I lie back, staring at the sliver of moon, wondering if Sakina can see it from her bedroom too. What is her room like? Her house? Does she have brothers and sisters? A mom? I know nothing about her, except that she’s always working, even in the afternoon when the others are sleeping. She goes home on the back of her father’s motorcycle in the evening, her scarf fixed on her head, not even turning once to look at me.
I feel like the new girl in school, wanting the popular girl to like me. Only this isn’t school, and the popular girl hasn’t even seen the inside of one. There’s a tightness in my chest at the thought of all the servants in Pakistan never going to school. All the poor children sitting on street corners and cleaning rich people’s houses.
Nana’s driver, Malik, took me and Mom for a drive around the neighborhood on our first day in Karachi. We drove to a little park at the end of the street, and then to the Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner. At the traffic light was a little boy around six or seven. His face was dusty and his clothes were torn. He held out a filthy hand and muttered words I couldn’t catch because the window was rolled up and the music was blasting in our air-conditioned car.
I didn’t sleep that night either.
I slowly sit up and take out my journal from the bedside table drawer. I know it’s silly to write to a father who left me, who doesn’t ever call or visit me. There’s not even a small chance that he’ll ever read the journal, but maybe that’s why I like writing in it. I can say whatever is in my heart, ask a thousand questions, without any fear of being laughed at.
Dear Dad,
Today I tried a new fruit: mango. I know it’s not really new, but the taste of the Pakistani mango is so much better than anything I’ve ever eaten. I tried one, then another, and then a third, until my stomach was about to burst. My T-shirt has splotches of yellow on it, which I’m not sure can be washed off, but my heart is happy.
I think I’ve made a friend. Her name is Sakina, and her biggest talent is cooking. Even the chicken nuggets she cooks are so soft and delicious, even though they’re spicy. She’s always so serious and sad, as if her entire body hurts. I’m going to see if I can make her smile. I bet she’s got the prettiest smile.
By the way, do you wonder why I like nuggets so much? I still remember that day you took me to Chesterton for lunch. I was only five, so I don’t really remember it, but I have the picture Mom took of us. Me in my white polka-dot dress and a bow in my hair, and you with that black T-shirt that said I DON’T LIKE MORNING PEOPLE. OR MORNINGS. OR PEOPLE.
I’m not really a morning person either. Did you know that?
Probably not.
Miss you,
Mimi
There’s a little bit of a lie in what I’ve written. I do remember some things about that day. Snatches of fragrances. The tone of voices. Dad insisting that Mom take lots of pictures. Mom’s annoyed face. Dad’s aftershave lotion tickling my nose as he hugged me for the last time. I still remember that aftershave: musky fresh with a hint of lemon.
When I was younger, I used to think that smell was the way all fathers smelled. Warm and lemony. I didn’t know it was aftershave until one day in first grade I went to the mall with Mom. We passed by a perfume counter at Macy’s and there, mingled with all the smells, was Dad’s. “He’s here!” I cried, jumping up and down right there in the Macy’s cosmetics department. It took Mom about two seconds to realize what I meant, and why I thought Dad was around somewhere. She crouched down to meet me at eye level, gripping my hand hard enough to make me stop jumping. She closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, they were wet. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, it’s not him,” she whispered, her cheek close to mine. “It’s the cologne he used to wear. Look.”
She pointed to the counter. A bottle stood out from the rest, like a glass jar of betrayal. Terre d’Hermès.
In Uncle Faizan’s bedroom at night, my eyes are suddenly heavy with tears.
There’s a knock on the door, and I scramble to put away my journal. “Come in,” I call out, even though I know it’s Mom. She’s the only person who knocks in threes. Knock-knock, then a pause, and then a KNOCK.
“Hey, I saw the light on under your door,” she says as she enters. “It’s almost midnight; why aren’t you asleep?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
She sits on my bed, pushing my legs out of the way. She’s in her usual bedtime attire: striped pajama bottoms from Victoria’s Secret, and a worn-out white cotton T-shirt with a big red heart in the center. “I was reading.”
“I was writing,” I reply without thinking.
“What were you writing?”
“In . . . in my journal,” I stammer. “But you can’t see. It’s private.”
She smiles and winks. “I understand perfectly.” She sits back and rubs a hand over the bedspread. “You know, when I was little, I’d sneak into this room in the middle of the night to check up on your uncle. Sometimes we’d play cards together. Or Monopoly.”
I make a face because I hate Monopoly. It’s the longest and most boring game in the history of games. “I wish I had a brother,” I say, although I don’t really, at least not most of the time.
She frowns prettily. “No, you don’t. Faizan used to drive me bonkers. Always getting into my paint supplies, teasing me about the smallest things. It was brutal.”
I look closer at her. She has to be joking. Is she? I can’t tell. “Yeah, but family is everything, right?” I say, quoting a slogan for an English-language commercial I saw on Nana’s television the night before.
She rolls her eyes like a child. “Not my family. Or haven’t you noticed?”
I hesitate, then plunge ahead. “Is that why we never visited Pakistan before?”
She sighs and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they’re brittle and shining, like two lonely stars in the still night. “When I married your dad, I had a falling out with my family. They didn’t think he was the right guy for me.” She laughs a strange, tiny laugh, over as soon as it begins. “They were right, of course, but I didn’t really accept it until it was too late.”
A sort of anger unfurls deep inside me. Dad was perfect! I want to shout. But of course I don’t. The sleep shirt I wear has a crown with the words KEEP CALM AND GET SOME SHUT-EYE, but right now my blood is frothing with so many emotions. I bow my head and let my hair hang on both sides to hide my face from Mom. “I miss Dad,” I whisper. “I wish he hadn’t left.”
If I was expecting a hug, I’m mistaken. She doesn’t move. Finally, she says, “I know, sweetheart,” and her voice is croaky, as if she’s trying not to cry. We stay like that for a long time, deep in our own thoughts. A faint sound grows inside my head: drum-drum-drum.
She shakes her head as if getting rid of ugly thoughts and holds out her hand. In it is a little silver phone. “I asked your nana to get this for you. In case you get bored.”
My eyes open wide. I’ve never been allowed a phone before. “Wow, thank you!”
“It’s not really a phone,” Mom adds. “But there is limited internet in case you want to play a few games or send messages to Zoe.”