Lie Girl

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

During the flying portion of my journey, I spoke to barely anyone, and what I said was either to get information or to observe a courtesy. My uncle advised me to wear my hijab for the entire journey. But when I reached Seattle and retrieved my luggage, I changed my hijab from black to sky-blue to celebrate my arrival in America. I also hoped it would make me seem less threatening. On the plane, occasionally someone walking down the aisle to the restroom looked at me warily. In Pakistan, my garments made me invisible; outside a Muslim country, I was a dark star.

Ahmad had given me three-hundred dollars for my passage to Los Angeles, and I had spent none at this point. It pained me to hand the clerk one of the crisp twenty-dollar bills for the ride to the train depot (and receive only five dollars and fifty cents in change). It broke my heart to slide six of those stern-faced bills across the counter to obtain passage on the Coast Starlight train.

The King Street Station, where I bought my ticket, was less than a half-hour ride from the airport. Out the tram's window, a magnificent snow-covered mountain appeared.

"That's Mount Rainier for those who haven't been to Seattle before," announced the driver. "Rainier is an active volcano, but don't let that alarm you. The last time it blew was in 1894."

Filling the horizon, the vast, white, tranquil peak settled my heart, the way a large protective dog makes one feel calm when it lies at your feet.

The train ride from Seattle was spiced by a talkative American woman who asked me many questions until she got off at Sacramento. She guessed I was from India or Pakistan, and when I told her she was correct, she clapped her hands. Emily was interested in South Asia and had visited India and Sri Lanka, though not Pakistan.

"Just as a tourist, of course, and I couldn't get enough of their history. Please tell me everything."

Everything?

Drawing on my studies, I told her what I knew about our vast and eventful past. She praised my English and seemed grateful to learn of the Indus civilization, the development of Hinduism, and the arrival of Islam (equivalent to Columbus, the Pilgrims, and the ride of Paul Revere). I nodded at her condemnation of colonialism and supplied the word for the rule of India by England: the British Raj.

"You're quite smart for a young woman. How old are you, fifteen?"

I didn't deny the extra year, for it made my traveling alone more acceptable. As we passed by stunning white mountain ranges, tall thick forests, and crescents of coastline bordered by steep cliffs, I outlined the story of India's campaign for independence and the turbulent separation of India and Pakistan. Among her questions, my seatmate slipped in many inquiries about me. I only strayed into truth when it tightened the seams of my fabricated self.

Despite my protests, she bought me dinner in the dining car. "It's the least I can do for all the information you've given me."

I ordered roast chicken with mixed vegetables and mashed potatoes. I tried to eat slowly, though I'm sure Emily recognized my hunger. My drink was iced tea, and Emily had a cocktail (another word added to my vocabulary)—clear with two olives on a toothpick. She later had a glass of red wine, after which her questions became very personal. Why had I left Pakistan? How did I leave my arranged marriage? Where did the money come from to travel to the U.S.? Why didn't I fly into Los Angeles if that was my final destination? In truth, Emily did not ask many questions, but in my head I asked her ones I thought Aunt Awamila might ask, and in my head I honed the answers. I rehearsed my act with a half-imaginary Emily. At the end of my harmless game, I felt certain I could deceive Awamila.

I had a blue corn veggie tamale and a bottle of water for dinner, after which I fell asleep against a thin pillow propped against the window. As I dozed off, I said goodnight to my friend who had done me a good deed. The tiny jolt of the train's wheels as they crossed the joints between the tracks was hypnotic.

When I arrived at my aunt's door, drained by my long journey from Seattle, the confidence I had on the train shrank. I would forget the answers I rehearsed with the convenient Emily. The inescapable fact was I wasn't Awamila's niece.

I arrived without contacting her beforehand. Considering the passage of time, I resembled Niya enough, but could I match her personality? But of course, why would anyone show up at her home pretending to be her niece? I had her address, and she'd made the offer to take in Niya. It hinged on first impressions, as most relationships did. If she didn't reject me immediately, my chances were better.

I was trembling as I pressed the buzzer for her apartment.

There was no response. I pushed a second time, my heart racing. Her name abutted the apartment number, but what if she had recently moved? What if Niya invented a story of a kind aunt in America? The thought turned me ill, and my instinct was to grab my bags and run. But where would I run to?