Written in the Stars by Saeed Aisha

Author:Saeed, Aisha [Saeed, Aisha]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2015-03-02T08:00:00+00:00

Part Two

Chapter 31

The room in this unfamiliar home is frosty cool as I sit upon the bed. After a hazy car ride, my aunts deposited me here, positioning me in the center, spreading the folds of my red lengha around me, folding my hennaed hands one upon the other. A canopy of strung petals surrounds me.

A wall clock ticks loudly at the far end of this room. The ornate white wooden furniture in this large room is painted with pink flowers and green petals, as are the oversized nightstands and dressers. I keep my gaze fixed on my hands, trying not to listen to the loud voices and laughter outside the room.

“Mubarak!” A female voice offers congratulations. “The wedding couldn’t have gone better!”

“So traditional. I heard she was from America, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she acts,” says another.

“Really, Nasim, she is beautiful. You got it all with your new daughter-in-law!”

I want to feel something. Here in the privacy of this room, I should feel something: anger, panic, fear. Yet nothing comes to the surface. Maybe, I think, if I don’t look up, if I simply look down and never look up again for the rest of my life, the feelings buried within will never rise to the surface. I can accept the numbness instead of the madness that could follow.

The voices outside the room grow louder. Footsteps approach and then—the door opens. I don’t flinch when it shuts. A lock turns.

But for his movement, silence envelops the room, amplifying his steps and the rustling sound of his kamiz as he walks. I sense him near me. I keep my eyes fixed on my hands, squeezing them tightly. I look at my bracelets. The room grows perceptibly cooler.

He sits down. The bed shifts. I feel him next to me. Looking at me. My head feels heavy. Black spots dot my vision.

He leans close to me. I can feel his breath against my skin.

“May I lift your veil?”

I raise my eyes and see his hands, one on either side of my veil. He lifts it and drapes it around my shoulders. I stare at these hands, the long tan fingers. Suddenly, I recoil. The reality of this moment opens its palm and slaps me across my face: Whose hands are these?

I look up at the eyes looking back at me. A young man wearing a cream-colored outfit and a white turban is watching me. His face is darker than mine. His eyes are deep brown. I stare into this stranger’s eyes, his intense gaze penetrating me.

I feel dizzy.

The black spots dotting my vision multiply.

I feel heavy, like I am made of lead. Every wall I held up, every ounce of strength I maintained to fight this inevitability now comes crashing down.

* * *

My next memory is one of coldness. A cool towel pressed upon my forehead. I keep my eyes closed and pray my eyes will open to my house and my twin-sized bed that looks out at the crepe myrtle in our Florida yard.

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