MARYAM KHAN, JANUARY 1, 2017
The first morning of the New Year is bright and cold.
Ali is still asle
Ep I slip off the couch, shower, and dress carefully:
oversized white cashmere cowl - neck sweater — it will slip over my swollen
belly — black pants, boots. Muted red lipstick. Concealer to hide the dark
circles under my eyes. (After all, appearances are important.)
I can’t drink coffee anymore because of the acid reflux. I sip a cup of
weak green tea, alone in the kitchen, and think through the implications of
yesterday’s conversation with Ali. Perhaps I was a bit too blunt. It’s a lot for
Ali to process, but the human mind — as I’ve come to know — is infinitely
malleable. (New information is frightening, but over time the mind weaves
a narrative around it.)
I hear him waking in the living room. Poor Ali, in the bright light of
morning, clad in his faded T - shirt and boxers, standing in the kitchen
doorway, so cowed. It is my job to build him up again, to plant the seeds of
a new narrative.
So this is what I do: I place his hand onto the taut skin of my belly. “Can
you feel that?”
“Wow. The babies seem agitated.” He even manages a small weak smile.
“I don’t know how you sle ep at all. Me — I’m hungover. And tired —
yesterday was a lot.”
“I’m so glad you liked your present. Now let’s eat. The kids want their
breakfast, that’s why they’re so active.”
I call them “the kids,” but I’ve already chosen their names: Sara for the
girl, Amar for the boy. Muslim names that Americans can pronounce. They
will be the second American - born generation, and with the backing of the
Khan family fortune, anything is possible. Our children could be senators,
even president. (Look at that old bootlegger Joe Kennedy and what he
turned his boys into.) Of course, hyphenating their last names — Khan Azeem — just isn’t
going to work. Plain old Khan is the best option.
Ali and I eat breakfast in the kitchen. No more fried eggs for Ali. He is
going to be a father, and he has to eat right. We have pumpkin seed granola
with oat milk, and I pour Ali some coffee with a shot of extra - purified
coconut oil, a healthy boost of fat.
The kitchen resounds with the crunching of granola, slurps of coffee. Ali
is pale and silent; he had nightmares last night and cried out, something I
could not understand. No doubt he’s upset about what I told him yesterday
— and then there’s Kyle’s death, which I think weighs heavily on him. I
have to get him out of this funk.
“Hey, sle epyhead. Want to hear some good news?” He looks warily at
me, but I ignore his expression. “I talked to your parents yesterday. They’re
coming to visit for three months, starting February.”
Ali turns pale. “Seriously? Three months? Where are they staying?”
“Right here, silly. The renovations to Sher Khan House will take time,
and we have plenty of room in the apartment. And your mom is going to
help me decorate the nursery. She’s so excited about it. It’s really cute.”
I don’t expect a standing ovation, but Ali just nods and says, “Cool, nice.
I’m going to take a shower, okay?” He hurries out of the kitchen.
What the hell is wrong with Ali? He hasn’t seen his parents since the
wedding, over two years ago. I’m doing this for him — his mother is a really
bossy, unpleasant woman — but he doesn’t seem happy to hear the news.
Oh boy. Getting Ali into a good mood today is going to be a battle.
Ali takes his time showering and emerges thirty minutes later.
He’s wearing dark tweed slacks and a soft pink sweater - shirt under a
black boiled - wool jacket — all garments that my personal stylist has
procured. (Ali’s a natural clothes horse, with his lean physique and long
legs.) I decide not to compliment him — enough obvious pandering — and
settle for a wifely straightening of his lapels.
We wait downstairs in the courtyard for the car to arrive.
Meanwhile, I review this morning’s plan with Ali: We’re going to drive
over to Central Park, take a walk around the reservoir, and then have lunch
with Clarice Fishman and her brother, Ty. Clarice is an old friend from
Harvard, and Ty’s setting up joint ventures to build those futuristic cities
that the Saudis are so crazy about, out in the Arabian desert. Tiger Corp
should get in on the ground floor. We should have been doing projects like
this years ago — but Papa lacked the foresight to see it.
Ah, what great things Papa and I could have done together, if only he’d
given me the chance — but once he wrote Farhan off, he fixated on Kyle.
That moron with his thick Bronx accent, his greasy hair, and cheap suits —
really? That is when I realized that I’d need a malleable husband, someone
who could be used to wrest the company back, and Ali’s worked out
perfectly, hasn’t he? Soon — thanks to me — Ali will be CEO, and I’ll be
right there beside him.
The car still hasn’t arrived. I look vaguely around the courtyard of the
Apthorp and remember that there used to be a bald Guyanese doorman, the
one that Ali liked. Haven’t seen him around in a while — but these people
come and go, don’t they?
“You seem different,” Ali says abruptly. “Pregnancy. It’s changed you.
You’re more ... direct.”
“Ha. You mean grumpy. I can’t tolerate fools anymore.”
I smile charmingly, but Ali doesn’t smile back. He’s started doing that
thing Papa used to do, jamming his balled fists into his jacket pockets. Papa
was always ruining suits that way, and having new ones made. Ali idolized
the old man, and it must be hard for him that Papa’s gone. But maybe he’s
feeling guilty about manipulating Farhan; God alone knows what romantic
feelings he still harbors for her.
If only Ali knew how Farhan really felt about him.
When I cleaned out her apartment, I found a tattered drugstore diary
under a couch cushion. It had a lilac cover inscribed with golden letters —
REFLECTIONS FOR A BETTER SELF — and each page even had an aspirational
quote at the top. Quite pathetic, really.
Most of Farhan’s diary entries (the pages marred with food and coffee
stains) were rants, expressing her anger at the world — and they included
explicit details on how she had manipulated Ali. I’ve k ept the diary, of
course. One peek at it will change Ali’s perc eption of the affair — but right
now I need to build him up, not undercut his confidence further.
I really can’t have him sulking around like a disgruntled toddler.
Ah, here’s the car, a black Suburban SUV. Ali moves toward it, then sees
me standing there, doubles back, and opens the door for me.
He’s such a gentleman. He can never bear to see a lady in distress.
Ten minutes later, we drive slowly down Broadway.
The city is silent and empty, hungover from the revelry of New Year’s
Eve.
We stop at a traffic light. A distinguished, elderly man in a tan cashmere
overcoat crosses the street in front of us, leading a bulldog in a comical red
sweater vest. Neither of us reacts, because we are New Yorkers, and the rule
of the city is: Take everything in your stride.
A tattered homeless man notices our stopped car, ambles over, and taps
on the window. Impassive, Ali and I stare straight ahead. Another tenet of
New York: Ignore anything unpleasant.
“Spare some change? It’s cold out here. I need a coffee.” The homeless
man presses his greasy face against the window and squints at us with
bloodshot eyes.
Ali reaches over and squeezes my hand. I don’t need his reassurance —
the car doors are locked — but I shrink into him, as if for protection.
“Hey! Look at me! I’m a human being!” The man’s voice rises to a
cracked, hoarse scream. “I’m here!”
Ali stiffens. I sense the tension building inside him, the need to act, but
the light does not change — and now the homeless man is banging on the
window with both fists, the glass shuddering under his blows.
“You rich motherfuckers! You’ll get yours! The day is coming!”
“Driver.” Ali raps on the glass partition in front of us. “Get us out of
here.”
The chauffeur gestures helplessly at the light, which is still red. The old
Ali would have hesitated — but now his voice is decisive. “Jump the
goddamn light. Go. Now!”
The chauffeur guns the engine, and we speed through the intersection,
leaving behind the homeless man, still flailing and screaming.
“Oh, thank God,” I say, “the babies were getting so upset.”
Ali nods — but now that the danger has passed, he seems distant again,
removed.
We drive on, and I gaze out of the window at the people strolling
outside, window shopping, heading for brunch. So many people, all making
New Year’s resolutions: “This year, I will work harder.” “This year, I will
be more self - disciplined.” “This year, I will succeed.”
The truth is that most of them will fail.
They do not realize that success is always achieved at a massive
personal cost. I think of the huge price I have paid: For years I’ve had to
pretend to be a compliant daughter. I’ve given up a career in surgery. I’ve
had to break up with the love of my life, because a Jewish man — even a
highly accomplished surgeon — would not have been acc eptable to Papa. I
still miss David, his quiet sense of humor, his long cool fingers on my skin.
Oh yes, it has been a lonely, exhausting journey — and now Ali is
behaving so cold and distant. I cannot take it anymore. I burst into tears,
and sob into my hands.
Ali misconstrues my crying. “Mimi,” he whispers, “I’m sorry about that
crazy guy. Don’t be frightened. I’m here for you now, okay?”
Ali wraps his arm around my shoulders — me, the mother of his children
— but just to be sure, I ke ep on sobbing. He whispers words of consolation,
kisses me fiercely on the mouth. I finally kiss him back, and he seems
thankful for my attention.
We hit a string of green lights and the car speeds down Broadway.
So this is how we start the New Year, Ali and I: clutching each other,
safe inside the warm bubble of our car.
Outside, New York City is reduced to a blur. It stretches all around us,
vast, unknowable, containing our murky past — and our glittering, unwritten
future.