The gatekeepers notebook, p.12
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 12
“Time,” promptly replied the woman, turning to face Kalila. “But whatever you decide to do, don’t believe the mumbo-jumbo about time healing all because I can tell you from personal experience, that ain’t entirely true. It does a good enough job, with most of it, and in the end, that’s sometimes all you can count on.”
Kalila nodded, somewhat deflated. Time being the last thing she had much of.
The woman grinned. “I best be going. I still have four more blocks to finish before I can call it quits. Take care of yourself.”
“Same to you,” said Kalila, anxious to close the door.
“Oh,” called the mail lady, snapping her fingers. “I almost forgot, I also tried grief counseling. Just for a couple of months, but it helped. After a few weeks, I started feeling more like my old self again.”
Kalila perked up. That was something she hadn’t thought of doing. Maybe she and Hamza could do it together.
“That’s an excellent idea,” agreed Kalila, hopeful. “Maybe I’ll do that. Look for someone to talk to.” Kalila thanked the woman profusely and closed the door.
Sifting through the pile of bills and notices, she came across a card in a pale blue envelope. No return address or stamp, but her name prominently handwritten in a flowery, or as the mail lady dubbed, “loopy” feminine cursive across the front.
Strange.
Curious, Kalila tore the envelope open. An orange lily graced the front of the card. Written inside, in the same cursive script as the envelope, was an ominous curt message. “We need to talk. —A”
“Like hell we do,” she roared; her blood pressure skyrocketing. Kalila tore the card up into tiny smithereens. “We have nothing to discuss.”
All the pent-up resentment and fury Kalila had worked so hard to contain now erupted. Flying into an uncontrollable rage, she sought anything within reach to either break or throw. Snatching a sneaker from the floor, she hurled it across the living room; content when it made a satisfyingly loud thump on the far wall upon impact.
The doorbell rang again. “Now what!” she screamed in her most feral voice. Somebody pressed the bell again. “Oh, my GOD, make it stop,” she muttered, trudging to the door. “I’m coming!”
For goodness sakes.
Kalila peeled back the side curtain to sneak a peek.
Oh shit! Bonnie—
She’d totally forgotten all about her appointment.
“Bonnie, hi!” she said, pulling the door open for the woman to enter. “Sorry! I was in the middle of packing and stuff, and totally forgot the time.”
If Bonnie noticed Kalila’s disheveled appearance, she made no show of it. “Not a problem. I’m early. I think I told you I’d be around by one, right? But I had a cancellation in the area, so I swung by to see if could catch you in.”
Kalila checked her watch. “I have to pick my son up at school by three-thirty. I can’t be late.”
“No worries. What I need to do won’t take long. Do what you were doing, and I’ll walk around taking notes and some measurements. Okay if I snap a few photos to upload for the web page?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Then, if you have a spare minute, we’ll talk about how we can make this process as easy as possible for you. Sounds good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
True to her word, Bonnie did what she came for; ran the numbers, had Kalila finalize and sign the contract and promptly left. Efficient and pleasant. No prying, no redundant questions, and no pity party. Most of all, no recriminations. Kalila shuddered, taking a deep cleansing breath. Time to get moving.
Running ahead of schedule for once, she still had time to spare. Besides needing more boxes and packing tape, she needed to hit the food store. Rumor had it that eating wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
Kalila tossed on some clothes, grabbed her keys, and took off downtown where everything needed was nearby, including Hamza’s school, only five minutes further down the road.
“Darn it!” A quick glance indicated an almost empty gas tank. Kalila calculated how much money she had to spend to fill up. The prognosis of a big food shopping didn’t look promising.
What had the mail lady said? —Mac and cheese? Ha! More like rice and beans.
The minute Kalila pulled into the gas station, she moaned, kicking herself for not waiting. Jam packed. Cars crammed everywhere. She checked in her rear-view mirror to see if she could back out but got thwarted when another vehicle pulled in right behind her. Now stuck, she had no other choice but to wait her turn.
Unfortunately, the owner of the pickup truck ahead of her appeared to be in no rush. Matter of fact, every move the old man made seemed a deliberate attempt to show how little he cared. Kalila smacked the steering wheel. “Ugh, fuck my life.” With the weight of the world crashing in around her, she lowered her head, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. Kalila practically jumped out of skin when a loud rap at her passenger window nearly scared her to death.
“Oh, my God,” she yelped, startled, her hands rising to block her face. “What the fu–?” For a spilled-second, she couldn’t register the familiar face looming through the glass.
“Marie? Hey, it’s me, Roger,” he said, waving his hands at her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Who the hell?
Roger?
Oh—Roger…Ah shit.
“Roger,” she replied, barely recognizing him with his clothes on. “Hi,” she said, making no move to lower the window, which in hindsight turned out to be her first major mistake.
“Yeah,” he said. “Funny bumping into you here,” he cracked himself up, repeating the word “bumping” over and over again, raising his voice louder to compensate for the glass between them. “I like your scarf, by the way. Very incognito,” he said and winked. “Question—did you get my message? About Wednesday afternoon?”
Just go away…
“Wednesday?”
“I called like you told me to,” said Roger. “Tina said she'd contact you. I guess you didn’t get my—”
Reluctantly, Kalila rolled down the window, but only a smidgen; just enough to get him to stop yelling clear across the station.
Roger hunched over almost pressing his face to the glass. “Oh, that’s better. Thanks. So, ah, Marie, we on for Wednesday or not?”
“I haven’t had a chance to check,” she answered curtly, wishing he’d lower his voice or better yet, go someplace else. Anyplace else.
“Hey, listen, Marie,” he said, his voice somewhat modulated but not nearly enough to suit Kalila. “You and I can, you know, maybe we can come to an understanding,” he said, leering. “Work around the system, if you get my drift.” Roger winked, making Kalila’s skin crawl. “No need for the middleman.”
Kalila glanced up to find the old man done pumping his gas and moving onto a bit of housecleaning. Squeegee in hand, he endeavored to remove what looked like four seasons of grime from his truck windows. If she knew she wouldn’t be sent to prison for the rest of her life, she’d have thrown her car into drive and run that old man over for taking his damn ass time. Anything to get away from this loud-mouthed scourge currently craning his neck through her cracked window in the middle of a small-town gas station. “Yes, well, the system is the system,” she said airily, trying to blow him off.
“Here. Take my card in case you change your mind.” Roger slipped a business card through the crack and wiggled it between his two fingers for her to take. “I gotta tell you, I really enjoyed our last time together,” he said, grinning. “Both my heads couldn’t think of anything else.” He cracked up over his lame, tactless pun.
Kalila nodded, barely able to contain her disdain. She signaled for Roger to step away from the car and immediately rolled up her window.
“Take care and see you Wednesday,” Roger called, puckering up and blowing Kalila a raunchy kiss. Then, under the spell of his own self-importance, slapped the roof of her car two times before swaggering back to his own vehicle, three lanes over.
Asshole.
How he ever spotted her, she never knew. He must have glimpsed her when she drove in. However, Roger wasn’t her biggest problem at the moment because at that same instant, another set of eyes were glued to her from inside the van parked directly next to her on her driver’s side.
You’ve got to be kidding me right now.
Of course, she’d have her window rolled completely down.
By the triumphant expression smeared across her face, Amara must have overheard everything.
The old man finally left.
About time.
Kalila squeezed her eyes closed, immersed in her misery, and mentally running over every word Roger had said, inferred, or spewed. Speculating on what—if anything—Amara could have heard.
Just then the car directly behind her laid on the horn.
“What is it with everybody and their damn horns today?” she groaned, pulling up to the pump.
Mustering up all the strength she didn’t feel, Kalila stepped out of her car, ignoring all the looks, swiped her debit card to pay, and grabbed the nozzle to fill. While pumping, Kalila turned her head away to avoid Amara—who never once stopped gawking—stares. Closing her mouth, she inhaled through her nose and held her breath to the count of three. She could still feel Amara’s eyes on her the whole time, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
I can never catch a freaking break, I swear—
Once finished, Kalila slipped into the car.
Drive away, Kalila… pretend for the watching audience how everything is just fine.
But as Kalila pulled away, her hands wouldn’t stop trembling; deathly afraid at the thought of how everything that vapid woman just saw could come back to bite her in the ass.
Chapter Eleven
I See You
IT LOOKS LIKE SOMEBODY’s guilty conscience is working overtime.
Amara relished watching Little Miss Perfect’s façade unravel—and in a gas station no less.
What did he call her again?
Amara swore she heard, “Marie.”
And why did that guy look so familiar? I know I’ve seen him before, but where?
A car from behind her tapped his horn. Amara stuck her finger out the window and promptly pulled up to the pump.
From Bashir to this fool. How low will Kalila go?
Amara reached for her debit card to swipe.
I can only guess what those two have planned for Wednesday, but where?
Qasim
The boys were fast asleep. Amara and Qasim retired to the bedroom to discuss the bus stop situation in private.
“Granted, what the boys did wasn’t right, but Hamza said a mouthful also.” Amara slipped off her slippers.
Qasim unfolded the blanket from his side and slid in. “Let’s assume his mother is dealing with him. I’d like to stay focused on what our sons did.”
“Got accused of doing.”
Amara … the living, breathing, reincarnation of Ma Barker.
“All right, Amara. It’s obvious you’ve got something you want to add to this situation, so spill it.” Qasim never understood why she insisted on making Kalila Rahim’s life her undertaking. “Let’s hear it, but it better be the truth,” he cautioned.
“Oh, it’s the truth. Heard with my own two ears and seen with my own two eyes.”
Qasim sighed. Besides the embarrassment and unnecessary tension Amara’s bickering and backbiting had caused, he just couldn’t understand the preoccupation.
Amara continued talking, not paying Qasim’s scowl any attention. “I saw Kalila with a man. He’s either her steady boyfriend or a friend with benefits if you know what I’m saying.”
“And why is this any of your business?” Qasim didn’t know Kalila, having not shared anything except the occasional neighborly wave. She seemed pleasant enough. Certainly, stunning. Her beauty had caused him to consciously redirect his gaze on quite a few occasions.
“Because her behavior speaks volumes about her character,” informed Amara, “She likes to pretend she’s so virtuous. The perfect muslimah, the perfect mother, the perfect widow—”
“But we weren’t talking about her, were we?”
“In a way, we were because again, her behavior dictates the values she raises her kid with.”
Qasim let out a harsh breath.
“Go ahead, huff and puff all you want, but you know I’m right.” Amara adjusted the blanket on her side. “And for the record, since when is having a boyfriend in Islam okay?”
“And where did you catch them rendezvousing?” he asked, playing along.
“At the gas station.”
“Where?”
“He was talking to her through her window at the gas station.”
“How romantic.”
“I’m serious.”
“Do you hear yourself right now?”
Amara frowned.
“We’re supposed to be discussing our boys,” he said curtly. “Not minding that sister’s business or judging her by your estimation of her private life.”
Amara gave a dismissive wave. “She’s Hamza’s mother. You should care about how her degenerate child keeps getting away with bothering our kids.”
Qasim seriously doubted the accuracy of that jaded interpretation but kept his observation to himself. “Amara, my only concern right now is how our boys behaved, and from what I’ve gathered speaking to them, they instigated that entire thing. It’s got to stop.”
“But why is it okay for Hamza to get away with everything? Because his father died? All of a sudden, everyone has to walk around on eggshells? Poor little Hamza. He gets away with everything because she never disciplines him.”
“How the hell do you know what she does or doesn’t do? Have you got supernatural vision? Can you hear through brick walls?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I know! You’re a secret double agent, and you’ve had her placed under surveillance.”
Amara’s lips protruded. “Why are you always defending her?”
It was like talking to a wall. “Nobody’s defending her,” he said, throwing his hands into the air.
“Sounds like it to me.”
“I am trying to discuss our boys.” Qasim shook his head. “Look, from now on, I’ll drop them off at the bus stop and pick them up after school.”
“That won’t work.”
“And why not?”
“They’re suspended from the bus for a week, remember?”
“Fine, I’ll bring and pick them up from school for this week as well. Problem solved.”
“Pause,” Amara said, her finger close to his face. “How do you plan to get them after school? What about work?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Oh, really,” she snorted.
“What’s the problem now?”
“I just find that amusing, is all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How you can suddenly change your entire schedule around to accommodate the boys, but when I need you to do something for me, there’s always some issue that pops up.”
Qasim cocked his head, confused. “I thought I was doing this for you.”
Puckering her lips, Amara scowled.
“What more do you want?” Qasim massaged the strain building up in his neck.
“I want you to listen to what I’m telling you for once.”
“I did listen—to every single solitary word. But did it ever occur to you that the sister’s having a hard time since her husband died? Did you ever once think that she may be struggling? It can’t be easy dealing with a preteen boy on your own. Look what ours are doing to us—and there are two of us to handle them.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that instead of you attacking the poor woman every chance you get, maybe for once in your miserable existence you could soften your heart. Offer to help. Be kind for a change. Otherwise, do the world and me a big favor and shut the hell up.”
Amara’s face turned a scarlet red; her fury boiled to the surface. “I wasn’t even talking about her anymore, but fine. Glad we’ve established that she’s your major concern. Good to know that another woman’s feelings are more important than mine.”
“I didn’t even—,” Qasim stopped. “You know what? Forget I said anything.” Qasim turned, giving Amara his back. “I need to sleep,” he grumbled, tugging the covers practically over his head.
Amara wasn’t done. “I like how everyone bends over backward to come to her defense,” carped Amara. Her bruised ego refused to let it go. “Just watch. You and all the rest of her admirers will see I was right all along about her.”
Qasim remained silent.
“What then, Qasim? What are you gonna say then?”
“Go to bed, Amara,” back turned.
“Poor Kalila…Qasim to the rescue.”
“Enough already,” he snapped, punching his pillow.
Like a petulant child, Amara flipped her husband’s back the bird.
Chapter Twelve
Sleeping Forever
FROM HIS BEDROOM WINDOW facing the back of the house, Hamza noticed Melvin sitting on his back-porch drawing. He liked hanging out with Melvin even though he wound up doing most of the talking.
Hamza seized the opportunity to sneak downstairs while his mother showered; climbing over the small fence, straight into Melvin’s backyard.
“Hey,” Hamza greeted Melvin.
Melvin, absorbed by his sketching, remained quiet; but scooted over to give Hamza enough room to sit next to him on the step. Melvin continued sketching away, while Hamza picked at the cuticle on his thumb. The two friends compatibly silent, mutually sensitive to the other’s need for a safe space to exist.
“What are you drawing?” asked Hamza, genuinely interested in Melvin’s drawings.
Melvin stopped.
“Is that your mom?”
“Yes.” This particular drawing depicted Melvin’s mother wearing a bathrobe covered with large pastel flowers, sitting at the kitchen table, and slumped over a cup of coffee. A number of various shaped pill bottles, organized in a line.
