The Funeral

At the far end of the schoolyard stood an old tamarind tree that had learned how to keep secrets. Its roots held fast to the earth while its branches reached over the schoolyard and tangled themselves into a broad canopy of leaves, dense enough to hide a little girl from the world.

She sat there long after the other children had gone home, high enough that no one passing beneath would think to look up. Her schoolbag lay beside her, one strap caught around a branch, her knees drawn close beneath her skirt.

She had been sobbing for some time, though she had tried very hard not to.

Below her, two girls passed beneath the tree, talking about something that had happened in class. One complained about homework. The other laughed. Neither looked up. Soon they left too.

She was invisible to the world. Invisible felt safe sometimes.

One by one, the sounds of the school faded. Laughter drifted away. A classroom door slammed. Then another. Somewhere across the courtyard, a ball bounced once, twice, then stopped.

At the gate, the watchman spoke to someone, then began looking around. He shaded his eyes against the late afternoon sun and called her name.

“Anaya?”

She remained where she was. The chauffeur looked toward the trees. Her stomach tightened.

“Anaya?”

The two men exchanged a glance. Then came the words that finally made her climb down.

“Your father is asking for you.”

Her fingers tightened around the branch. For a moment she stayed perfectly still. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she began to climb down.

* * *

“Ma’am?”

Anaya opened her eyes. The meal cart was beside her seat, and the smell of reheated food drifted through the cabin, filling the narrow space between the rows. The seatbelt sign was still on. Hamza was watching the clouds through the window, and Zayn was asking her something she had not heard.

“Mommy, where are we going to stay?”

“Uncle Sami is going to find us somewhere.”

“Do I get my own room?”

“We’ll see.”

“Can we go to the beach?”

“If we have time.”

Hamza turned toward her. “Are we going to live there?”

“Maybe. For a while.” She paused, weighing her words before giving them the reassurance they needed. “We’ll be fine.” She smiled, and they accepted it.

That was all she could come up with, suspended thirty-five thousand feet above the earth in a metal tube with two children who believed their mother knew exactly what she was doing.

She knew what she was returning to. She had not forgotten, and she was not expecting miracles. But she had run out of alternatives. She needed time. She needed a place to begin again. She needed somewhere safe for her children, and she would have to survive whatever stood between them and that place.

* * *

It was well past midnight when they arrived. Sami was waiting outside the terminal, phone in one hand, keys in the other, watching them cross the parking lot, but he did not come toward them.

Hamza dragged his little suitcase behind him, the wheels catching in the cracks every few feet. Zayn struggled with his backpack and a smaller bag that kept slipping from his shoulder. Anaya pushed the trolley with the remaining luggage, feeling the familiar pull across her lower back. Everything they now owned was in those suitcases.

Sami glanced at the children, then at the luggage trolley. “Long flight, huh. Come on. We need to get going.”

By the time they were on the road, the children had fallen quiet. The city passed in scattered pools of light. For a while, there was only the steady sound of the tires meeting the road.

“The funeral arrangements are already underway,” Sami said.

“He kept asking for you till his last breath.”

Anaya looked out the window and said nothing.

Sami continued driving. “There’s some paperwork too. We’ll take care of it after the funeral.”

“I’ll need help finding buyers.”

“There won’t be any need. We’ll keep it in the family.”

Anaya turned toward him. “I’m willing to consider that,” she said. “But it has to be fair market value.”

“We’ll talk about that later.” His jaw tightened, and his hands gripped the steering wheel more firmly as the car gathered speed.

A few minutes later, Zayn shifted in his seat.

“Mommy, I feel sick.”

“Can you slow down, Sami?”

He kept his eyes on the road.

The car braked sharply at the next turn. Zayn bent forward, and Anaya reached for the bag just in time.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

She rubbed his back while Sami watched them in the rearview mirror.

“Is he going to be sick again?”

Anaya looked at him in disbelief. “He gets carsick, just like I used to. I told you that before we left.”

* * *

The guesthouse was small, with two beds, a narrow table, and a kitchenette that looked as though no one had cooked in it for years.

“Is this where we’re staying?” Anaya asked.

“For now.”

“Until when?”

“We’ll see.”

She looked at him. “How am I supposed to get around?”

“We’ll get you a car.” He was already stepping toward the door. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hamza looked around the room.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s our home?”

Anaya looked at the two beds, the bare walls, and the suitcases still unopened on the floor. She had not prepared herself for the realization that there would be nowhere for them to return to from here.

* * *

Early the next morning, she was awakened by the call to prayer drifting in, one chant followed by another until the whole city was answering. Anaya had not heard it in years. It sounded sad. Bittersweet. A thousand invocations rising into the sky, urging, imploring, falling on deaf ears.

Anaya stood by the window with the handkerchief in her hands. The embroidery was small and uneven, a row of purple flowers stitched along one corner. Her mother had made it herself. Purple was her favorite color. Anaya ran her thumb over the thread and closed her eyes, and for a moment she could almost feel the fingers that had once held the needle.

She was fourteen again, standing at the window of the two-story house, overlooking the courtyard below, trembling so badly she had to grip the sill to keep herself upright. The screaming would not stop. It tore through the house, rising above the call to prayer that carried over the rooftops: “Hurry to prayer. Hurry to salvation. God is Great.”

“Oh God, save me,” her mother implored from downstairs.

“Please stop! I beg you in God’s name. I have done nothing.”

Then came the bloodcurdling thud of a fist against flesh. Another. Then another. A sharp cry followed by the heavy crash of a body hitting the ground, then her mother’s ragged attempt to catch her breath before another blow landed.

“Stop it!” her grandmother pleaded. “She's bleeding from her head. For God's sake, stop!”

She was certain the neighbors could hear everything. But no one came. Not the police. Not the paramedics. No one.

Her father's voice rose above the cries. “I’m going to finish her here.”

Another blow. A muffled groan. Then silence.

Anaya stopped breathing. For one terrible moment, she thought her mother had died. When she heard her mother cry out again, a wave of relief went through her so fiercely it sickened her. Through her tears, all she could see was her own blurred reflection trembling in the glass.

Then her father summoned his son. “Sami.” He held out Sami’s cricket bat. “Take this.”

Anaya wished she had never witnessed the rest. Her grandmother began pleading again. “No. Don't. He is just a boy.”

“He needs to learn how to keep women in line,” he decreed, pressing the bat into Sami’s hand. “He has to become a man.”

Anaya opened her eyes. The memory was gone. Her mother's handkerchief was still in her hands.

The years that followed did not erase that night. Her mother lived through it, but she was never quite the same again. She started forgetting things. Sometimes she spoke to people who were not there. Sometimes she would sit alone for hours, whispering under her breath like she was carrying on a conversation with somebody only she could hear. Little by little, she got worse, until Anaya had no choice but to take her to the hospital.

And then, not too long after the boys left to study abroad, see the world, and live high on the hog on their father’s dime, her father landed in prison, though not for what he had done to her mother. Beating your wife to a pulp, apparently, was too personal, too private a matter. Not worth the government’s time or attention. Stealing from the government was different. Now that was egregious and unforgivable. A crime worth taking seriously.

With the brothers thousands of miles away, her mother in the hospital, and her father behind bars, Anaya put her own plans on hold. Someone had to hold the family together.

She visited her mother in the hospital, brought her home when she was well enough to leave, and fought to get her father released when he fell seriously ill in prison, convincing herself that, for all his failings, the family still needed him, that her mother still needed a man.

But the devil doesn’t grow a halo in prison. Her father had been home less than a week when he reached for it again. This time Anaya put herself between them. She caught his arm before it landed on her mother and said, “Never again.”

“This is the last time you’ve raised your hand to her.”

And it was.

It was also the last time her mother spoke. She passed away a few months later. Broken bones. Broken heart. Broken soul. From the outside, it was hard to tell.

She had left that house believing she would never have to return. And now she was back, with her children, standing where she had once sworn never to stand again.

* * *

The children were still asleep when she heard a car rattling up the road. Anaya turned to the window and saw Sami behind the wheel of an old, boxy, navy-blue car that looked as though it had spent more of its life in a junkyard than on the road. Its engine coughed and sputtered, some loose metal clanging beneath it with every turn of the wheels. She slipped outside before the noise could wake them.

Sami got out.

“What is this?”

“The car you’ll be using.”

“Is this a joke?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Anaya looked it over. The tires were worn almost smooth. Oil had pooled on the pavement beneath the engine. The inside smelled of old upholstery and gasoline. The steering wheel was stiff, the air-conditioning didn’t work, and the windows wouldn’t roll down. When she tested the brakes, the pedal sank much farther than it should have. When she tried the reverse gear, the car lurched forward.

“This is not safe, Sami. I can’t drive around in it with my children.”

“You expect too much. You need to be realistic.”

“Realistic?” She glanced toward the ratty windows of the guesthouse, then back at him. “With all that this family owns, I'm supposed to believe this is what you found for me and my children?”

His jaw tightened. He looked toward the neighboring houses before answering. “It doesn't have to be permanent. Once we work out the details, you'll be able to have what you want.”

“What details?”

“We don't expect you to be here very long. These matters take time. It would be easier if I had the power of attorney. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

Anaya studied him for a moment.

“So this is what you had in mind? Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

“Didn’t get a chance to. Now, with Father gone, we don’t have much choice.”

“You mean you don’t want there to be any other choice.”

“Why do you always have to make things worse? That’s the problem with you women. You don’t think straight, even when it’s for your own good.” His voice remained low, but his expression hardened.

Anaya said nothing.

“Think about your children. Who will look after them if something happens to you?”

“If I were you, I’d sign the guardianship papers too. You really think you can do all this alone?”

She remained still.

“You should be grateful you have us. There are women who have no men in the family. No one to stand behind them. They don't last long.”

“Boys need men to become men. They need other men to show them the ropes.”

Anaya looked at him long and hard. “Like the ropes you were shown.”

For the first time, Sami had nothing to say. His face hardened. He looked away.

“I can see Father isn’t dead. He’s very much alive in you.”

A cold, knowing look crossed his face.

“And Mother isn’t gone either,” he said. “She lives in you.”

From inside the house, Zayn called her name.

Sami glanced toward the house.

“Whatever you do, don’t try to bring your problems to the funeral.”

Anaya looked back at him. “And you’re going to tell me how to attend our father’s funeral?”

“I’m telling you how things are here and what we expect from you. We have rules in this family.” He took a step back. “You know how it ends for women who don’t understand that.”

He turned and walked away.

Anaya waited until he was out of sight, then went inside and closed the door behind her.

The children were awake by then. She silenced her phone and left it on the kitchen counter, then gathered both children into her arms, holding them close as they held on to her.

“Mommy, when are we going home?” Zayn asked.

There was no going back now.

* * *

Sami had called her twice the day of the funeral. Her phone went unanswered. Everyone they expected to be there was there.

Everyone, except Anaya.

The family buried her father that afternoon.

And somewhere between the last prayer and the first handful of earth, they buried Anaya too.