Jane entered her apartment and threw her gym bag onto the floor next to a rolling camera case. In the living room, which doubled as a dining room, she pulled off her coarse gi and tossed it onto the mid-century futon. On the opposite wall, the magenta Dia de Los Muertos clock occupied the spot designated for a television. Its skinny black hands pointed to half-past twelve.
She took a deep breath, her stomach tight with anxiety. Only four hours until the arrival of Mahsood’s flight. Four whole hours. Since she had agreed to the engagement, time had flown by like tax season in a busy accounting firm. A month ago, Uncle Gafar had informed her that the processing of a fiancé petition would take at minimum a year. Instead, he wanted Mahsood to enter on a short-term visa and adjust his status after the marriage. “We will have to hold the ceremony right away,” the uncle told her. Jane consented and asked for her fiancé’s phone number.
When she dialed it the next day, a man answered, his words indistinguishable among the dying screeches of the phone line. He said, “Hello.” Maybe. Or, maybe he said something else. She called again. Twice. Same frustrating result. She had to talk to him at least once before the wedding. Despite this being an arranged union, Jane had not intended to marry a stranger.
On weak legs, she circled the counter and entered the kitchen.
There, at a high-top breakfast table, Nessa sipped coffee, her eyes glued to her tablet. The voice of a TV presenter chirped over the popping of a nail gun — Nessa dedicated her rare moments at home to watching house-makeover shows. Without looking up, she adjusted her not-so-modest bathrobe to cover her well-rounded thigh and pressed her lips against a happy-skull mug.
Three photographs above Nessa’s head depicted Alabama landscapes — an ivy-covered cottage in an affluent suburb, the red Japanese gates at the Birmingham botanical gardens, and the statue of an arrow-holding Vulcan, his gaze piercing the cobalt sky. Nessa, who was a professional event photographer, experimented with fine art shots as easily as she did with men.
The show’s closing theme played, and Nessa raised her eyes from the tablet. “You went to jiu-jitsu the day before your wedding?” She arched her microbladed eyebrows. “Didn’t you just get rid of the bruises from last time? The one on your neck was super horrendous.”
“I don’t skip practice. Besides, Mom hired a make-up artist.”
Nessa smacked her palm against her forehead. “Don’t tell me Nancy is going along with this shit-show.”
“Mom supports me in everything. You know … the single mother complex.” Jane opened the refrigerator and surveyed the inside.
A lonely strip of bacon was drying out in a plastic pack on the second shelf. An untouched bag of wholewheat bread resided on the third. On the door rack sat a large Tropicana bottle with a few sips of juice left.
She pulled out the bottom drawer. “I’m borrowing two eggs, Nessa.” Jane took out the carton and set a frying pan on the stove. “Mom even planned a separate banquet for our side. She said we have to celebrate it the American way as well.”
Nessa tilted her head, the ends of her lush black hair sweeping the table. “You know it’s not too late to stop?”
“I know. You told me like a million times.”
“You don’t listen.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Yet you listen to the empty-headed Rachel. All her good intentions are as fake as her nails.” Nessa’s voice surged.
“I don’t listen to her either.” Jane unwrapped the bacon and smelled it, wrinkling her nose. As she laid the slice onto the skillet, it crackled. Jane stepped aside, opening the coffee maker’s cover.
Nessa shook her head. “Why not use a sperm bank? No man — no problems.”
Jane rolled her eyes. Her bestie never hesitated to express that guys were a pleasant but optional part of life. To Nessa, any hardship of single parenthood paled in comparison with memories of her abusive alcoholic father.
Thankfully, most dads weren’t like Nessa’s. They were more like Santa Clauses — sweet, chubby, bearded fellas who spoiled their little girls with gifts and attention. Mom could never become one of those, no matter how hard she tried. Not even when she dressed up in a red velvet coat and glued some fake facial hair to her chin. Mom was too skinny and frail, and her eyes didn't have the right luster, which might've had something to do with her working sixty-plus hours in an average week. During the first shift, she drudged as a clerk in a local bank and at night hauled dishes at the Metro Diner. On most days, Mom returned to their one-floor, country-style duplex long after Jane had fallen asleep with her stuffed Bambi clutched in her arms.
The coffee machine gurgled, the first drips of dark liquid falling into the glass carafe.
The pungent smell of dark roast prickled Jane’s nostrils. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “At times, I want to know whose genes are responsible for my blue eyes. I wouldn’t mind having his phone number either, or a Facebook page, or something.”
Nessa furrowed her brow. “I thought Nancy had blue eyes.”
“Hers are hazel.”
“Still.” Nessa jumped down from the stool and approached the sink.
Jane straightened. “Awad is great to his kids, and the grandparents adore them. My children could have all that and inherit the family’s wealth. Why do you think me so unreasonable?”
Nessa turned off the water and dried her hands with a paper towel. Her chocolate eyes stared into Jane’s. “What about love? Aren’t you afraid your husband won’t love you or you won’t love him?”
Jane swallowed. “Maybe love like that doesn’t exist.” She studied the cracks in the vinyl floor of the kitchen. “All that exists are good fathers … and absent ones.”
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***
A line of barrier tape separated the entry gate from the rest of the terminal. The automatic doors opened and shut with a loud swoosh. Through them, the new arrivals trickled in, the wheels of their luggage clacking on tile. Yelps of joy erupted here and there, accompanied by firm handshakes and tight hugs.
Jane’s eyes followed every entrant. Her palms were sweaty, and nausea crept up her throat. She swallowed it back and shifted from one foot to the other in her leather flip-flops. Maybe she should have dressed up more, but old boyfriend jeans and a plain white T felt safe.
Uncle Gafar paced nearby, polishing the floor with his suede slippers. He took a checkered handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed his forehead. “It is too much trouble for you, Miss Jane. Too much waiting.”
Jane bit her lip. He had said this numerous times. Right now, he wanted her at his house, taking part in pre-wedding rituals. Nevertheless, she was shaking with anxiety in a crowded airport line. What was she trying to uncover during this brief meeting, hours before their wedding? Bad breath? Bad manners? Bad vibes? Perhaps, she needed one last chance to change her mind.
A stately figure appeared through the doorway, towering above other people. The man wore a blue silk coat, fitted and reaching below his knees. He rolled a leather suitcase etched with “LV” brand logos.
Jane’s heart thumped a thousand beats per minute. He was good-looking ... in an unfamiliar kind of way. But she knew that already, didn’t she? There was no need to stress.
Mahsood stalked toward them, his eyes focused on Uncle Gafar. “As-Salam-u-Alaikum, Gafar tayaa.” His quiet baritone rumbled.
“Wa Alaikum Assalam wa Rahmatullah, Mahsood. Let me introduce Miss Jane Stepanoff.” Uncle Gafar smiled and gestured toward her.
A pair of black onyxes pierced Jane as if this man knew her deepest and darkest secrets. Cold shivers ran up her arms. Such an intense gaze. Was he upset for some reason? Or didn’t find her attractive? He must’ve gotten her photo beforehand and wouldn’t have come if he disliked her. Or, would he?
At last, Mahsood put a hand against his heart and nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up a bit.
“Well, youth, ready to go?” Uncle Gafar’s voice rang with excitement. His face shone as he ushered them toward the exit.
From the coolness of the airport building, they stepped into the scorching heat, and Jane inhaled the smell of asphalt. The line of cars stretched out from the back of the lot to the automated payment kiosk that spat out stamped tickets. Passers-by gawked at Mahsood’s overcoat, which shimmered in the blazing July rays. His face remained blank.
The burgundy Lexus nestled in the shadow of an oversized truck. Jane squeezed past it and opened the car’s rear door. Mahsood sat in the front, next to Uncle Gafar.
The air inside felt stuffy—the AC, working at full force, was losing to the ovenlike summer. They cruised through downtown and headed east on U.S. 280. The rush hour traffic caught up with them in the overburdened corridor. The fifteen-minute trip to Mountain Brook would take at least thirty.
Jane fidgeted. This was probably her last chance to talk to her fiancé before the big day. She took a deep breath. Now or never.
“Mahsood,” she said, leaning forward.
No reaction.
“Mahsood.” She tapped his shoulder.
He turned. Wide eyes stared at her.
“Is this your first time in the States?” She spat out the first thing that came to her mind.
“Yes.” He glared at her without saying another word.
“Tell me something about Pakistan.”
His look trailed down her chin and onto her neck.
Jane brushed back her loose hair.
A smile touched his full lips. “It is beautiful.”
“Young man, move away from the lady! She is not your wife, yet!”
Mahsood jumped and scooted sideways.
Uncle Gafar glowered at her from the rearview mirror.
Is that why the uncle didn’t want her at the airport? Was there a custom that forbade communicating with the bride before the wedding? Or men and women couldn’t talk to each other at all? Strange. Rachel didn’t mention any restrictions.
Silence returned, broken only by the lingering voice of a folkloric singer wailing the unchanging “Habibi” from the car’s radio.
A semicircle driveway led to Khans’ mansion, a three-story structure with Georgian windows and ivory stucco siding. On the porch, Aunt Ilma, Uncle Gafar’s wife, paced among the Corinthian columns.
“Why these two are arriving together?” She studied Jane and Mahsood, who walked on either side of the uncle. “Nothing is done right anymore.” The aunt shook her head, and her multicolored dupatta fluttered. “Come.” She grabbed Jane’s arm and pulled her into the doorway. “Why you are so late? Twenty-four hours I need for Mehendi. Drying the color takes time. We will be scraping it off in the middle of the night now.”
Jane didn’t listen to Aunt Ilma’s mumbling. Despite the old lady’s grumpiness, she had accommodated Jane’s non-traditional circumstances and bore the burden of organizing the celebration. As Jane and her mom were clueless regarding Pakistani wedding rituals, the aunt took upon herself to hold the Mehendi, a ceremony carried out by the bride’s family.
As she trod behind Aunt Ilma, Jane glanced back at her soon-to-be husband.
He was following Uncle Gafar down a gravel pathway to the back of the mansion, pebbles crunching under the weight of his massive body.
What kind of man was Mahsood? Reserved, no doubt, except for his piercing gaze. Yet, he didn’t put her off. In any case, their acquaintance was way shorter than she had expected. Maybe, she should have postponed the nuptials. Could she do it now?
The house bustled with activity. Relatives and friends of the Khans had traveled from other states and Canada to take part in the festivities. Women were decorating the main hall with carmine flowers and garlands, conjuring spicy-smelling foods in the kitchen, and gossiping in English and Urdu while seated on sofas and scattered colorful pillows. Not a man in sight.
Jane squinted in the sunlight, which penetrated the glass dome and glimmered on marble walls. Aunt Ilma ushered her to the middle of the great hall. “Stand here.” The old lady disappeared into one of the side doors and reemerged with a ceramic bowl filled with an olive-green pastelike substance and a thin painting brush. She placed the dish on a carved stand and reached for Jane’s hands.
Jane jerked away. “It won't go with the second dress.” She fell silent for a moment. “After the traditional wedding, I’m wearing white.”
The room plunged into silence.
What a silly excuse. A last-second attempt to stop the inevitable. The guests, the ornaments, the banging of pots and pans — this wedding had long been underway. How did she let it get this far? She had thought she would have more time, more interactions with Mahsood, more clarity.
Aunt Ilma glared at Jane. “Without henna, there will be no luck in your marriage.”
Luck. Not time. No amount of years filled with Netflix crime shows would’ve made Chris commit to her. Her certainty about him, her careful calculations, her planning of their future, all went to waste, and now she had to rely on a precarious blessing brought about by a diarrhea-like concoction on the tip of Aunt Ilma’s brush.
Jane contemplated the gooey mixture. Please, oh please, let Mahsood be the one.
She extended her hands, and for the next few hours, the bristle tickled her skin as honey-colored patterns and characters formed on her fingers, palms, and forearms.85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8zUQyYUubP
