*
For the first time since their marriage, Afrah decided to call his mother.
She had been apprehensive at first, not wanting to involve her in something that was certainly not meant to reach her ears. But she was scared for Adnan, and she needed the help of the only woman who knew him better than she did.
She answered on the first ring.
"Assalamu alaikum?" Afrah cleared her throat, trying to sound normal.
"Wa alaikum as salam," she replied. "Afrah dear, is that you?"
"Good evening, aunt," she said. "I hope I'm not disturbing."
"Certainly not," she replied quickly. "This is the first time you're calling me, is it not? You don't know how happy I am to hear from you."
"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner," she said, glancing up to make sure the bathroom door was still closed. "It's just that..."
"Don't worry about it," Maryam said. "It's so good to hear from you. How's the honeymoon?"
"It's fine, Alhamdulillah," Afrah said. "Or at least it was."
"Oh. I heard about the news. How is Adnan holding up?"
"That's actually why I called." Afrah swallowed nervously, her eyes darting towards the door once again. "Adnan is... well he's...,"
"How bad is it?"
"He's hasn't eaten in days," she said. "We were in Rome when Mubarak called to break the news. That was three days ago. Adnan hasn't said a word since then."
"You're in Cyprus now, right?"
"Yes," Afrah replied. "We arrived less than twelve hours ago. He hasn't spoken since we were told, and I honestly haven't seen him eaten at all. He's starting to scare me."
"Afrah, you need to calm down," she said. "Adnan is grieving. There's not much you can do, honestly."
"I want to help him," she said, the pleading tone in her voice threatening to let a sob escape soon. "He's not acting like himself. When I told him we should forget about the honeymoon and come back to Nigeria for the funeral, he started to cry. And then he left for several hours before he returned. He hasn't said anything to even acknowledge what I said. He doesn't even sleep. I woke up last night to find him sitting on the terrace alone. He must have been there for hours. I'm scared for him."
"Did he try to punch a wall?"
"He did," she said. "Both his knuckles are swollen and bleeding. He's wearing bandages."
"Afrah," Maryam sighed, "Adnan is... well he doesn't really know how to grieve a loved one. When his grandmother passed away, he completely lost it. He didn't speak to any of us for months. He stopped eating, except when we forced him to. Most nights he'd cry himself to sleep, only to wake up screaming in the night. I...,"
She broke down then, and Afrah was left standing awkwardly with the phone still pressed to her ear, listening to her mother in-law crying on the other end of the line.
"I'm sorry for reminding you," she said, unsure of what else to say.
"It was just so painful to watch," Maryam said, sniffing back the tears. "My little boy was so torn apart that he reclined into his shell and didn't come up again. I wanted to help him too. I talked to him, sometimes for hours on end, but he never said anything. You don't understand how painful it was for me as a mother, watching my child falling into that dark pit that no one could reach into and rescue him."
"I understand," Afrah said. "Believe me, I do. I'm facing the exact same thing right now and I don't know how to help him. He won't let me in."
"Give it time," she said. "He'll come around. Adnan loved Sa'ada. Fiercely. I can't even begin to imagine what he must be going through. But I hope you'll understand and find it in your heart to love him."
"I... I want him to...,"
She froze suddenly, realizing that something was odd. The room was too quiet.
Adnan stepped out of the bathroom, his shoulders sagging at an unnatural angle. Afrah immediately turned around to look at him, hurriedly muttering into the phone that she'll call back soon. If Adnan noticed anything weird about her behavior however, he made no mention of it. Clad only in a towel, he stared unblinkingly at the too-bright room, with the blinding white carpets and curtains. The French doors which led to the terrace were open, and the light streaming in stung his reddened eyes. Dark circles surrounded them, and there was a sick air about him that made Afrah question whether he was the same man she'd always known.
"I... I was just talking to your mother," she said. "She says hi."
Adnan merely grunted in reply.
"Have you eaten anything, Adnan?" she asked.
"No offense Afrah," he said quietly, "but I would really appreciate it if you stop talking."
His voice was raspy, so unlike the calm and nurturing voice she'd grown used to. Even though Afrah understood that he was hurting, a part of her was stung by his words.
"There's no need to get aggressive with me, Adnan," she said. "I'm trying to help you here."
"I don't want or need your help," he said, walking towards the closet where he'd carelessly flung their bags upon their arrival. "I'm fine. I don't need anyone trying to fix me."
"You're not fine, Adnan," she said stubbornly, shifting on the bed. "I understand that you're hurting...,"
"Don't," he whispered darkly. "Don't sit there and try to pretend that you understand me. You don't. You never have, and you never will."
"Adnan," she gasped, recoiling at the sight of him. "What has gotten into you?"
"What has gotten into me?" he laughed mirthlessly. "My problem is that everyone is trying to act like the world is full of rainbows and sunshine. You're all trying to act like life should go on the way it used to. How can you not understand that she... that she...,"
Adnan bit his trembling lip painfully once more, turning away from her. Afrah turned away as he grabbed his bag yanking out a plain white shirt and a pair of dark jeans.
The aching in Afrah's heart should have been enough to keep her quiet. Adnan had never spoken to her so harshly before, and a part of her wished that he would have remained silent when she spoke to him.
But she wasn't about to give up on him. He was hurting, and the only person he could lash out at was her. She understood that much. But she wasn't about to let him sink into the pit of misery he was beginning to dig himself into.
"Adnan," she called sliding off the bed. He'd recessed deep into the closet, thankfully having slipped on the trousers. He looked up at her when she entered, his tear stricken eyes still red with rage.
"Adnan, I don't want to argue with you when you're like this," she said, leaning against the wall. "I remember a time when I was hurting the same way you are right now. Do you want to know who pulled me out of that hole?"
"Julia Quinn?" he sniggered.
"It was you," she said. "When I lost my best friend, I felt like I would never be able to smile again. I was lost and confused, and the only thing I knew back then was pain. But you helped me heal, Adnan. You helped me understand that I shouldn't dwell on the pain."
"This is different," he said.
"How so?"
"You didn't love her like I did," he said, sliding against the wall until he sat on the floor. "You don't know what it's like to lose someone you've spent half your life being in love with."
"Adnan, there's nothing you could have done," she said.
"I loved her," he said, bowing his head as the tears returned. "I loved her for so long that sometimes it feels like the only thing I've ever done. I gave so much of my life to her that I... I...,"
He broke down again, burying his face in his knees. Afrah swallowed painfully as her throat tightened at the sight of him so defeated. She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her head in his neck.
"If you truly loved her, you'd pray for her," she whispered. "That's the only thing you can do right now. Tears don't bring back the dead."
"It should have been me," he muttered.
"Don't you ever say that again," she said. "Adnan, don't you ever suggest such a horrible thing. You would die and leave me all alone in this cold, cruel world?"
He fell silent then, and slowly, methodically, his arms came around and pulled her into his chest. Afrah let him hold her, allowing his grief to wash over her like a cold wave.
"She begged me to marry her," he said, choking as he spoke. "I remember the way she pleaded with me to abandon my old life and start a new one with her. I almost did. But I was young and stupid. I thought we'd have all the time in the world. Surely she wouldn't abandon me after all this years."
Afrah let him speak, not because she wanted to hear him pledging his love to another woman, but because he needed to let it out.
"I don't remember ever feeling as abandoned as I did when she left me. It was almost as awful as I feel right now. And to be here of all places, in the city where I fell in love with her in the first place. It's just too much."
"You didn't have to do this," she said. "I told you we can head back home and maybe try this honeymoon another time."
"I don't want to go back," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want to go back and have to face the fact that she's really not there."
He hugged Afrah even tighter, burying his nose in her hair. They sat in that position for nearly thirty minutes before Adnan finally let her go. She'd fallen asleep in his arms, so he carried her to the bed and lay her down gently. Despite the heaviness in his heart, he threw on his shirt and left the hotel, hailing a cab. It was time he went back to where it all began.
*
His old room was just the way he remembered. His aunt hadn't changed a single thing, with the dated Chelsea poster still hanging on the wall. Of course the room had been empty for years now, and that was obvious when he looked at the bed, too neat to have held a human in recent times.
"I thought about cleaning it out," his aunt Adama said behind him. "But it just reminded me so much of your stay here that I couldn't do it."
Adnan smiled warmly at her, shutting the door. "It's nice that you kept it this way."
They went into the kitchen, where she made them both steaming mugs of coffee.
"So, your mother tells me that your wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. Is that so?" she asked, setting down the mug before him as well as a saucer of cookies.
"She is," Adnan replied methodically.
"You say that, and yet I'm sensing you don't actually feel that way," she said.
"I do," he replied, taking a swig of the coffee. "It's just... I'm not in a very good mood."
"I heard about Sa'ada," she said, bowing her head. "I can only imagine what you must be going through."
"I don't want to talk about it," Adnan said, staring into the swirling contents of his mug.
"You loved her," aunt Adama pressed, ignoring his sour mood. It wasn't a question.
"I did," he replied after several silent seconds.
"You wish it had been you."
"With every fiber of my being."
"But it wasn't," she said, leaning back into her seat. "So what are you going to do about it?"
Adnan looked up wearily, the burden of his grief weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I don't know," he replied truthfully. "It's just so hard trying to accept that she's really gone. Forever."
"I'm not going to tell you how to grieve, Adnan," she said, leaning forward. "When you came to me all those years ago, you were broken and down on yourself. I looked at you then and saw the man you have become today. Which is why I never gave up on you. I may not have my own kids...,"
"You have me," he said, taking her hand and squeezing it softly.
"And I am immensely grateful for that," she smiled at him. "But I was merely stating a fact. Do you know what I did when, fifteen years into my marriage, I still couldn't conceive a child?"
Adnan shook his head.
"I blamed Allah," she said, the words sounding blasphemous even to her own ears. "I cried alone in my room for several hours every day, wondering what I had done to offend him. I begged. I pleaded. I bargained. But nothing changed. And in the end, I learnt to accept it and move on with my life. Don't try to fight destiny, Adnan. It's a battle you'll surely lose."
She stood up then, patting him on the shoulder. "Grieve all you want. Sa'ada deserves that much from you. But you must learn to move on eventually, and try to be here for the woman who needs you now. She was your past. Afrah is your future."
The words left a hollow feeling in his chest, as not too long ago he had said the exact same thing to Sa'ada, on a cold and windy day. He had meant it back then, and the words seemed truer even now.
If he was going to make Afrah his, truly and wholly, he would have to let go of Sa'ada and the life they'd once lived.
But there was one thing he wasn't ready to let go.
"I know that look," aunt Adama smirked. "You're plotting something, Adnan."
"I think I need to visit the Bay one more time," he said.
"You do," she replied, smiling at him. "You really do."
*