots, and Salma used an old set of boots that were a half size too small.

“You okay?” Asma asked as they trudged up the big hill in the park.

Salma grunted distractedly. “I’m still pissed about missing my show. And then that whole rishtha talk.”

“Oh. That.” Asma laughed. “It’s so stupid.”

“You’re not worried?”

Asma stopped. “I’m not not worried. I just think that there’s a long distance between these conversations and anything actually happening.”

The instant relief that flushed Salma’s face embarrassed Asma.

She grabbed Salma’s hand and pulled her to start walking again. “What I’m really pissed about is why they can’t let me just go to Chicago?” Asma’s volume and agitation made up for what had been missing a moment before when speaking about rishthas.

“Why do you care so much about this trip? You’re going to see your friends in a few weeks anyway.”

Asma willed herself to not answer. She had every intention of telling Salma about Ruby by the end of break. She just wasn’t ready to do it yet. For now, she was just happy to get her body moving.

On the far side of the park, there was a wide hill that ran from the base of the basketball courts into what would be a meadow in the summer. On one side, it was a sharp incline and on the other it was scarcely more than a bump. They waved to a few adults who were pushing little kids down the gentle descent and walked over to the steepest part of the hill where the snow was still fresh.

Asma sat down on the old sled Uncle Cleo and Aunty Marianne, their childhood neighbors, had given them years before, really too small for the two of them together, but doable if Asma scooched up and Salma squeezed in behind. And they were off! Almost airborne. The cold wind felt like it was ripping the skin from Asma’s cheeks; her eyes and nose watered freely. Salma hung on and laugh-screamed into Asma’s back. For a little while, it didn’t matter that her parents were trying to push her into a relationship with strangers when they would never be able to accept a relationship with the person she actually loved. It didn’t matter that Salma hadn’t told her that her parents were shopping for rishthas or had told Mamoo about the punch. Now there were no more secrets between them, except for the one. But there was plenty of time for that.

With her father back at work, Asma spent increasingly long hours on the phone. She utilized the callback code, and within seconds the phone would ring and she would disappear, green phone cord snaked under her closed bedroom door. There were some calls from friends at school, but mostly the calls were with Ruby. Asma was aware that the tone of her voice changed when Ruby called, husky and breathless like she was waiting for some big news.

Once, while she was on the phone, her mother picked up the other receiver upstairs. “I’m on the phone,” she said loudly. Afterward, she called sweetly up the stairs, “I’m off if you need it.”

Late at night, when she saw her father’s car lights flash through her window pulling into the driveway, she hung up quickly.

When she wasn’t on the phone in her room, Asma was silent. Not morose, just quiet like she was all talked out. Asma and Salma watched television on the couch, under the blanket, legs asunder like they used to, taking turns to fetch snacks. Asma brought popcorn, and Salma brought Twizzlers. She let Salma brush her hair and practice making funny hairstyles, decidedly harder now with her short hair. She told Salma of her longing to be in the water, putting the full weight of her emotion for Ruby into the description of swimming.

They started a game of Monopoly that sat on the coffee table, and played a few turns every few hours out of boredom.

Once, while choosing her next move, Asma asked, “Have you noticed anything weird about Ami?”

“You mean the constant prayers and how they are with each other now?”

“Yeah. It’s so weird.”

“You don’t know the half of it. She makes me wear a dupatta to school.”

Asma’s head jutted forward, and her eyes bulged in disbelief. “What?”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry.” And then she said, slowly, “I saw something, by the way.”

“What?”

Asma hesitated. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“What is it?”

“I was looking at the stack of letters and pictures, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. The other day.”

“No, no,” Asma said, her reticent plain. “Last night, late, after everyone went to bed.”

Salma’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought it might make it less scary.”

“And?”

“And . . . I saw Ami’s ‘notes’ buried in the middle of the pictures and the letters. Which she acts like she has everything in some kind of great order or something, but it’s all just mashed together. Like, upside down and backward, and Urdu letters and English letters all mixed up.”

“That’s what’s confusing?”

Asma shook her head with exasperation. “No, no. Her writing. Her notes. They weren’t notes at all. They were gibberish.”

“What? Like, she used abbreviations?”

“No . . . just random swirls and gibberish.”

“You think she knows shorthand? Remember Heather took secretarial shorthand in school, and it was like all symbols and weird writing.”

“Maybe . . .”

“Maybe an Urdu shorthand . . . ?”

They looked at each other long and quizzically, as though staring into each other’s eyes could provide clarity or an explanation.

“I don’t know. It looked more like a little kid’s pretend writing.”

On the twenty-ninth, a gloomy morning, Asma woke up late, made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for brunch, and flipped through the free TV guide in the newspaper to see if there was anything good playing. She sat her sandwich and chocolate milk down on the side table and went to the bathroom. When she came out, her father was crouching under a table, pulling the phone line out of the jack in the wall.

“What are you doing?” Asma asked.

He jumped. “Uh, our phone . . . the phone . . . upstairs is broken.” His muffled voice came out from under the table.

“We need a phone downstairs.”

He leaned heavily on the table as he pulled himself up. “I’m taking this one upstairs until we can afford a new one.” He wrapped the green cord around the phone.

“Ami was on it yesterday. It didn’t sound broken.”

It looked for a moment like he might answer her challenge, but instead he started for the stairs.

Asma moved quickly and stood in front of him. “Abu, I need the phone. I need to talk to people.” Her voice went from beseeching to whining.

There were so many things he could have said. He could have told her that they thought she was on the phone too many hours a day and they didn’t approve. He could have asked whom she was talking to. He could have said that he was suspicious. He could have said that he was concerned with long-distance charges. He could have told her to just move. Instead, what he chose to say was, “You’re not going to Chicago. We’ll decide if you’re going back to school in January.”

Asma looked like he’d physically struck her again. She grasped the wall and keeled over at the waist.

Her father stepped neatly around her. As he started up the stairs, he said over his shoulder, “It’s not your phone. It’s mine.”

Asma ran up the stairs after him, yelling, “What does that mean? What are you talking about? If I go back to school? I have a scholarship. I’m going back.”

Maybe if Asma hadn’t called him out, hadn’t drawn attention to his words and made him answer for them, the whole thing could have ended right then. Later, he could have said that he misspoke or feigned ignorance to what he’d said. But now, he had to answer for it because Asma was going to force him to.

“You go to college because we let you. If you want to . . . throw away your time on your . . . child things, or if you don’t learn the things you should learn, you can stay home.”

Asma stood, feet anchored, hands clenched by her sides and a bulging neck. Voice staccato, punching, she said, “What do you want of me? What do you want? I’m studying premed. My grades are good. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I’m looking at rishthas. What else can I do?”

There was no answer. Because, short of being a puppet, short of being a docile little girl with no interests of her own, there was nothing she could ever do to satisfy them. She’d already shown them who she was. Someone who had her own mind, someone capable of making her own decisions and willing to do whatever she needed to become the person she was meant to be.

Her mother stood in the doorway of her bedroom watching with her arms crossed and an almost confident look. Something was off. He handed her the phone, brushed past Asma, and walked out the door for his shift.

“Ami, I need the phone. I have people I need to talk to about school. Please.” Without her father there to push against with her rage and edge, she had started crying.

Her mother looked at Asma, crouched on the ground, with deep empathy. She stroked the top of Asma’s head, as though she was still a small child, and said, “Oh, baitay, don’t you understand? We have to do this. The sooner you understand your place, the easier it will be for all of us.” She bent down, kissing Asma’s forehead, and walked into her room, shutting the door.

That night, Asma went to Salma’s room and slipped in next to her. They were so much bigger now than when they last lay in the same bed.

“I need to tell you something,” Asma whispered. She knew she could tell Salma anything, but she was terrified. What if Salma thought it was gross or weird or said something to diminish what she was feeling?

“Okay . . . ” Salma said, scooching over to give Asma more room.

“Ruby.” Asma exhaled in a long, shaky breath.

Asma felt Salma hold her breath.

“You remember who Ruby is, right?”

“Yeah, of course. She’s the director.”

“Yeah.” Asma was glad for the dark. She smiled like a fool. “When we talk, it’s an entire world. Do you understand?”

That’s not exactly how she wanted to describe Ruby, but it was the first thing that came out of her mouth. She wanted Salma to know. She needed her to know. She needed to be honest with someone, unload her secrets to someone who loved her. She waited for Salma to say something, knowing she was probably silent because she didn’t want to misinterpret anything.

Finally, Salma said, “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

There were limitations to their telepathy, apparently. She would have to be more clear. Asma’s head flushed cold, and it felt like ice was dripping down her neck, to her shoulders. “I love Ruby,” she whispered in a rush. The darkness in the room seemed to take on dimension and shape, moving and fluctuating with their breath. Asma’s vision faded, and she felt like she was falling backward through space.

“What do you mean by ‘love’?” Salma whispered.

Her hand fiercely gripped Salma’s shoulder. “I like-like her. Is that clear enough?” She breathed out and relaxed her grip. “I’m not letting someone pick who I’m supposed to be with for the rest of my life. And I’m never getting married. At least to a man.”

“They can’t make you marry someone. It’s just that simple.”

“They could kidnap me.”

“And then what?”

“Smuggle me back to Pakistan.” Even as she said it, she knew she sounded paranoid. But the thought haunted her relentlessly.

After a long silence Salma asked, “Have you told Mamoo and Aunty? About Ruby?”

“No, Sal. You’re the only one I can tell.”

After that, Asma seldom went upstairs. She stayed in her room or watched television with Salma in the TV room. Her father was gone every night and slept the majority of the day, working double shifts again. The televisions were on nonstop, the one upstairs in their parents’ bedroom and the one downstairs in their TV room; reruns, sitcoms, news, commercials, it didn’t matter. The phone rang two times. Asma heard her mother answer it, say something quietly, and then hang up. Salma took to bringing Asma lunch in her room.

Once, their mother opened Asma’s door and drew back, as though the sight of them playing gin rummy and eating PB and J’s was scandalous. “What are you two doing?”

“I just made lunch,” Salma said quickly.

Asma fought the impulse to hide her cards and asked, “Who was on the phone?”

“It was a wrong number,” her mother said with a set jaw. She walked away, leaving Asma’s door open.

On New Year’s Eve, she called downstairs, “I’m going to Aunty Marianne’s to borrow a cup of sugar.”

Asma waited a few moments and then ran upstairs, looking out the window to see if she had really left. She did her usual, dialed a phone number, waited a second or two, and then hung up. The phone rang back almost immediately, and she snatched it up. Asma collapsed against the counter and spoke rapid-fire, head bent, hiding her face with her right hand. Deep sobs shook her, relief, anger, mournfulness. Salma lay her head against Asma’s back.

“I can’t talk long. My mom just went to the neighbors for a second . . . I have to get out. Okay. Okay . . . they took my phone.” She nodded to what Ruby said. “I told her everything . . . she’s here with me . . . I don’t know . . . he’s still in Wisconsin . . .” She spoke through hiccupping tears.

Salma stood at the window looking out. She had locked the front door as an extra precaution.

“But what if . . . okay. Okay.”

The screen door opened, and feet stomped on the outside mat, shaking off the snow.

Salma said, “I have to unlock the door for her. Get off the phone.”

“Are you sure? . . . Okay . . . when?”

By the time her mother walked into the kitchen with the sandwich bag of sugar, Asma was off the phone and rummaging through the fridge, hidden by the door.

Asma stayed in her room that day with the door closed. Shortly before dinner, she emerged from the closet into Salma’s room and said, “We’re going to go upstairs for dinner, and I’m going to talk to them about rishthas.” She had cleaned up and no longer looked like she’d been crying.

“What are you talking about?” Salma asked.

She was attentive and calm. “Trust me.”

“Asma. Don’t do it. Whatever it is you’re planning, don’t do it.”

“Sal.”

“I’m serious. Don’t give them false hope. I . . . don’t make me say it.”

“Say it.”

“Don’t put the burden of their unmet expectations on me.”

Asma walked slowly to the stairs and turned, “I’m sorry, Sal.”

Asma asked her mother if she needed help with dinner. When she didn’t respond, she walked to the kitchen table and sat down. “Do you have any other rishthas you wanted to show me?”

Her parents looked at each other as though they knew this day would come. The day they would finally break her. It was difficult to believe that they couldn’t see through her act. But maybe desperate people see what they want to. Once again, her mother got out the envelopes and letters. Asma sat facing forward with her legs under the table and carefully handled each of the photos that were passed to her. Salma snuck away downstairs quietly.