She Should Be Afraid of Me

Thud thud. She answers the door.

“Yasmin?”

I’m frozen at her doorstep. She is beautiful. Of course she would be. I blink the wetness forming in my eyes. Warmth emanating from her figure envelops my heart, superseding the chill of her skepticism.

“Can I help you,” Yasmin responds from the doorframe, one hand gripping the weathered door behind her.

“My- my name is Sarah. The nursing agency sent me.” I twist a loose sweater thread between my fingers to soothe my nerves. It’s not entirely a lie. The agency did not require much coaxing to give her nurse the week off.

Her eyebrows raise.

“Leila did not inform me about a new nurse,” she says, examining my face. I shift in place. She looks toward the car parked on her driveway, then back at me.

Thud thud. My shoulders raise an inch, my lips become a line, and I slightly rotate my head side to side.

Yasmin tells me to wait a moment then returns inside and closes the door.

Thud thud. Thud thud. After what feels like an hour, the door creaks open and she reappears. Without a word, she beckons me to follow her into her house. Exhale. Relief. Inhale. Nerves return once again.

The house matches my first impression of her: inviting, clean, and simple for an elderly woman living alone. It must have been built thirty or so years ago and recently renovated. The floors, for one, are tiled in the mass-produced porcelain seen in newer homes rather than dark, wooden planks that line the staircase and may have previously matched the trims. Modern, glass chandeliers make the home as multigenerational as the bustling family who once occupied the full expanse of it.

Money was put into this house. There must be more in it.

The updated kitchen is overflowing with pots, spices, and fruit while the seating areas are sparse with aged, leather couches that look too small for the space.

She guides me toward the kitchen and reaches for an electric tea kettle.

“Remind me your name, Dear,” she says with her back to me.

“Sarah.”

“Sarah. Do you drink chai? Herbal tea? Coffee,” she asks over the sound of tap water filling the kettle.

I place my purse down on the kitchen island and scan this section of the home. I spot a narrow, console table behind the couch topped with framed photos and memorabilia. A small, round object is tucked in between the frames: a security camera.

Thud thud. Thud thud. I inhale deeply to calm the palpitation in my chest.

“Chai is good. Thank you.”

Yasmin encourages me to sit but I insist on staying with her until we can sit together. Her pink teacups matches the tone and vintage of her hands. Despite her age and condition, her hands are steady when she pours hot water into the cups. So as not to test her capacity with hot liquid, I rush to take the cups to the living room myself. She protests, but I am already halfway to the coffee table with tea in hand. A tray with a glass jar of sugar, milk powder, and used spoons greet me.

She lowers herself slowly onto what must be her part of the couch. It molds around her as if to greet an old friend. This is her throne.

“Where are you from,” she asks. I made no attempt to hide my accent with her.

“Lahore,” I reply. I decide to code shift. “I grew up in Anarkali,” I say in Urdu. My heart thuds harder. I swear it is visible under my sweater. I pinch the cloth and pull it away from my torso to create distance.

Her eyes light up in my direction. “I was born in Anarkali. So was my mother,” she says not in Urdu, nor in Punjabi like I hoped. English it is. More importantly, this is my opening.

Thud thud. “Do you still have family there,” I ask, curious what she remembers.

Yasmin looks down to her lap. Her hands clasp together for a moment, intertwining her wrinkled fingers, then separate and slide down her knees in long motions. Her eyes return to meet mine with a twinkle.

“No,” she smiles, “my family is all here in Canada now.” Her smile grows larger as she continues, “I have four sisters and three brothers. I am the oldest of eight, all from the same mother. I have two children, Leila and Ahmed, and three grandchildren. My husband passed years ago. I will tell you- what is your name again, Dear?”

A lump grows in my throat. I look down at the tea tray and reach for the sugar.

“Sarah,” I respond, offering to sweeten her tea.

“Two milk and two sugar, please. Sarah,” she continues unfazed, “I have the most loving family. My children have big hearts and so do my siblings. I worked hard my entire life to take care of all of them, to raise them, to feed them, to educate them. I paid for their school supplies and I dressed them for school. I knew they appreciated me. I never had to ask them, but they all took care of me in return. I am very grateful. I am very lucky.”

The depth of emotion in her words fail to match her demeanor. It’s as if she has simultaneously recited this story many times before and for the first time. Maybe she is as stoic as I remember. Maybe the Alzheimer’s prevents her from emotional connection with her memories. Knowing love is not the same as feeling it. Maybe I am envious and yearn for my own love to be remembered, to be embraced by the woman who remembers love when other feelings fade. I admit her body is overcome with the memory, even if her distant eyes tell me otherwise.

Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. I blink fast to make a tear go away. My fingers shake as I stir her mildly thickened tea. Sweat cools my back. The lump in my throat wants to explode.

Should I say it? It’s risky. Should I say it? I want to say it.

I hand us both our tea, the radiating warmth doing nothing to quell the jitters. I need to calm myself.

“Yasmin…” I can’t. How could I? Thud thud. It’s selfish. Thud thud. Leila told me it’s a bad idea. Thud thud. She was gracious enough to trust me, to give me the one chance I’ve always needed.

“Yes, Dear,” she prompts. Her wild, curly hair sends a tingle of memory into my fingers. A pillow of curls my hands once ran through to receive comfort, to give comfort. Hair I once kissed for the last time.

I close my eyes to stop the tears once again. I want my grief, my yearning, to be known.

“My father had curly hair like yours,” I whisper. “He passed long ago.”

She is silent. My eyes remain shut. My ears pulse. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. Her tone is detached, as if she bumped into me on a busy sidewalk.

Plop. A drop splashes into my tea. “Me too.” I sniff. “He was not a good father. But he was the only one I had.” I sniff and open my eyes to stare into my cup. Steam rises upward and tears continue to pour into it.

“When I was a child, I used to run away. When I was found by the neighbors and shopkeepers, they would ask me where I was going. I would tell them ‘to find a new father.’ When I was older, I learned my father had a daughter before he married my mother.”

A sharp breath overtakes my lungs. I’m shaking now.

Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. 

“A sister? I have a sister,” I’m smiling, laughing now at the memory. “I would play alone and imagine playing with my sister. I would daydream what she looks like, what she sounds like. How long is her hair? Is she a nice sister? A mean one? She must be beautiful. Does she know about me? Does she know? Does she-” THUD THUD. THUD THUD. THUD-

“Bas, bas. That’s enough,” she interrupts. Her tone is irritated. A warm spot forms on my back. She is stroking it, like a mother would a child. But she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know. I cry harder now.

“Old memories are painful. Do not think of the past.” Stoic. A tissue grazes my wrist. I reach for it to clean my nose. Her hand continues to stroke my back. I can’t stop.

“Yasmin, I called her twenty years ago. I told her I’m her sister and our father is gone. I said I would take care of her now. She said she doesn’t need me. I searched for her for so long. My sister. I’m here. I’m here, Yasmin. I’m here.”

I lean in her direction and gently fall into arm. Tears soak my face, her cotton blouse. “I’m here. I’m here,” I sob into her arm. She wraps an arm around my head and strokes my hair. Like father used to do years before he became angry. Unless… was he ever angry with her? I wrap an arm around her, around my half-sister.

“It’s okay. Do not worry, Dear. You are okay. You will be okay,” she soothes. I lift my head to look into her eyes. Her dark, distant, dementia eyes. The lump in my throat bursts looking at her.

“You’re my sister, Yasmin. It’s you.” I smile. She doesn’t return it. She releases her arm from me and pulls back her arm. I’m left to hover awkwardly over her.

Her voice is flat, the affection she spoke with earlier long gone. “I’m sorry, Dear. I’m not your sister. I do not know you.”

Thud thud. Thud thud. Her cell phone vibrates.

She reaches next to the tea she must have set down earlier. She answers.

“Yes, Leila? I do not remember if I have enough bread. Let me go check,” she carefully rises from the couch and shuffles into the kitchen. I’m left to recollect myself. I sit upright once again. The snotty tissue moistens my hand as I clutch it deeper into my palm. I sip my tea, now warm. Remembering the camera, I turn around and stare into the lens. I mouth “I’m sorry,” and shift again my seat.

The young woman in the faded photos stare at me with confidence. Her late husband and neatly dressed children beam with pride.

Thud thud. My chest is a cavern, my body limp. Shame weighs me down into the cushions. I should have believed her decades ago. She does not need me. She has had a whole family, a whole life, without needing me, without knowing me. She should be afraid of me. I am a stranger to her.

I should leave.

Yasmin returns.

“Leila wants you to help with my laundry. But first, let’s have some tea- oh. Dear, what was your name again?”

I place the teacup on the table and wipe a tear from my eye. I turn toward the security camera. “Thank you,” I whisper and nod into its unblinking eye. The young, curly haired woman beside it dares me to dismiss her resilience. I exhale deeply with a small quiver.

It’s not often a gift comes with second chances. I promise myself to treat this precious time with her with tender respect. She may never know me, but I will remember every moment with her, my sister, until the day my own memory fails.

Mustering the courage of the woman in the photos, I rise from the seat and clasp my hands with a smile.

“Sarah. I’m happy to help.”