|Nadia|

August 2014

   What would Sonya, our marriage counselor, have said? Talking is essential in bridging the gap of your loss. You need to find each other again.

   Well I did find him Sonya, you know, that day of our daughter's death? He was right there, behind the lot of suburban apartments, once and then twice. I didn't bother catching him a third time, didn't care if he came home with a different scent than the one he left in, with strands of hair the opposite colour to mine. I wanted to know what made him tick, how his mind was wired. Did the cogs go anticlockwise, as he clutched onto our previous marriage counselor, like she was the last meal before the electric chair?

   Like an ideal trophy wife I could have made excuses, maybe he was tired, so weary of the world that took his son and his daughter that he had to use our counselor as a bench to rest on. Or perhaps he was numb from the experiences and the only way to alleviate it was to talk to someone who understood, someone who could help, someone who had a profession in it. But that would be calling me every variation of stupid in the book. It would also be denying myself, denying that he could have found that in me had he not abandoned the thought altogether, and denying me the opportunity to grieve instead of hate.  Did he feel sorry? Did he try?

   I wanted to bash his head in.

   Instead I glanced at the letter he turned over and over in his hands, his brows furrowed in the classic disapproving visage. He actually did stay long nights in his campus office now, instead of using it as a cliché excuse to fuck his side piece. Was he giving another student a C, a D, or an IOU?

   He used to be the cool teacher, the friend of the class, a pal, a tutor who you could easily talk to because he just got it. A lecturer who would laugh at any under-handed jokes his pupils made and then make some of his own. Now he shifted assignments and report cards on the desk, like it was a conveyor belt in a miserable factory that sold false hopes and promises of stellar careers. He didn't care if you were poorly, depressed or just going through a tough time, a bad essay was a bad essay. 

   "Can I see it?" I asked, breaking the stifling silence. With the whiplash he got when his head turned, he forgot I was even here. I timed my watch: 43 seconds. A new record. His eyes were wide, mouth agape. It was as if he were looking through me, as if he saw his daughter instead. He would often say how she was practically my clone and how her skin was a tanned one like mine, rather than the pale tones of his, and how much he cherished raising a mini me.

   "When did you arrive?" He said rather, than asked, in monotone. Always in monotone, like I was one of his tardy students or an apple polisher. 

   "Before you arrived," I deadpanned, tired of his presence, tired of it all. A few sleeping pills were waiting for me upstairs like polite passengers, the guest bedroom, a small glass of water near them on the bedside cabinet. I ran the pads of my fingers gently against my forehead in an attempt to curb my growing headache. 

   With a shake of his head, he handed over the elusive paper without taking his eyes off his now sudden fascination with the wall. I almost scoffed as I nabbed the paper, careful not to touch his hands and bring him back to reality. It was almost comical, but we didn't laugh in this house anymore. I can't remember if we ever did. Why were we even together? Elaine asked it, Maya thought it and cousin Vera demanded the answer. I would have given one if I knew myself. Maybe we were waiting, waiting for that storm to come and uproot our foundations, so that all we were left with was the lies and the hurt and the ever present indifference. Maybe then we'd part.      

   The letter was neither from a student nor a colleague. It was hastily written, I could tell that much, some typos were very much present. Her words were almost a plea, but I had to give her spirit for trying. I glanced at him briefly, noting the tight set of his jaw. That was the cue, the tell tale sign. My husband didn't approve. He wasn't letting her go, not because she wasn't qualified, she was more than qualified. I knew of how she completed, edited and drafted our daughter's personal statement, which got her into a prestigious university in the first place. He would hate to know of the positive impact she had in our daughter's life— another thing he missed out on and another thing he was too proud to admit.

   When we weren't there to dry her tears and curb her depression, Altaira was picking up the pieces and all but dabbing a napkin on June's face, and absorbing the water from her tear ducts. There was little an invested mother didn't know about her children, even when they were pushing her away.

   To put it in the black and white matter it was, my husband didn't allow her to go there as she reminded him too much of his mistake. Maybe we all made a mistake. We thought we were helping June, but instead we sent her to her demise. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. 

   He may have seen his mistake in his daughter's friend, he might had even seen her as a conduit of his daughter in his grief. I, however, saw amendments, new beginnings, maybe even a glimmer of salvation. My steps were powerful as I slammed the letter on the desk. 

   "You are letting her go. Send them a recommendation they can't refuse. Be a college Dean for once in your damn life and let her go, Elias."

   As if he woke from a trance, he grabbed the letter and actually read it this time, every word, every misspelling and every plea. It was the only way to get through to him these days— bluntly, as if he was on trial for his mistakes and the judge was handing out civic sentences. He set his phone on the table, the sound was up as it mimicked that of a clock on the wall, tick tick tick. He began typing as he did everything now, in monotone. My job was done. You'll thank me later, my June girl. 

* * *

One month later

   I watched her through my window as she left her house. The balls of her feet didn't bounce like most kids' did, as they flung their suitcases and holdalls in the boot of the car, as they practically leapt into the passenger seat for their three years of freedom or more. However, this one trudged her feet and shook a little, as if anxiety was the puppeteer and she was the marionette. This one left her teen self behind with June, and glanced at the world as a new adult. She walked slowly, like a baby deer to the car which was now humming, her daddy gearing and warming up the engine, probably waiting for that infernal steam to disappear from the dash window in preparation for the long journey ahead. 

  This girl stopped just before the passenger door and walked halfway back towards the house, giving it a long, forlorn look. Oh for God's sake, let it go, I wanted to yell, but how well had that advice worked for me? I felt a pang of the reclusive in her, the very same of which I fostered in my heart for twelve years, and again for another year. Twice the shame, double the pain. I dealt with my pain by keeping busy. She dealt with hers by shutting herself in. 

   I made my way to the door, taking a deep breath and then mustering a smile that looked at odds with the weary eyes that flashed clearly on the glass of the door, before opening it. 

  "Here's some biryani for the journey," I said, making my way to the girl and handing her a wrapped up container, before nodding at her father as he cranked a window open.

  "Thanks again, Nadia," he said, through me, thanking my husband who, little did he know, made the impossible happen. But I gave a warm scrunch of my nose and another dashing smile, letting the men have this one, hiding behind the coat tails like a good little wife. 

   "For a good friend of June, she deserves the best education," I said, which earned the sorrowful gaze of her father as if he said sorry and thank you all in one.

   I'm sure Elias wouldn't mind me taking this victory as a way to sequester myself on a beach retreat from him for two weeks, I was the driving force after all. I watched Altaira give me a final glance as if she too saw June.

    I didn't know what came over me. I gave her a hug she didn't expect, one that I wouldn't have given anyone, really. I wasn't starved for affection as a child. I, however, wasn't very outwardly loving.

   "If you need anything at all, even if it's just to chat, you know how to find me," I said, peering deep into her dark brown eyes. Then and there, it almost felt like we understood each other on a soul-deep connection.

   "Please take care of her," I whispered.

   "I will, always," she whispered back, and gave me a smile through watery eyes, ones mine would have mimicked had they had the potential to, not dried up a long time ago with regrets, and deceit and loss. Now all we had was acceptance. Letting her go, she walked away— this time with more confidence, as if she took some of my willpower and blessings with her and got into the passenger side. They were off before I knew it, the blue BMW becoming a dot in the distance.

   Walking back, I opened the door of my house once more. The groans and creaks of an old house that used to drive me insane were now more of a welcomed presence to the cold silence. My fingers drifted along the banister where little hands used to whizz past. I went past the rooms they would leave open as children, toys in abundance. Elias and I would have to tiptoe to avoid the cursed lego pieces washed ashore from the mother ship or a freight train. And then, on 4pm on Saturday the 26th of May, 2001, one of those doors remained shut forever, gathering dust.

   The second room door shut voluntarily through adolescence, Barbie songs transformed into J-pop and heavy metal, pink turned into green and greys. The music lingered around the house like an electric thrum. Some nights I could swear I heard the ghost of it in the walls. But now? Now I was met with two rooms in silence, shut tight because their owners were no longer there to open them. 

   I was in the house one minute and then Elaine Chance texted.

   Coffee at Nine

   I was out of the door the next. Just before I left I placed a hand where the sunlight touched the wall in the corridor. It warmed up and for a few seconds. I imagined it was my children, holding me.

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