So here we are, on the last day of the year.
It is early evening, and the temperature has dropped precipitously. A
dense gray fog billows in from Long Island Sound and shrouds the gardens
of Sher Khan House.
It has been five months since Abbas’s death, but the Khan cousins still
haven’t fully acc epted the fact. When Maryam issued an invitation for the
traditional New Year’s Eve dinner at Sher Khan House, they automatically
obeyed — and now, despite the bad weather, all of Abbas’s siblings, their
adult children, and their grandchildren have assembled here, fueled by fear
and curiosity: Maryam said in her invitation that an important
announcement was going to be made today.
And speaking of the devil, here she is. Maryam enters Abbas’s study and
joins me by the French windows. Together we stare out at the fog. It cre eps
across the empty flower beds, the circular fountains, the raked gravel
walkways.
I take her warm hand in mine. “How are you feeling? Still nauseous?”
“Not too bad today, but...” She sniffs the air. “It still smells of Papa in
here, doesn’t it?”
Yes, it does — that old, de ep funk of Cuban cigars — and it’s cold in this
room. Maryam shivers a little — she’s wearing a backless cream blouse and
a matching embordered sari — and I press her close. Today she’s wearing
eyeliner and lipstick, and it brings out her fine features: the de ep - set,
intelligent eyes, the bow of her small mouth.
We do not speak. There is nothing to say right now because ever since
Kyle’s death, we’ve been talking de ep into the night, rehashing every aspect
of what had happened: Kyle’s actual relationship to Abbas and Farhan’s
murderous rage when she learned that she’d been sle eping with her half
brother. I told Maryam the truth about everything — but I omitted the part
about George’s true identity, his murder, and his secret grave up in
Southampton. I was worried that Maryam would question why I had been
so easily manipulated by Farhan — and intuit our affair. My infidelity is a
secret I still carry.
During our conversations, Maryam said that she’d always felt an odd
intimacy between Abbas and Kyle: The old man doted on Kyle, and Kyle
seemed desperate for Abbas’s approval — and now it all made sense. If that
was the case, I said, why hadn’t Abbas officially recognized Kyle? Why did
he pit me against his biological son? Why had he demeaned Kyle, so the
only path left to him was to seduce his half sister?
“I don’t know.” Maryam shrugged hopelessly. “Papa was too complex,
too contradictory.”
He was contradictory indeed, I thought. Abbas was forced to renounce
Ewa and submit to an arranged marriage with Coco — and after all his
suffering, he should have freed his own daughters, but instead he r eplicated
the same dynamic: He forced Maryam into giving up her tall Jewish
surgeon. He sacrificed Farhan to his own dynastic ambitions.
Now, as we stand in Abbas’s study, looking out at the fog, I tell myself
that Maryam and I will put an end to this chain of family trauma, that we
will parent completely differently. But is that really possible as long as I
hide my affair? For an instant, I think about coming clean, blurting it all
out, but I haven’t the courage. Instead I just sigh.
Maryam squeezes my hand and says, “Everything okay? Are you
nervous about the speech? You’ll be fine.” She gestures to the hallway
leading to the banquet hall. “The family is waiting for us. We should go.”
“I’m not nervous. Not with you by my side.”
I kiss Maryam on the lips. They are surprisingly warm and taste of waxy
lipstick. She kisses me back, and I can smell her heady aroma, vanilla and
tart citrus.
A few minutes later, we walk down the long corridor.
The chatter of conversation, loud laughter, the clink of glasses leaks
through the massive double doors of the banquet hall. When we enter, the
Khan family — over forty people, seated on both sides of a massive
mahogany table — turn toward us.
The vast room is toasty warm: Three huge stone fir eplaces at the far end
burn brightly. The only other illumination comes from tall white candles
lining the table. The light is warm, flickering, archaic; this could be a feast
in ancient Rome, and the huge faded tapestries hanging from the walls —
satyrs and unicorns and angels — only add to the air of timelessness.
Maryam sits at the middle of the table — Abbas’s seat. I take the chair
next to her. Big Mike is across from us, looking worried — he wears his
usual ill - cut bottle - green blazer, and his comb - over is coming undone. The
board has reinstated him as the CEO of Tiger Corp, but the symbolism at
the dinner table is crystal clear — Maryam and I are now the real heads of
the Khan family.
The elders are seated around Maryam — old Sultan Ali in his wheelchair;
Fauzia, talking nonstop in her high, birdlike voice; Bilquis, Abbas’s
unmarried sister, who has the same hawk nose as her dead brother. Then
come the cousins and their spouses — and at the far ends of the table are the
Khan children, the teenagers, tweens, and toddlers with their Indian
nannies.
Two and a half years ago, the Khan family intimidated me, but now I
know each one of them. I understand why Abbas used to refer to his family
as “the she ep.” Or, if he was in a bad mood, “the vultures.” “They’re just
ravenous mouths,” he’d said to me. “If you don’t feed them enough, they’ll
turn on you. Never forget that.” But now I have an advantage: After Kyle
was shot, a rumor went around that I had set him up, gotten rid of him. “Ali
is ruthless,” the cousins have been whispering to each other. “Don’t mess
with him.”
Today at the family dinner, we are still following Abbas’s dictates. Three
large blackened cauldrons of biriyani are carried into the hall, and the
aroma — saffron, rice, caramelized onions, roasted meat — fills the room.
The family load up their plates and begin to eat.
An hour passes, full of polite, mannered conversation, but everyone is
awaiting the main event — Maryam’s speech. She finally stands and settles
her hair with a quick, impatient shake of her head.
“Family, could I have your attention, please? My husband — the new
chief operating officer of Tiger Corp — has a few things to say. Ali?”
The Khans fall silent. They were expecting a speech from Maryam, not
me. They put down their cutlery and the atmosphere morphs from a family
dinner to something more formal, edged with apprehension, reminiscent of
the last, explosive board meeting. Big Mike must feel this too, because he
grips the arms of his chair and turns slightly toward Maryam, as if for
safety.
Those who stuck by Big Mike now look smug: Sultan Ali and Bilquis.
Meanwhile, the traitors — Fauzia and her son Hamza — have abstracted looks
on their faces, as if to say, Who, me? What did I do?
I stand and clear my throat. As I begin to speak, I realize that I have
adopted Abbas’s stance — head tipped back, legs spread wide, hands thrust
into the pockets of my suit jacket. I start by welcoming everyone to Sher
Khan House and then launch into my speech. “So much has changed this
past year: My father - in - law’s tragic and sudden death. My sister - in - law’s
breakdown after years of stability. Our beloved friend Kyle’s senseless,
distressing death.”
Maryam wrote my entire speech, and as I say the words, I realize what
genius it is to phrase Farhan’s actions in terms of mental health: Her actions
were an aberration, a result of disease. And in fact, Farhan’s lawyer is
arguing temporary insanity, that she was having a psychotic episode and
should not stand trial for Kyle’s death. Meanwhile, given Farhan’s history
of attempted suicide, she has been committed to a mental health facility and
is being held under high security.
I continue, my voice gaining power. I say that a fund for inner - city
children has been set up in Kyle’s name. I thank Big Mike for steering the
family through this “difficult, turbulent time,” and I thank the family for
letting go of their grievances after that “nasty business of the board
meeting.” I talk about the unity of the Khan family, their r eputation as
builders, how the entire family has to pull together to achieve
“extraordinary results.”
The Khans applaud, and the sound echoes in the vast banquet hall. I look
suitably bashful.
“Now. There have been rumors circulating that we are going to sell Sher
Khan House...” I look directly at Fauzia, and she glances down and starts
folding her napkin. “But this is simply not true. This house is the
embodiment of my father - in - law’s spirit. Our gatherings in these very
rooms will continue for many years. In fact, Maryam and I will be moving
in here once we have finished renovating the East Wing — you see, we will
soon be needing more space...”
I stop and gaze at Maryam. She pats her stomach, and there is a sharp
intake of breath from around the table.
“Yes, exactly. Maryam and I have been blessed with a child — well,
actually, twins. The next generation will grow up at Sher Khan House. So: a
toast to the future.”
Waiters appear with jeroboams of Bollinger, and corks are popped.
Everybody drinks champagne, but Maryam’s glass contains seltzer. She’s
fourteen weeks pregnant, and the morning sickness has been bad,
preventing her runs in Riverside Park. At first, the idea of children was
unreal to me, but then I saw the twins on the ultrasound — a boy and a girl,
each curled up tight in a sac of amniotic fluid — and began to imagine our
future together: two round - cheeked babies, warm and soft in my arms; then
giggly, tousle - haired toddlers, eager for piggyback rides. I imagined the
twins graduating from Ivy League colleges, turning into adults, marrying,
having their own children — and one day there would be an entire branch of
the Khan tribe that had originated solely from us.
I told myself that I wouldn’t treat our kids as nuisances — as my own
father had done — or pit them against each other — as was Abbas’s way. Of
course, it would be a challenge to raise two normal children on an isolated
estate — but Maryam was so insightful, so balanced, and she’d make a
wonderful mother. Mostly — to be honest — I worried about my name being
cast aside, the kids being referred to as “the Khan heirs” — but surely
Maryam would agree to hyphenate. Khan - Azeem had an aristocratic ring to
it, didn’t it?
Soon, the toasts are done. Time to close out my speech. Bring it all home.
“Our beloved founder, Abbas, had the vision to see the possibilities in
what was once a bankrupt, crime - ridden city. He turned Columbus Circle
into a civic space. He built the first supertalls, creating real estate in the
clouds. Now we are completing Abbas’s vision for the West Side Project,
building a city within a city. And it doesn’t stop there: We have new
projects under construction in Dubai, Singapore, Mumbai. Working as a
family we have created a global brand, and I want to thank each and every
one of you: To Sultan Ali Uncle and Bilquis Auntie and Fauzia Auntie.
Thank you to Big Mike and his lovely wife, Khanam...”
I proceed to acknowledge each family member by name, and they stiffen
or redden or applaud. This part was also Maryam’s idea. The endless thanks
bring the message home: I know you all. I see you all. I’m one of you.
My speech ends, and dinner is over. We are still following Abbas’s dictates,
so there is no dessert course. The family leaves the banquet hall and
congregates in the library next door, and uniformed waiters serve mint tea,
along with platters of Abbas’s favorite cookies — pistachio, rose water,
almond.
The aunties form a knot around Maryam and give her advice about our
unborn twins: “Make sure you rub coconut oil into their hair.” “Shave their
heads after birth; the hair from the womb is thin and lifeless.” “Make sure
you massage their limbs every day with olive oil, it makes them strong...”
Maryam smiles prettily and lets the aunties pat her belly, but I es cape and
stroll over to a quieter spot by the bookshelves.
I’m hoping for a few minutes to myself, but Cousin Hamza sidles up to
me. His hair is carefully tousled, and today he’s wearing a skinny - lapel
Prada suit and a discreet Princeton tie with little orange tigers. Hamza, the
turncoat who ratted me out to Mian, who voted for Kyle. As soon as Big
Mike resumed his position as CEO, I had Hamza transferred to our office in
Atlanta, and from all accounts, he hates it there. Good.
Right now, Cousin Hamza has a look of long - suffering patience on his
pretty face. “Look, Ali,” he says, without preamble, “I need to come back to
the city. My mom needs me here. Besides, Atlanta is a dump.”
Of course. Play the mom card. Hamza’s mom, petite Fauzia — Abbas’s
middle sister — had cast her vote for Kyle. Fauzia always had a strange hold
over Abbas, and clearly Hamza is still counting on that connection.
“I understand,” I say evenly. “Atlanta is not your speed. That’s clear.”
“So you’ll bring me home? Really?”
“Not my call, but I’ll put in a good word with Big Mike, okay? Why
don’t I do it right now?”
I give his shoulder a hard squeeze and walk away, leaving Hamza openmouthed. Big
Mike is on the far side of the room, slumped in an armchair,
holding a delicate porcelain cup of tea in his enormous boxer’s hands. He
gestures wearily at the chair across from him. “Ali, nice speech. Have a
seat. What’s on your mind?”
I perch opposite him and lean in. “Just had a little chat with Cousin
Hamza. He doesn’t like living in the South, and he’s not lying — the Atlanta
office r eports that he’s barely been to work. I need you to fire him.”
Mike makes a strangled noise. “Ali, I can’t do that. It’s just not how we
do things, okay?”
I lean in closer, a huge smile on my face, because Hamza is anxiously
watching me from across the room.
“I know you’re technically the CEO, Mike, but you serve at my
pleasure. I’m running things now. Also: I want you to stop Hamza’s
monthly payments from the family trust. To receive their stipends, the
cousins are supposed to be employed and in ‘good standing.’ Invoke that
provision. I want that moron gone ASAP, okay?”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll do it.” Mike’s voice is cracked and tired, and his eyes
are bright with pain. “I underestimated you, Ali. You’re a she ep in wolf’s
clothing — who turned out to be a wolf.”
I can’t let him get away with a comment like that. “Excuse me? What
exactly does that mean?”
“Nothing. I meant nothing.” Big Mike realizes he has overst epped, and
his eyes fill with fear.
“Look, Mike, either you tell me what that means, or I’ll hand your ass to
you. On a plate.”
“Ali, please.” Mike’s voice is now a whine. “It’s not me, okay? It’s the
cousins. They’re spreading rumors that you were ... having an affair with
Farhan. That you manipulated her into killing Kyle. They’re saying that
you’re a master manipulator. Not me, okay? Them.”
An electric shock runs through me, but I manage to hide it — Hamza is
watching me intently from across the room.
I chuckle and say, “The cousins have wild imaginations. Don’t believe
everything you hear. And make sure that you fire Hamza — ASAP.”
I shake Mike’s hand — a quick up - and - down pump — and walk away. As I
pass Hamza, I flash him a subtle thumbs - up, and he nods gratefully.
On the outside, I am calm and collected, but inside I’m de eply shaken.
Jesus. I know who spilled the beans about our affair: Mian, that old
bastard. As soon as Abbas died, I had Mian sent back to his village in rural
India — and, as revenge, he must have broadcast the details of my affair with
Farhan.
No doubt the news has spread like wildfire — but has it reached
Maryam’s ears yet? Wait. Don’t panic. Right now, Maryam adores me: I
took care of Farhan and Kyle, didn’t I, and secured the safety of Tiger
Corp? I can preempt the rumors and confess my affair. Yes, Maryam will be
hurt — but she knows how manipulative Farhan can be. And once I’ve
confessed, there will be no secrets to cloud our future.
It must be done. On my way out of the room, I tap Maryam on the
shoulder and whisper that I will be right down the hall, in Abbas’s study,
and that she should join me as soon as she can, I have something important
to tell her.
“Oh?” She smiles and raises one eyebrow playfully. “How mysterious.
I’ll be right there. As soon as I es cape the aunties.”
I smile, wave at the aunties, and stride to the door. Maybe it is my
imagination, but I can feel eyes following me, and small titters of laughter.
To hell with the Khans. I’m no longer the wimp I was. I can outmaneuver
them.
Abbas’s study is dimly lit and mercifully quiet. Maryam will be a few
minutes — the aunties are hard to es cape — and I pass the time by examining
Abbas’s wall of photographs.
I peer at the photograph of Nachtmann’s Polish Restaurant in the Bronx,
1973: Abbas is in a waiter’s waistcoat and apron, arms folded, his smile
huge and boyish. And right behind the old - fashioned cash register is a slim,
vivacious, dark - haired woman in a dress with a floppy Peter Pan collar. And
now I have a name to go with the face: Ewa Nachtmann, the owner’s
daughter, years before she changed her name to Ava Nowak.
This is an early image of Ewa, for sure. I know, because I cleaned out
Abbas’s safe - d eposit box at Chase Bank and found an envelope stuffed with
more photographs:
A snap of Abbas and Ewa in the 1970 s, leaning against the railings of
the Staten Island Ferry, Abbas in an open - necked shirt and flared
trousers, Ewa wearing a bright yellow summer dress with polka dots,
their arms around each other, looking deliriously happy.
A worn, creased, wallet - size portrait of Ewa, smiling shyly, now
sporting the horn - rimmed glasses she was to wear for the rest of her
life.
A slightly blurred family portrait. Abbas, unsmiling, wearing a doublebreasted suit; Ewa,
now dumpier, thickened by age, and standing
between them is a small boy with dark floppy hair, holding a huge
stuffed bear. The little boy is clutching Ewa’s hand, but Abbas stands
alone, his hands characteristically thrust de ep into the pockets of his
suit jacket. I imagine them at a fairground or the Bronx Zoo: Abbas is
scared of being seen in public with his secret family — but Ewa must
have talked him into it. They wander around the fairground and Ewa,
desperate for a ke epsake, asks a stranger to snap the picture, but all it
reveals is the awkwardness between them.
No point in ke eping these photographs. I burn them.
Abbas. On the surface, his life a glittering success. Underneath it, a toxic
lie that leached into his family, poisoning them all: Coco has retreated
behind the high walls of the Zen Cliffs monastery and plans to spend the
rest of her life there. Farhan, shamed and isolated, has become a monster.
Only Maryam, calm and capable, has survived the damage.
Speaking of which — where is Maryam? What is ke eping her?
Just then she comes through the door, her face flushed, eyes sparkling.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, those aunties talked my ear off. Good speech, Ali. I
think it’s clear that you’re the next CEO. One or two of the cousins will
oppose your nomination, but we can handle them...” She sees my face and
stops short. “What’s wrong? You think it didn’t go well?”
“No, no. It was great.” I sink onto a sofa and pat the seat next to me. “Sit
down, please. There is something I need to tell you. It’s not pleasant, but I
have to get it off my chest.”
Maryam walks over to the window. “It really stinks in here, doesn’t it?
Do you mind if I open the window?”
“I’m okay. Could you please come over here?”
But Maryam dallies by the window. She pushes it open, takes de ep
breaths, and chatters away nervously, her back turned to me. “Oh, much
better. But it looks like it’s going to snow. They’re saying like six inches. I
hope the chopper can still fly...”
“Maryam, can we please talk? This is not easy for me.” My voice sounds
inadvertently harsh.
“Hey, don’t snap at me.” She is still turned away, and I cannot see her
face. “You think it’s easy for me to hear this? They’re all chattering about it
out there. Your sordid little affair with Farhan.”
Oh God. Too late. What now? My breathing becomes jagged. Is Maryam
going to clench her fists and beat me again? Call a divorce lawyer?
Outside, the wind blows harder. Freezing air gusts in and Maryam
finally closes the window and turns to face me. Her cream sari is crumpled,
but she doesn’t look angry — and her voice is oddly calm. “The whole
family is gossiping away out there, but I don’t really care. It’s old news.
Who cares about those morons? Just put on a poker face. They’ll soon get
tired and move on.”
Old news? I hear her words clearly, but I cannot make sense of them.
“You know about us?”
“Oh, yes. I’m not stupid — and you weren’t exactly subtle about it.
Disappearing during the wedding. Those flirty looks Farhan gave you. And
then after we came back here, you k ept running off to her apartment, and
you’d come home and jump right into the shower.”
My mind struggles to reinterpret the last few years: So Maryam knew
about the affair right from the beginning — that is why she acted so strange
during our honeymoon. She knew about my visits to Farhan’s apartment on
Canal Street — so why didn’t she confront me?
“Mimi.” It is the first time I have used her nickname. “Clearly, you don’t
want to talk about this, but ... if you knew that I was sle eping with Farhan,
why did you agree to marry me?”
Maryam shrugs, as if the answer is as plain as day.
“I saw the way you looked at Farhan on that first day ... and when you
agreed to marry me, I guessed that Farhan was part of the reason.” She
pauses, and her voice grows stronger. “I also knew that Farhan would tire of
you. That’s how she is: Sooner or later, she feels betrayed and turns against
her lovers. I knew it would happen to you — and then I could have you all to
myself.”
Maryam’s r eply still does not make complete sense. “But you could have
married anyone. Why go through all this trouble to have me?”
Maryam sighs and stretches her neck — I hear the vertebrae pop — and I
wait for her to say I fell madly in love with you, Ali. You were so sexy. I had
to have you.
Instead there is a curious expression on Maryam’s face, hard to make out
in the murky light. “Hmm, that’s a tough one. Okay, I’ll be completely
honest. It’s ... Don’t take this the wrong way, Ali, but ... the other men I
met, they all had huge egos. They were very male, very stubborn. But when
I met you, I felt that you were ... easygoing — no, maybe likable is a better
word. I knew that — once Farhan stopped using you as a plaything — you
could be molded, shaped. I needed someone like you, Ali.”
It is like being punched in the gut — and the voices start up in my head.
Ma saying vehemently, “You are a lovely boy, Ali, but you’re a child.” My
elder brother’s brusque voice: “Abbas Khan chose you for his daughter
because you’re a light - skinned idiot.”
They were right. Maryam chose me because I was easygoing, likable.
All nice ways of saying weak.
I stare at Maryam Khan, and for the first time I see her clearly. She sits
on the sofa in the dim, undersea light of Abbas’s study, her face blurred
with tiredness, but she is unperturbed, fully in control of herself.
How could I have been so completely wrong? Maryam has not es caped
Abbas’s influence — she has truly been shaped by him: She was able to
sublimate her pain to achieve her long - term goals. She waited patiently for
my affair with Farhan to flame out, waited for Farhan to self - destruct. And
now Maryam gets everything that she wants: A malleable husband. Her
sister out of the way. A real estate empire. Children. This house.
Maryam registers the self - loathing on my face, and her voice is softer,
conciliatory. “I made you sound passive, Ali — but I didn’t mean that at all.
You’re smart. You figured out who Kyle really was — and you used that
information to manipulate Farhan.” She leans over and holds my face
between her warm, soft hands. “You’re feeling guilty about Kyle’s death,
right? That’s what we’re really talking about? Look, it was a hard thing to
do — but Farhan had to be stopped. If it makes you feel better, you just
finished the job.”
Finished the job?
I must look confused because Maryam moves closer. Wings of long dark
hair frame her fine - boned face and her hazel eyes gaze into mine, as if
saying: Let it go. Let’s move on.
But I cannot.
“I ‘finished the job’? What does that mean?”
Maryam sighs and folds her hands into her lap. “Okay, fine, let me tell
you a little story. Something that happened years ago. It was the summer
before high school, I was thirteen, and Farhan comes out to Sher Khan
House. No one else is home, but I’m lying by the pool, okay? Farhan
accosts me — she’s babbling away, clearly drunk or high. I get her to calm
down, and she blurts out that she thinks she recently hooked up with the
Jackson Heights Killer. She says that she wants to go to the cops and make
a big fuss, splash it all over the media. Can you imagine what the tabloid
headlines would have been? The family would have been turned into a
laughingstock! So, after Farhan left, I called Papa and had him shut her up.”
I cannot believe my ears. “You deliberately stopped the police
interview? What about JHK? Those five girls he went on to kill?”
“C’mon, Ali. Don’t be dramatic, okay?” Maryam speaks slowly, as if
explaining something rudimentary. “I had no idea that JHK was going to
ke ep on killing, did I? And anyway, Papa felt terribly guilty later. He
supported the families of the dead girls for years afterward — he paid for
apartments, college educations, weddings. Those families probably ended
up better off because of what happened.”
Maryam looks tolerantly at me as if I am an idiot, as if I should just do
the math. And then she chuckles. She chuckles, as if we are buddies and
have just shared a naughty joke.
“Besides, Ali, you’re no Boy Scout. You got my sister to murder Kyle —
but, hey, am I judging you? These kinds of people — Kyle, those five dead
girls — don’t matter. They live tiny insignificant lives, they live and die, and
nothing changes. They don’t count. We do. We can change things, shape
cities...”
Maryam chatters on, in her soothing therapist’s voice, but I am no longer
listening.
I have been a fool and misread everything.
Not just the past but the present, too.
What I took as Maryam’s loyalty to Farhan — taking the diaries to Epps,
ke eping it all from me — was Maryam helping her sister to create another
big mess — but before Maryam could rat Farhan out to Abbas again, Farhan
abruptly disappeared. What I understood as Maryam’s grief about her
sister’s disappearance has been anything but — all that time, Maryam has
been on edge, anticipating Farhan’s return, knowing full well that her sister
is capable of great damage.
Now Maryam puts her arms around me, and her voice is soft,
conciliatory. “But let’s not talk about all this old, ugly stuff, okay? In a few
years, Big Mike will retire. You’ll take over as CEO — and you’re not alone
in all this, okay? I’m going to quit working at the hospital, and I’ll help you.
I learned a lot about the business from Papa. Now let’s focus on the
present.”
Maryam places my hands on her belly, and I feel an undeniable flutter
under her skin, a sudden, fluid slipperiness. Our son. Our daughter. In
Maryam’s pretty, beaming face I see only maternal love, and the dissonance
is so strong that I must look way.
“Please, Ali, don’t sulk. Now, come on — I have a surprise for you
tonight. A present. You’re going to love it.”
A present? The other day I told her that my dream car was a vintage firered Porsche
917 — but right now, no car will make up for the words that
Maryam has just uttered. Still, she grabs my hand and urges me to stand.
We walk down the long corridor to the front of the house.
“We’re going outside? It’s raining. We’ll be soaked.”
Maryam holds my hand tightly and tugs me along. “It’s supposed to
stop. Come on, this present can’t wait.”
I stumble alongside her, defiant and distant. Whatever the gift is, I don’t
want it — I will never again acc ept anything from Maryam Khan.