You’re off?” She stood on the doormat. “Rehan, what’s going on?”
There was silence for a moment.
“I have other things to take care of. I can’t put my life on hold, I can’t be in this… this chaos.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her voice was louder than she had intended.
He began speaking quickly, and she was startled by the anger in his voice. “What are we supposed to be doing anyway? I certainly don’t know. How long are you going to nurse him while he has his”—there was a moment’s pause—“It’s a walkabout. He’s gone off the fucking range. Maybe he’ll see sense, maybe he won’t. But stop looking to me to take care of you.”
“Who asked you?” Amal shouted, surprised at the venom in her voice. “You were here before I was. You were here because he cared about you, just about the only person who does.” She bit her lip, feeling like a small child, and the feeling made her furious.
He was quiet as he spoke now, “Don’t blame me because you don’t know who you are or what you want from your life. I can’t go back to this, this mess.”
There was a pause. Amal was about to speak, but thought better of it and hung up. She looked at her phone for a moment. At the kitchen window she could see Mirza Uncle asleep on a chair, a book propped open in his lap and his head nodding softly on his chest. Behind him, the flap of the tent whipped open and closed in the wind, the ties pulling towards her as if drawn by her hand and dropping again.
“He’s an idiot,” said Vanessa, watching her coffee swirl in its paper cup as she stirred in her sugar. “Hasn’t returned Sven’s calls either.”
“Well, that hardly makes him an idiot.” Amal was folding and refolding her empty sugar packet. She had heard somewhere that it was impossible to fold any paper more than eight times; so far, she was on three, and the sugar packet was a bullet in her fingers. “Maybe he’s busy.”
“Busy gunning for hardcore heaven.” Amal looked confused. “Fire and brimstone. We’re all a bunch of sinners, and he’s going to be saved. Happened to my cousin, scratch the surface, there’s not much between them.”
“But he wasn’t that before?”
“You know it’s bad when he won’t talk to his mother. She called me, you know. Seemed to think we were an item.” Amal opened the folded sugar packet and started tearing it. “I stopped in once, bumped into him at the park, he went to get his jacket and told me to come along. Only met her that one time. She found my number somewhere. I think she was hoping I could talk him round, bring him back. I didn’t want to break it to her.”
“You think he’s gone somewhere?”
“It’s not looking good.” She stood up and pulled the strap of her handbag firmly onto her shoulder. “I think he took one off the deep end. He saw them, you know.”
“Who?”
“His dad, and the… other family. Sven told me. Saw him at Marks & Spencers buying shoes for the little one. Must have been heartbreaking. Sven told me he didn’t stop. Just kept walking past. I think his dad tried to say something to him, but he just kept walking.”
She gave Amal a peck on the cheek and left the café, her umbrella already springing open at the threshold like a shield. Amal watched the red of her rainc oat run and trickle into the gray of street.
When Amal arrived home, she changed into a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and pulled her hair out of her face into a ponytail. Her uncle was outside, walking with his hands behind his back, looking at the plants and weeds in the flowerbeds like a dignitary inspecting the troops.
When she stepped out to greet him, he told her that he wanted to run the slideshow again, but this time, inside his tent, against the canvas.
“Oh, I can sit with you again,” she said, confused, but he persuaded her that she did not have to stay, that he was an old man that just wanted to wallow in nostalgia
There was silence for a moment.
“I have other things to take care of. I can’t put my life on hold, I can’t be in this… this chaos.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her voice was louder than she had intended.
He began speaking quickly, and she was startled by the anger in his voice. “What are we supposed to be doing anyway? I certainly don’t know. How long are you going to nurse him while he has his”—there was a moment’s pause—“It’s a walkabout. He’s gone off the fucking range. Maybe he’ll see sense, maybe he won’t. But stop looking to me to take care of you.”
“Who asked you?” Amal shouted, surprised at the venom in her voice. “You were here before I was. You were here because he cared about you, just about the only person who does.” She bit her lip, feeling like a small child, and the feeling made her furious.
He was quiet as he spoke now, “Don’t blame me because you don’t know who you are or what you want from your life. I can’t go back to this, this mess.”
There was a pause. Amal was about to speak, but thought better of it and hung up. She looked at her phone for a moment. At the kitchen window she could see Mirza Uncle asleep on a chair, a book propped open in his lap and his head nodding softly on his chest. Behind him, the flap of the tent whipped open and closed in the wind, the ties pulling towards her as if drawn by her hand and dropping again.
“He’s an idiot,” said Vanessa, watching her coffee swirl in its paper cup as she stirred in her sugar. “Hasn’t returned Sven’s calls either.”
“Well, that hardly makes him an idiot.” Amal was folding and refolding her empty sugar packet. She had heard somewhere that it was impossible to fold any paper more than eight times; so far, she was on three, and the sugar packet was a bullet in her fingers. “Maybe he’s busy.”
“Busy gunning for hardcore heaven.” Amal looked confused. “Fire and brimstone. We’re all a bunch of sinners, and he’s going to be saved. Happened to my cousin, scratch the surface, there’s not much between them.”
“But he wasn’t that before?”
“You know it’s bad when he won’t talk to his mother. She called me, you know. Seemed to think we were an item.” Amal opened the folded sugar packet and started tearing it. “I stopped in once, bumped into him at the park, he went to get his jacket and told me to come along. Only met her that one time. She found my number somewhere. I think she was hoping I could talk him round, bring him back. I didn’t want to break it to her.”
“You think he’s gone somewhere?”
“It’s not looking good.” She stood up and pulled the strap of her handbag firmly onto her shoulder. “I think he took one off the deep end. He saw them, you know.”
“Who?”
“His dad, and the… other family. Sven told me. Saw him at Marks & Spencers buying shoes for the little one. Must have been heartbreaking. Sven told me he didn’t stop. Just kept walking past. I think his dad tried to say something to him, but he just kept walking.”
She gave Amal a peck on the cheek and left the café, her umbrella already springing open at the threshold like a shield. Amal watched the red of her rainc oat run and trickle into the gray of street.
When Amal arrived home, she changed into a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and pulled her hair out of her face into a ponytail. Her uncle was outside, walking with his hands behind his back, looking at the plants and weeds in the flowerbeds like a dignitary inspecting the troops.
When she stepped out to greet him, he told her that he wanted to run the slideshow again, but this time, inside his tent, against the canvas.
“Oh, I can sit with you again,” she said, confused, but he persuaded her that she did not have to stay, that he was an old man that just wanted to wallow in nostalgia
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