The gatekeepers notebook, p.6
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 6
But Amara wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Why can’t you let Brian or maybe one of the other guys fill in for you? Just for tonight?”
Qasim grabbed his keys. “Not tonight.”
“But you’re their boss. You can—”
“I said, not tonight.”
“But we’re not done discussing this,” she pleaded, her eyes welling up at his harsh brush off. Without thinking, she reached out to grab his arm, but then instantly jerked her hand away…remembering in agonizing detail what happened the last time she touched him without his consent.
“We’re done.”
Amara stepped back afraid. “Wouldn’t you want to—” but her words fell on unresponsive ears. “Please Qasim, talk to me.”
Pokerfaced, Qasim strode past Amara, stopping only to lean in to sniff her neck. “For God’s sake, Amara, do something with yourself.”
The more Qasim was made to wade through mounds of baby paraphernalia and dirty diapers littering his home, the more his silent disapproval switched into razor-sharp, pithy jabs and put-downs. Daily disagreements escalated into full-blown arguments until Qasim stopped talking to Amara altogether. The more distant and withdrawn he became, the more she self-soothed with food. And the more she ate, the crueler he became. His so-called pithy ‘jokes’ were nothing more than covert insults intended to hurt and belittle, and they did their job well. But for all his callousness and indifference, his lack of desire towards her hurt deeper.
Amara wanted to lose the added weight and tried every diet fad known to mankind. The cauliflower diet, the soup diet, the protein shake diet, all sorts of elimination diets, but so far, nothing worked. Food had become an addiction, her body size teetering on obese, and despite a drastic decrease in calorie intake, she had still been gaining weight. Desperate for answers, Amara made yet another appointment with the family physician.
“Your glucose count is almost as high as your weight,” said Doctor Willis, clearly irritated. “You can’t keep this up unless you’re gunning for diabetes, and right now, I’d say you’re borderline.”
“I think it’s my thyroid.”
“Not this again.” Doctor Willis ran his fingers through what little remained of his thinning hair.
“No, really. I read about it online, and I’m showing all the classic symptoms.”
“Stop,” he said, putting up a hand. “I’m looking at your blood tests results right here, and your thyroid is perfectly healthy.”
“That can’t be accurate.”
Doctor Willis, apparently exasperated and no longer inclined to waste his time on her childishness, frowned. “I’ll have my nurse make you a copy of the test results. Go home and study them if you want, but unless you adjust what you eat and start seriously exercising, I don’t see a positive future for you, health-wise.” He had known Amara since childhood; a patient of his from toddlerhood through her teenage years of self-loathing and self-deprecation, not to mention a severe case of acne.
“See this number right here,” he said, pointing to her blood pressure results with his thin, aging finger. “Look how high it is.”
“I see it.”
“All right. Now, if you were to lose some weight, it could either go back to normal or at least be manageable without medication.”
Amara knew Doctor Willis meant well, but she despised him for it. “You act as if I’m purposely doing this to myself or something. I have twins,” she reminded him for the millionth time. “I’m constantly running around behind those two all week long. Cooking, cleaning, picking them up and dropping them off here, there and everywhere—laundry, homework. And, as a matter of fact—”
“Here,” he said, curtly interrupting her rant. “Take this.” He handed her a pamphlet from the old oak bookcase situated behind his desk.
“What is it?”
“It’s the number for a weight loss program in the area. I strongly suggest you give them a call.”
Begrudgingly, Amara accepted the pamphlet. “And I suppose they charge to attend.”
“They sure do. About the cost of two bags of potato chips and a liter of soda,” he quipped back.
“That’s not funny.”
“Neither is diabetes.”
Chapter Five
As Her World Turns
KALILA DIDN’T NEED THE added stress in her life right now. Shirley indicated a week, but who really knew how long Hamza would be suspended from the bus? And while dropping him off in the morning wouldn’t be a big issue, picking him up after school would be. This added time constraint would reduce her work hours to rubble.
“I want the truth, Hamza,” she said. “And don’t bother skirting around it. Just tell me what happened.”
“They were sitting in front of me, joking with their friends,” said Hamza.
“Who was?”
“Amir and Muhammad.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Amir started it first by saying stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Making fun of me.”
“And that’s what got you upset? His making fun of you?”
Hamza nodded no, lowering his gaze. “No…not exactly.”
“Then what exactly? Just spit it out.”
Hamza lowered his gaze. “I got mad when he started saying stuff about you.”
“Me? Ah, I see. Then what happened?”
“I told him to shut his stupid mouth.”
Kalila saw where this conversation was headed. “Listen,” she said, coaxing him gently, “you can tell me whatever kind of things he was saying, all right?”
Hamza winced. “I don’t want to say it.”
“I appreciate you wanting to protect me, but I still need to know.”
Hamza chewed on his bottom lip, clearly uncomfortable being forced to repeat what Amir called his mom. Eventually, under Kalila’s stony glare, he gave in. “He said you weren’t a real Muslim.”
“Is that it?” Kalila suspected more to this story to make her son react so aggressively.
“No.”
“It’s okay, Hamza,” Kalila prodded tenderly. “Just say it. I promise I won’t be mad at you. I only want the truth.”
Hamza tilted his head, resigned. “He said you were a fake…” Hamza turned away, unable to look his mother in the eyes. “and that’s why dad didn’t want you anymore.”
Ouch.
“Then what happened?”
“I told him to take it back.”
“Did he?”
“No. He laughed in my face.”
“Is that when you hit him?”
“No. I said something to him first.”
“Which was what?” Kalila saw Hamza’s shoulders droop in embarrassment. “Just tell me. You’re doing great.”
“I told him that at least my mother wasn’t a mean fat bitch.” Kalila recoiled. “Then I sorta pushed him to get out of my face,” continued Hamza. “And then he fell back into the aisle and starting crying like a baby.”
“Do you think you were handling the situation in the right way by pushing him and calling his mother those terrible names?”
Hamza stared into his mother’s eyes. Venom dilated each of his tiny pupils to pinpoint precision. “Yeah. I do.”
That evening, positioned full frontal before her vanity mirror wearing nothing but a sheer nightgown, Kalila sighed.
Memories.
A house crammed with nothing but memories.
Her filigree number—a gift from…happier days.
Leaning closer toward the mirror, Kalila scrutinized the latest stress-induced damage holding council beneath her green, weary eyes. The pronounced discolored bags matched her splotchy cheeks and pale face. Thinking back, Kalila couldn’t remember the last time the sun’s warmth had touched her skin. On closer inspection, she cringed.
My poor lips.
Using the tip of her pointer finger, she lightly dabbed a bit of Vaseline, then chucked the appropriated hairclip off to the side and loosened her shoulder-length hair from her bun; running her fingers through the greasy strands.
Wash now or later?
More importantly, does it matter?
Tonight’s dinner, minus the few overly polite requests to pass a bowl or a serving spoon, had turned into yet another arduous affair. Kalila missed the once lovely dinner spreads she had worked hard to assemble, all in the hope of impressing and spoiling Bashir. Now, most meals were replaced with a quick, simple assortment of ingredients that could be easily thrown together or found in the pantry in a pinch.
“How was your day in school?” she asked between mouthfuls, hoping to prompt a conversation.
Hamza shrugged, aloof. Chin down, he continued to chew, never once bothering to lift his eyes from his plate.
“Okay then. Any homework?”
This time he scarcely shook his head.
“I’ll take that to mean no.” She stared at her son in frustration. Since Bashir’s funeral, Hamza’s grades had plummeted. “You need to study your spelling and vocabulary words. Friday’s the test.”
Hamza’s moods vacillated between snotty and full-blown rude since his father’s death. The impact of such a loss left him sullen and short-tempered. More often than not, once home from school, he ate and then secluded himself in his bedroom, door locked and refusing to talk. With each passing day, the resentment grew deeper between them, with Hamza becoming harsher and crueler by the hour. Kalila always his target.
At one point, desperation set in. Somehow, Kalila needed to find a way to help her son cope and channel his anger. After many failed attempts, she eventually gave in and brought him to speak with a local grief counselor–despite his angry protests. Granted, in the beginning, the sessions did seem pointless. Especially because Hamza spent a good portion of the hour ignoring the counselor’s questions and adamantly refusing to open up. However, despite the rocky start, there seemed to be some inkling of a headway. For the past few weeks, instead of automatically lashing out, he’d stop himself first, becoming pensive and more thoughtful with his responses; saying nothing or just abruptly leaving the room if he couldn’t trust himself not to go on the attack.
Hamza wouldn’t allow his mother to get close, recoiling whenever she reached out to comfort him; turning into the total opposite of the loving child he’d been not long ago. Back when he’d curl up in her lap to read a book or snuggle during movie night. Just the two of them…giggling through the funny parts and gripping one another tight through the scary ones. Now, things had become so bad that if Kalila dared touch his face or risked a rub on his head, he’d withdraw, wincing, quickly jerking his head or face away. To Hamza, his mother was a pariah.
Kalila desperately wanted her son back. She needed him in her corner or at least not plotting and scheming behind her back. Every day turned into a test of wits with her kid. One moment he’d be calm, then the next go full throttle on her. His mood swings were enough to drive her nuts.
Without replying, Hamza pushed his plate away. He loudly slid his chair back and stood, rebelliously slamming dishes in the name of clearing his spot. No thank you, no peck on the cheek, no nothing. If his juvenile plan included tormenting his mother—mission accomplished. Knowing Hamza wanted to make her suffer hurt deeply. She was suffering all right. Every single moment of every single day. More than this immature eleven-year-old mind would ever be able to comprehend fully.
“I said I’ll do it,” Hamza yelled. “Just get off my back already.” Just one good slap—
“Watch your mouth,” she yelled back, appalled.
“Try taking your own advice.” The sass oozing out of those two teen lips caused Kalila to flinch.
Since when did he become so argumentative and rude? And why the hell to me?
It only had taken a few visits with the grief counselor to realize the sessions would not be an instant fix. Nothing, the counselor repeated, could be expected to change overnight.
“It takes time, Mrs. Rahim. Hamza is dealing with extreme grief. He’s young, frightened—not entirely sure how to process all he is feeling proactively.”
“He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” She put her pen down on the mahogany desk. “What he is, is angry and you’re available.”
“But I don’t get it. Why me?” said Kalila. “I’m the one trying to help him.”
“I know this can be frustrating, but children are intuitive. They can sense when something is wrong, and become easily frightened by sudden changes, whether through an immediate life-altering upheaval in their daily routine, such as a death of a parent or in how they perceive the surviving parent is handling the situation. Sometimes—right or wrong, children blame themselves for what happened. They worry that somehow they caused the accident or the tragedy to occur.”
“But that’s ridiculous. Hamza didn’t do anything. None of this is his fault.”
“Nevertheless, this is how he feels.” The counselor’s eyes narrowed.
“But I never blamed him. How could I?” Kalila asked, arms out and palms forward.
“I understand what you’re saying, I do, but for now, we aren’t dealing with what actually happened. We are dealing with how your son perceives what happened. His response, his perceptions, his feelings. Quite often, during this phase, it’s imperative you keep reassuring him that nothing he said, did, or even thought, had anything to do with his dad’s accident.”
Kalila remembered how heavily it had rained the night of the accident. The suffused fog combined with oil-slicked roads made driving a dangerous feat, but when Bashir fled the house, the last thing he’d cared about had been road conditions.
They had spent most of the day and clear into the evening battling. Malicious remarks and snippy comebacks turned into a barrage of horribly hurtful words. Words that could now never be taken back, justified or forgiven. Spiteful words overheard by a frightened, young, impressionable pair of listening ears pressed firmly to his closed bedroom door.
“Is that her?” Kalila cried, indicating the cellphone in Bashir’s hand. The model-perfect photo popped up on Bashir’s screen every time she called him, taunting Kalila.
At least Bashir had been smart enough not to take those calls in front of her, although Kalila caught him returning texts when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Bashir muted the sound and pocketed the phone; too drained for round three.
“Does she have a name or were you saving that for the big reveal also?” Kalila asked, wishing her legs would stop shaking.
“I haven’t kept her a secret.”
“Oh? That’s rich.” Kalila turned to face him, waiting for the comeback, but instead, he closed his eyes, refusing to meet her glare.
“Look at me!” Kalila screamed, snapping her finger angrily in his face. “You don’t get to shut your eyes to the mess you created.”
Jaw locked in protest, Bashir opened his eyes intentionally slow.
“You think I’m stupid? You think I didn’t catch on to your girlfriend’s trail of little hints purposely left in my car?”
“My car,” interjected Bashir.
“Our car, Bashir!”
“You know what?” Bashir rose to his feet and headed straight into their bedroom. “I’m not doing this anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?” Kalila scurried behind him, but Bashir didn’t bother to respond. “We haven’t finished discussing this.”
“I think we need time apart to let cooler heads prevail.”
“In other words, unless I give you the green light to do what you’ve already decided, we’re done, right?”
“Your words, not mine, but eventually, you’re going to have to come to grips with reality.”
“Your reality. Not mine!”
“Shush. Lower your voice. You’ll wake Hamza up.” Bashir pulled a duffle bag down from the top shelf in the closet and filled it with his clothes and toiletries.
“Right. Far be it for our son to hear how his perfect father plans to abandon his family for a new piece of ass,” Kalila crossed her arms combatively over her chest.
Bashir shot Kalila another sharp look but kept on packing.
“Just stop it,” she pleaded. “Stop doing that,” she begged, reaching into the duffle and yanking out his clothes almost as quickly as he stuffed them in.
Bashir snatched back his belongings. “Would you quit it, Kalila,” he said, shoving them into the already over-stuffed duffle bag. “I’ll collect the rest of my things later.”
Somehow, whenever they argued, Bashir managed to regulate his temper; modulating his voice even when at his angriest. A fighting skill which drove Kalila batshit crazy.
“Please, listen,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to go. We can work this out.”
“There nothing left to work out Kalila. Alexa—”
“A-lex-a? So, she does have a name.”
“Alexa is going to be my wife.”
“Your wife? And what about me? Who the hell am I?”
“Kalila—”
“So now I don’t count for anything?”
“We’re going in circles. For the last time, my relationship with Alexa has nothing to do with you or with us.”
The room started to spin.
Bashir was slipping away, out of her grasp…
The man Kalila had once shared her dreams and aspirations with now wouldn’t even stay to talk, to fight for his marriage. Instead, he packed as if desperate to get as far away from her as soon as possible.
“Obviously she doesn’t care that you’re already married.”
“Alexa knows all about you. And Hamza. She accepts that she’ll be my second wife.”
Kalila sniffled. “Really big of her.”
“Wife…”
Bashir’s words crushed Kalila like never before. Any chance of salvaging their marriage was now shattered. These arguments were never about Bashir wanting to patch anything up. He wasn’t here fighting to fix or save what they once had—that had all been a lie, a ruse…merely a way to ease his guilt and shirk his responsibility to the promises and commitments made to her.
