The Fall and Rise of the Amir Sisters

Did Mustafa not want a family any more, or did he just not want her? Did he really blame her as much as she blamed herself? She hadn’t ever imagined a Mustafa who’d say such a thing. All this culpability really did exhaust her. She kept her eyes closed until she fell asleep again.

This time Farah awoke to clattering. It was coming from the kitchen. As she swung her legs over the bed she still couldn’t open her eyes. She grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it over herself, trying to steady her feet. The words beat in her ears: Don’t make me feel bad because you can’t conceive. She opened her eyes as her face flushed in anger. She didn’t need her husband to feel the same way she felt about herself. That’s not how it worked with them. It never had and it wouldn’t damn well start now.

She ran down the stairs without even brushing her teeth or washing her face, the gunk from last night’s make-up gathered in the corners of her eyes. Farah burst through the living room that led to the kitchen, ready to point her finger at Mustafa and shout at him. She wasn’t sure what she’d say yet, but anger was best served improvised. She stopped. He was hunched over the hob, frying some eggs. Their small table was set with two plates and cutlery. Mustafa turned her head towards her, giving her such a sad smile that all her anger fell away.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She looked at the table again.

‘I made us breakfast,’ he added when she didn’t speak.

‘I see that.’

He went to the fridge. ‘Juice?’

She shook her head.

‘Coffee or tea?’ he asked.

‘Is this –’

‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted. He paused, looking dishevelled in his shorts and T-shirt. ‘I don’t even know what I said.’

‘You said not having babies was my fault.’

Mustafa bowed his head. She thought he might let the carton of juice fall to the floor the way it dangled in his hands.

‘I lost my temper,’ he said, head still bowed.

When he looked up Farah saw tears in his eyes. She had the urge to go up to him and hug him, but couldn’t bring herself to move.

‘Yeah, you did.’

She saw the flash of something in his eyes – was that anger again? Mustafa looked as though he might say something.

‘What?’ she asked.

He paused. ‘Nothing.’

She went and took a seat at the table. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged him.

‘It just… forget it,’ he finally said.

He put the carton down and brought the rest of the breakfast to the table, setting his pills beside his plate. They ate in silence for a while. Farah kept looking at her husband, biting into his eggs and toast, taking a sip of tea with a faraway look. He downed the pills.

‘Do you still…’ Farah gripped her mug of tea tighter. ‘The baby – you still want one, don’t you?’

‘Hmm?’ Mustafa looked up at her.

‘It’s like you’re on another planet,’ she said. ‘Did you hear me?’

She couldn’t quite read his expression.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Do you still want a baby?’

Mustafa leaned forward and took Farah’s hand as she put her mug down.

‘I want us.’

She looked at him, confused. ‘We have us. Us is sat right here.’

But even as the words came out she knew how hollow they were. Mustafa let go of her hand and just gave a small smile.

‘Fatti and Ash seem really happy, don’t they?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘She deserves it,’ he added.

‘She does.’

Farah played with the toast in her hands.

‘You want more tea?’ he asked.

Just then the phone rang. Farah went to pick it up and it was Bubblee.

‘You all right?’ Bubblee asked.

The scene from Mae’s party pushed itself to the fore of Farah’s brain.

‘Yeah, great. Fine. What’s going on?’

Bubblee paused. ‘Not much.’

‘What time are you leaving for London?’

‘You know, I thought with Mae leaving at the end of the week and all… I thought I might as well stay,’ replied Bubblee.

‘Oh. Right.’

Bubblee paused again. All this pausing didn’t suit her. Farah glanced over at Mustafa who was stabbing at his eggs and realized she wasn’t listening to Bubblee’s response.

‘. . . another week or so.’

‘Okay. What about work?’ asked Farah, turning back so Mustafa stopped distracting her.

Pause.

‘I’ve got some holidays. Plus, Sasha can cover for me at the gallery while I’m here.’

Farah wondered why Bubblee would forsake an extra week out of London to be in Wyvernage with her family, but she looked over her shoulder and Mustafa was still staring at his plate. She told Bubblee to come over later – better than going to her parents’ house and risk seeing Fatti – and put the phone down.

‘Do you want to go to watch a film later?’ she asked.

He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Yeah. That would be good, I think.’

Farah went back to the table. Perhaps if the film was good and put Mustafa in a better mood, he’d sleep with her and she’d get pregnant. Farah knew that the key was to try and make Mustafa feel normal. Those pills didn’t help, but they were necessary. Yes, they would come back from the cinema, have sex, she’d get pregnant and then all these problems would go away. With that thought Farah finished her breakfast, enjoying the toast a lot more with the hope of what was to come.

Bubblee knocked on the door.

‘Oh,’ said Farah, opening the door and looking surprised. ‘Oh, yes, sorry. I knew you were coming over.’

She looked at Bubblee as if she wished she’d do an about-turn and leave the way she had come.

‘You’re going out?’ Bubblee asked.

‘To the cinema. Come with us,’ said Farah, smiling widely.

She was rushing around the house, fluffing pillows, getting her keys and purse, talking to herself: Dishes washed, laundry out, vacuum done… Farah surveyed the place around her, looking pleased. But there was something twitchy about her movements. She looked far too keen and chirpy.

Bubblee stared at Farah. ‘Not really in the mood for it.’

‘To be honest, babe, I’ve kind of lost interest too,’ replied Mustafa, taking his jacket off.

Bubblee sat on the sofa as Farah stood in the passageway door. Bubblee looked for signs of disgruntlement. Interfering was Mae’s job but with her going away and the image of poor Fatti’s face when they were in the kitchen last night – well, Bubblee had to do something. Even if it was against her better inclination.

‘Come on, you guys,’ said Farah. ‘It’s meant to be a psychological thriller. Mus, you love those.’

Bubblee looked over at her brother-in-law whose back was turned as he’d gone into the kitchen. Even his gait annoyed Bubblee. She supposed that once upon a time he’d have been called ‘jolly’, the way he’d waltz into a room, slap people on the back and laugh so hard that his shoulders shook. Now he was like a retired comedian, or circus clown. Yes, it was a mean thing to say, but that didn’t make it any less true. Plus, at least Bubblee didn’t say it out loud. It wasn’t her fault that her brother-in-law had descended into being pathetic.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked her.

‘No, thanks. Bought any nice new things?’ Bubblee asked Farah, bouncing up off the sofa with uncharacteristic alacrity.

‘What?’ asked Farah. ‘No.’

Stupid question to ask because Farah couldn’t even if she wanted to – not with their dire financial issues.

‘Show me.’

Bubblee jerked her head towards the stairs as Farah looked on, confused.

‘I don’t –’

‘Great,’ interrupted Bubblee, pushing past Farah and up the stairs already.

‘What was that about?’ asked Farah as she walked into the bedroom after Bubblee.

Bubblee folded her arms and looked at her sister.

‘First tell me what yesterday was about.’

Farah’s eyebrows knit into a frown as she looked shiftily around the room.

‘Well?’ said Bubblee in the face of Farah’s silence. ‘Listen, I’m all for straight talk but you should apologize to Fatti.’

Farah paused. ‘Oh. Did she say something to you?’

‘Come on, it’s Fatti, she’ll never say anything to anyone. Anyway, does she really need to?’

‘I wasn’t being offensive,’ Farah replied as she walked over to the blinds and began trying to fix them.

Bubblee raised her eyebrows.

‘Not on purpose,’ Farah added. ‘God, you’re making it sound worse than it was.’

‘I think the blinds are straight enough,’ said Bubblee.

‘Me and Mus were meant to go and see a film.’

Bubblee watched Farah pause and sway so that she thought she might faint. But Farah just went and sat on the edge of the bed. Bubblee noticed she was still looking at the blinds.

‘They’re still not straight,’ said Farah.

She went to get up again but Bubblee was blocking her way.

‘What is wrong with you?’ said Bubblee.

‘Nothing, I’m…’ Farah’s voice wavered. ‘It’s just… oh, Bubs – why can’t I have a baby?’

The tears began to stream down Farah’s face as Bubblee sat next to her and put her arm around her. She sobbed into her arms for such a long time Bubblee worried that Mustafa would come up and ask what was going on.

‘Shh, it’s okay,’ said Bubblee.

She looked at her sister’s tear-strewn face and felt several pangs of sympathy.

‘It must be hard,’ Bubblee offered.

‘Hard?’ said Farah, wiping her eyes. ‘It’s… it’s…’ Farah looked around the room, frantically, as if she’d find what it was in their bedroom. Her eyes settled upon Bubblee again.

‘But you don’t get it, do you?’ said Farah. ‘You’ve never really cared about having babies.’

It was true. Finding prolonged sympathy for Farah’s problem was going to be difficult – but she could understand the feeling of loss, of not getting what you want. Wasn’t every single atom of passion that she poured into her work – her labour of love – amounting to nothing?

‘No. They cry an awful lot.’

Farah shot her a look.

‘Well,’ said Bubblee. ‘I just don’t understand the need to have them, but I do get what it feels like when you can’t have what you want.’

Farah looked at her. ‘Were you seeing someone?’

‘No. Not everything has to do with relationships.’ Bubblee looked at the ground. ‘Things just aren’t really working out. With the art scene.’

As soon as the words escaped her Bubblee knew them to be true. It was a long-held secret that could only become fact once she’d said it out loud. Now, expecting to have felt a release of some kind, Bubblee just felt numb.

‘It’s the only thing I thought I was any good at and now… I don’t know what I’m meant to do with myself. My whole life. So, no. I don’t get the need for babies, but I get the idea of needs.’ She turned to Farah. ‘That gaping hole.’

Bubblee could finally share this with someone, and what’s more, she could share it with her twin sister, who’d always been so different from her.

Farah’s brows twitched. ‘Bubs, it’s hardly the same thing.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Not being able to make sculptures isn’t the same as not being able to make babies.’

Bubblee felt the warmth of her blood rushing to her face.

‘I mean, I’m sorry to hear it. I know what it meant to you, of course. But you can’t tell me not having a family is like no longer being able to…’ She waved her arms around, scrunching up her face, presumably to impersonate what was Bubblee’s livelihood. ‘…you know.’

Bubblee’s tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. A barrage of things to say were exploding in her mind, but couldn’t make their way out as she stared at her sister: the one she’d shared a womb with, birthdays and playtimes as they grew up; the person with whom she’d shared her secrets.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bubblee, her voice even and cold. ‘I didn’t realize your husband wasn’t your family.’

She didn’t even care about Mustafa. She never thought he was good enough for Farah when they got married, and he certainly hadn’t improved in her estimation since he’d lost their money and had that godawful car crash. At least before he was tame and negligible. Now you never knew what might come out of his mouth.

‘Husbands don’t make families – children do,’ said Farah.

Farah’s eyes went to the bedroom door, and there was Mustafa, standing with his hand on the doorknob.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just wondered what you guys were doing.’

Bubblee saw Farah swallow hard.

‘I’m going to go out, okay?’ he said.

Without waiting for a reply he turned around and closed the door behind him.

‘Oh, God, do you think he heard?’ asked Farah, looking at Bubblee in despair.

‘Doesn’t seem like you really care either way.’

‘What? Of course I care. I just need more than him. Is that so bad?’

Bubblee barely recognized her sister. When did she go from being the foundation of this family, the go-to person with the ever-straightforward-yet-wise advice, to this woman who couldn’t see past her own ovaries? Bubblee stood up and went to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Farah.

‘Home.’

‘Are you annoyed because of what I said about your art stuff?’

‘You feel how you feel.’ Bubblee looked at her sister. She wouldn’t waste time trying to justify her needs and wants and losses. ‘I don’t know why I’m expected to feel more for you, though.’

She followed in Mustafa’s footsteps, out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her, before leaving the house.

Mustafa didn’t come home until late and Farah was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. She felt him slide in beside her and wondered if she should turn around and say something. What would she say, though? Sorry? If he had any sense in him he’d know what she meant, and he couldn’t possibly feel that just the two of them was enough. Not any more. It was a missed opportunity in terms of trying to have sex, but she couldn’t bear looking at his doleful face. Tomorrow Farah would go to the doctor because every problem has a solution, and she had to find theirs.

‘Have you considered other options?’

Farah wished the doctor was female. The greying man looked at her as if he were her teacher and she hadn’t prepared for her class quiz.

‘I know you tried IVF before, but you might like to –’

‘No,’ interrupted Farah. ‘We can’t afford to try again.’

She remembered the hormone injections, the failed pregnancy tests, the spiralling of hope that would expand and contract but never amount to anything. The doctor cleared his throat and adjusted his navy tie.

‘What about surrogacy?’

He wasn’t getting it at all.

‘Our finances. We can’t.’

And another woman carrying her child? No, thank you.

‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Let’s put you in for a transvaginal scan. The last lap-and-dye wasn’t successful, but let’s check that again and see what results we get. In the meantime, take some time to think about what I’ve said. Speak with your partner. Also, here are some leaflets with numbers for counselling. Trying for a baby can take its emotional toll on a couple.’

I don’t need more leaflets; I need you to tell me how to conceive. Maybe the results this time would be different? Her heart beat faster at the thought – a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of her stomach. She took the leaflets he was handing to her and left the surgery.

Farah looked out into the cloudy sky and the town that seemed as oppressed under the bleakness as she felt. She took out her phone and waited a few moments before pressing on Fatti’s name.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi,’ Farah replied.

‘How are you?’ said Fatti, as if nothing had happened between them.

Farah had to admit her sister was a better person than her. She really did deserve to be happier.

‘Fine, fine. You?’

‘Not so – not so bad. Good. Oh, God, sorry…’

‘Hello? Fatti?’

Where had she gone?

‘Fatti? What’s happening?’

Farah hung up and then dialled the number again. She had to do this a few times before Fatti picked up.

‘What happened?’ Farah asked.

‘Sorry, it’s just this… morning sickness,’ she mumbled.

Farah stood by her car, ready to open the door, but paused. ‘Oh.’

‘Sorry.’

She leaned against the car door and closed her eyes. This couldn’t go on indefinitely. She was going to be an aunt.

‘Don’t be, Fats. I’m sorry you’re getting sick.’

‘It’s fine. Part and parcel of it,’ replied Fatti.

There was a long pause.

‘Well, I’d better go,’ said Farah.

‘Where are you?’

‘Just some errands before getting back to work. I wanted to call and see how you were.’

‘Oh, God, sorry. I have to go again.’

Before Farah could say anything Fatti had already hung up, leaving her with the taste of bile in her own mouth.

That evening Farah went straight home after work, rather than popping in to see her parents, which she often did.

‘What happened at the doctor’s?’ asked Mustafa when he walked through the door.

‘More tests.’

Mustafa threw his house keys on the table as he collapsed on the sofa. The smell of manure had already reached Farah who was standing on a chair, dusting the curtains. Every time she looked around the living room it seemed so worn, no matter how clean she kept it. The black leather sofa had rips in it and the flooring was scratched and dull.

‘You need a shower,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should try and see what other jobs there are. You know, instead of cleaning out stables.’

‘What else is there around here?’ he said.

Farah paused. ‘I don’t know. We can have a look.’

When there was silence she looked over her shoulder and saw that Mustafa was staring at her.

‘You know you’ll be all right,’ he said.

If he could just have said we’ll be all right, she wouldn’t, that moment, have wished he hadn’t bothered to come home at all.

‘What’s for dinner?’

He went into the kitchen and saw that there was no dinner. She’d started cleaning as soon as she got home and wasn’t even thinking of food. Farah was about to retort with something when he said: ‘Don’t worry. Shall I make us some pasta or something?’

This was the thing: at times like these he was so different from what anyone would expect from a typical Bengali husband that she couldn’t be annoyed at him for too long. His moods were just a glitch. This was the real him. Farah got down from her chair and sat on it.

‘The doctor said we should think about IVF again,’ she said.

She decided not to mention the counselling. They’d get through this together. He was about to say something when she added: ‘Don’t worry. I’ve already told him we couldn’t afford another round.’

Suddenly, she realized Mustafa’s eyes were filled with tears.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he said, wiping them away. ‘I just never thought it’d be this hard, you know?’

She went and put her arms around him – he did want a baby, after all. It was ‘we’, not just her.

‘I know,’ she said into his ear. ‘The doctor even suggested surrogacy if we have no luck.’

Mustafa looked at her and frowned. ‘That would be weird. I don’t like the idea of some stranger carrying our baby.’

‘No,’ she agreed. Still, she half wished he’d try to talk her around the idea, but who knew what the test results would show? Perhaps they would get good news after all.

‘No, you’re right,’ she added. ‘Nor do I.’

Mae: Its lyk no1 evn cares im leavin in 5 DAYS.

Mae: Helloooooo??

Mae: None of u can com to my campus.

Fatti: Been sick all day. In bed. Will come and see you on Friday xxx

Bubblee: Mae, stop being so dramatic.

Mae: I think Im gonna take a module in drama

Bubblee: God help us all.

Mae: Helloooo, Fazzler? Rmba us? Ur sisters?

Farah: Had errands. I’ll pop over Friday too. GTG X

Chapter Four

Mae opened the door and saw Farah shifting on her feet, carrying a box.

‘Why didn’t you just use your key?’ said Mae, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ve got too many boxes and Mum says I can’t take my juicer. I mean, hello? It’s not like any of you lot are going to be making kale smoothies.’

Farah walked in and simply greeted this with: ‘Oh.’

‘Thanks for the sympths. Hope your packing powers are better,’ Mae said, striding up the stairs, leaving Farah behind.

‘Well, she’s here at last,’ said Mae, going into her room where Bubblee was throwing some of Mae’s clothes into a black bin bag for charity.

‘Oi, no! I want those,’ exclaimed Mae.

Bubblee held up the beige cargo pants in disdain. She just shook her head and chucked them back in the cupboard. Fatti was lying down, her eyes covered with her arm and a leg dangling off the edge of the bed.

‘I’ll be better in a minute,’ she mumbled.

Mae went over and put her hand on her forehead.

‘She doesn’t have a temperature,’ said Bubblee. ‘She has a baby.’

Mae looked at Fatti, her brow knitted in concern.

‘You were all right last week,’ she said.

‘Evil eye.’

The three girls turned around to see their mum looming at the door and watching Fatti with a look Mae didn’t quite recognize.

‘Yeah, thanks, Amma. That’s gonna make her feel loads better,’ retorted Mae. ‘And who’s given her this evil eye?’

As if on cue, Farah appeared next to her mum, holding a box and looking into the room. Under normal circumstances Mae would’ve laughed. Only, it was a bit of a coincidence and it made her feel uneasy. Because Farah was not being Farah. That wasn’t to say she was going around cursing people with bad health, obviously, but still.

‘You’ve not got very far, have you?’ said Farah, eyeing Mae’s room: the empty boxes stacked in a corner, bin bags that were half full, clothes splayed everywhere.

‘I’ve got markers and labels in here,’ she added, lifting the box.

Fatti was leaning on her elbows and attempting to sit up.

‘Hi,’ she said to Farah.

Farah smiled at her and wedged her way past Mum, setting the box down at Fatti’s feet.

‘Still not feeling great then?’ she asked.

Mae looked at Bubblee. She knew she’d had a talk with Farah and maybe it had worked because at least she wasn’t behaving like a bit of a cow. On the one hand, Mae couldn’t wait to leave all this drama behind her and start actually living her life; on the other hand, she knew this was also her life, and she wouldn’t be around to tell them all to get a grip and sort it out.

‘No, I’m fine, really,’ said Fatti, looking as though she might throw up there and then. ‘I’m just… for a second…’ and she lay back down, covering her eyes with her arms again. ‘Just a few seconds.’

Then their dad appeared.

‘All right, Pops?’ said Mae. ‘We needed more people in my room.’

He gave Mae a faint smile. His lack of ability to get her jokes now filled her with an affection that doubled because she wouldn’t witness it as often.

‘What is wrong with Fatti?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine, really,’ she replied without moving.

‘Father of mine,’ said Mae, patting him on the arm. ‘Have you forgotten when your dear wife was pregnant with her children?’

‘Tst,’ said her mum. ‘Don’t talk about such things with your abba.’

Her dad looked at her mum and smiled, but she wasn’t meeting his gaze.

‘What’s for lunch, Jay’s amma?’ he asked her.

‘Dal, porota, rice, fish curry, chicken curry, meat curry and potato curry,’ she replied, looking determinedly at Fatti.

These people, seriously. But Mae didn’t want to think about what drama was unfolding in her parents’ lives because they were old enough to sort it out between them.

‘All right, all right,’ said Mae, clapping her hands. ‘Can my lovely parents leave us to the packing since I’m leaving in under twenty-four hours and Bubblee’s erasing my identity by binning all the clothes I like. Thanks!’