Her coughing worsened. Gita patted her back.
No hard feelings? Nasir’s mother made clear her opinion of Hena to anyone who asked. And Irum hadn’t exactly seemed thrilled to see her last night.
Khala’s eyes flicked to Hena’s, afraid she was going to push back, but there was no need to intervene. Hena was already surrendering. If keeping her mouth shut brought her mother peace in her final days, so be it.
Hena picked up one of the bags at her feet. She pulled out the folded pastel shalwar kamiz. She hadn’t so much as touched a desi outfit since leaving Florida. She’d forgotten how pretty desi clothes could be. She began to remove the stapled tag and say thank you. Regardless of her mother’s motives, this was nice. But before she could speak, her mother did.
“I suppose it’s best we get this out of the way,” said Ammi. “I’ve received confirmation from Khaled’s family that Nasir’s parents have been invited to the shaadi.”
The staple pricked Hena’s finger. It was the same spot as the paper cut from three days earlier. A drop of blood welled.
“I know it’s not ideal,” her mother continued, “but Khaled’s father is Nasir’s cousin once removed on his mother’s side, sothere was no way around it, I’m afraid. I don’t expect they’ll actually attend, but if they do, I need you to stay away from them. There’s no telling how they’ll react, but we certainly don’t want to risk you upsetting them and causing a scene.”
Hena pressed a tissue to her finger. One might think a mother would worry more about her daughter in a hypothetical scenario like this. But then, they wouldn’t have known Hena’s mother.
Khala patted her arm.Your ammi loves you.This had always been her refrain.Blood is blood. A mother can no more choose not to love her child than she can choose not to breathe.
Hena wasn’t so sure. She remembered the curbside drop-off at the airport when she was heading to Princeton University. Ammi’s hands tight on the steering wheel as she admonished Hena to study. To not waste the opportunity. There had been no words of endearment. No emotional embrace. Hena tried to remember a time when her mother had hugged her with tenderness or said she loved her.
She couldn’t.
Khala might never have married or had children, but she had been more a mother to Hena than the woman who birthed her. It was for Khala’s sake Hena stayed quiet now, afraid of what she might say if she didn’t.
And the truth was, if Nasir’s parents actually came to the shaadi—if she had to face his mother again—then she had far bigger problems waiting for her.
Lubna,Aunt of the Groom
It was the flashing blue and white lights that caught our attention. We knew the festivities were delayed, but we hadn’t thought anything of it. After all, what sort of desi wedding doesn’t run behind schedule?
The police presence at the Mirza residence that evening, though—those cars parked all over the grassy lawn by their family boathouse, where Hena was getting ready for the wedding—well, that changed everything.
We rushed over—to see if we could help, of course. We were nearly at the door when Shaheen, poor dear, shoved past me so roughly I nearly lost my footing. She was trembling head to toe. Irum, her daughter, was by her side.
While police officers crawled all over the place, Hena sat on the sofa, staring at absolutely nothing. We assumed Shaheen had rushed over to check on her. Comfort her. Instead, she surveyed the scene: the officers, the blood droplets splattered on the floor. She marched straight over to a mustachioed detectivebagging a reddish-brown knife and jabbed an angry red fingernail in Hena’s direction.
“My son is missing. No one has heard from him since last night,” she said, her voice catching. “Whatever happened here is connected. And mark my words, she’s behind it.”
To be fair, Shaheen never made secret her dislike of Hena. When Nasir announced his intentions to marry her, she’d locked herself in her room for a full week, refusing to eat or drink. We knew she disapproved, but the particular fury she unleashed in the boathouse that day? It still makes me shudder. Irum, bless that sweet girl, tried to talk her mother down, but it was like trying to reason with a hurricane.
Here’s where things got interesting. Moments later, Hena’s mother arrived. She heard Shaheen going on and on with her accusations. I expected Frida to cut her off. To order her off the premises immediately.
Let me tell you: She did neither of these things.
Instead, she walked up to Shaheen and hugged her. Yes, that’s right. Hugged her. I swear it on my grandchild’s life.
So tell me, can you blame us for our suspicions? How innocent can a woman be when her own mother won’t stand by her side?
5
•
Hena had wondered how Lulu was going to keep the wedding events distinct when every single one took place at the same resort, but she shouldn’t have underestimated her little sister. Unlike the welcome party, which had taken place in the dining hall, the bridal shower was set on the resort’s oversized back patio, flanked with lush, towering palm trees. Round tables draped in pastel linens sat beneath a covered awning adorned with lights and woven through with pale pink flowers. It was well done. Tasteful.
She did her best to ignore the humidity. Thick and heavy. Pressing against her skin.
Hena placed her present on the gift table. It was the only one there, a result of her first misstep of the afternoon: She was on time. Not only was she currently the sole guest in attendance, the venue was still being set up. A dark-haired man in a red uniform—she recognized him as the bellhop who’d collected her things when she’d first arrived—was crouched next to the fondue machine, fixing the wiring. A team of three silently arranged finger sandwiches and cakes on golden tiers for the afternoon’s high-tea theme. Two women whisperedamong themselves as they adjusted the personalized perfume bar, the clear vials set in neat, even rows.
Hena traced a finger along the goldengiftssign. Her own shower had been a simple affair. Her aunt had thrown it for her at her duplex. Even now, she could close her eyes and remember the scent of cardamom tea wafting from the kitchen as everyone gave their pointed opinions on the gifts, from the stainless steel cooking spoons to the high-end bedsheets. They’d laughed at Auntie Gudi presenting Hena with an enormous cooking pot, insisting all new brides needed to know how to cook dinner for a party of fifty.