of chocolate cream cake. As her tongue tasted velvety pudding, the first pains pierced José’s chest. While she scraped the last of the sweet icing from her plate he lost his balance and fell, his heavy body crashing down to the floor. His heart finally gave up as she gulped back strong, aromatic coffee.
They found him lying on the kitchen floor, his right hand over his heart, like a man pledging allegiance to some great cause. Only, there was no pride in his expression, his mouth shaped into an unfinished sentence, his wide-open eyes forgetting to shut. While she bent down and mimicked the CPR she’d seen on television, her hands pushing down against his unwilling chest, her mother pressed her fingers against José’s eyelids, uttering a barely audible prayer.
— * —
Ismail entertained the paranoia for few minutes:
Why’s she watching me?
She must know about Zubi.
Maybe the neighbours have been talking again. I was a fool to think they’d stopped.
I am so stupid and naive.
But maybe I’m just being paranoid? Why would she watch me, then?
And on and on.
Eventually, he resolved to put the old woman out of mind. He made a cup of Orange Pekoe, and placed three chocolate chip cookies on a plate. While he enjoyed the sensation of mushy cookies mingling with hot tea against the roof of his mouth, it came to him. He realized he had met the old woman before. She wasn’t Lydia’s grandmother, she was her mother! And then he recalled that day, over a year ago, when he was on his way to the pub and Rob Gallagher had been oddly and unexpectedly cordial with him.
Only back then, the old lady had not looked so old. She hadn’t been wearing head-to-toe black; rather, she had seemed sophisticated, even attractive. He considered that the stylish woman he’d met over a year ago had likely lost her husband, and entered widowhood.
He finished the three cookies and returned to the cupboard for more but they didn’t satisfy. He grabbed a light beer from the fridge, and after a few sips, felt a little better. He looked out his back window at the rainy, November day. The clouds were darker now, casting a grey pall over the kitchen.
— 7 —
Agonias
Ismail was still contemplating the widow the next day, his mind troubling over the changes he’d seen in her. He wondered whether it really could be true that the woman sneaking looks out her window was the same one he’d met a year earlier. But then, he knew grief had a way of altering things, leaving indelible marks on people.
Many people — Ismail’s brother, the therapist, Daphne — urged him to let go of the past, and move on with his life, as though letting go was some sort of simple procedure that would yield a positive outcome, if only he’d just applied himself more.
Just do A, B, and C thrice daily for result D. Hah!
On his last morning with Zubi, almost nineteen years ago, Ismail had risen early. It was August, and the wind wafting in through the bedroom window was already humid. He gingerly untangled himself from the sheets, trying to avoid waking Rehana. My wife, he sometimes said aloud to himself, for he liked the domesticity of the word.
He watched Rehana’s rhythmic breathing and hoped she wouldn’t stir; he didn’t want to interrupt her last fifteen minutes before the alarm clock buzzed her awake. Since Zubi’s birth, sleep deprivation had made her irritable, her frown lines deepening until she almost always looked cross.
Being a father was something he was still getting used to, although Zubi was already eighteen months old by then. He figured it was like that for most fathers, their children constantly changing and growing novelties. He tried to keep up with it all.
He looked in on Zubi before taking his shower. She was sleeping soundly on her stomach, her little face squished against the crib mattress, her blanket balled up around her right arm. He gushed inwardly at the beauty and serenity in her face. In moments like those, it was easy to for him to forget that she’d woken twice during the night, one of her crying spells lasting almost an hour. As Ismail gazed at her from the nursery’s door, he foresaw that his lovely Zubeida would grow into a pretty girl, an attractive woman. He envisioned her having a wonderful life, a life full of every privilege and happiness she deserved.
He used the toilet, shaved, and while he was in the shower, Rehana awoke and stumbled, like a somnambulist, into the bathroom. She emptied her bladder and then brushed her teeth furiously with a firm-bristled toothbrush. While Ismail dried off, Rehana stepped past him, taking his place in the tub. She sang while she washed her hair, belting off a few off-key verses of Whitney Houston’s One Moment in Time.
Ismail dressed, made tea for then both: strong and bitter with just a drop of milk and no sugar for Rehana and three sugars and a long pour of condensed milk for him. While Ismail sipped tea, Rehana dressed herself, then Zubi, then shoved a bottle and Zubi into his arms.
He walked across the slanting living room floor, stepping carefully to balance Zubi, the warm bottle, and the municipal section of the Toronto Star. As he lowered himself to the couch, cradling Zubi in the crook of his arm, he tilted the bottle up for her to drink. He’d become quite expert at maneuvering her with his left arm so that he could hold up the newspaper with his right. Speed-reading as much of the paper as he could, he paid little attention to Zubi, who drank her milk with fervor. Like her mother in her youth, she had a strong appetite.
Rehana made toast, ate hers quickly, and came to get Zubi. He followed her into the kitchen to spread butter and jam on his bread. Rehana fed Zubi a bowl of instant baby cereal, while scanning the front-page headlines her husband held up like a shield.
Ismail finished his toast, gathered up his things for work, and impatiently called for Rehana to hurry up. Chalo, Rehana, we are going to be late! I’ll wait for you by the car! He carried Zubi outside, strapped her into her car seat and heard Rehana open her door and settle herself in the passenger seat. While he buckled himself in, she reminded him that they would be changing their routine that morning, dropping her off first so she would get into work on time for a special mandatory meeting that she seemed nervous about.
He pulled in front of Rehana’s building on Bloor Street, and she leaned over to offer him a dry cheek peck. As usual, Zubi had dropped off to sleep as soon as they’d left the house, the car engine and moving wheels her lullaby. Rehana blew sleeping Zubi a kiss and whispered. Bye bye baby! See you later, Zubi! Ismail asked Rehana to grab his briefcase from the back and place it on the front passenger seat so that it would be easier for him to reach later. She didn’t question the request and complied. A car behind honked, protesting their pause in a no-stopping zone and Ismail grumbled another, Chalo, let’s go!
Normally, they would have driven to the daycare first. Rehana would have unlatched Zubi’s seatbelt and carried her inside and by the time they reached the daycare room, Zubi would have been awake enough for goodbyes. But that morning, Rehana could only wave to Zubi from the sidewalk, with Zubi still asleep, snoring quietly in the back seat.
Ismail regretted hurrying Rehana that morning.
And then he drove to work. He circled the already full municipal parking garage, cursing the city’s lack of foresight that led to such insufficient staff parking. He found a free spot on a quiet side street two blocks south. At least this is free, he said to himself, looking on the bright side. He pulled up under a tree that would offer some afternoon shade, grabbed his briefcase, locked the car, and rushed into work.
