“I lied, I’m not out of this relationship,” she said, earnestly. “I’m in. I’m so in, it’s humiliating, because here I am, begging.”
“Meredith,” he said.
“Shut up. You say ‘Meredith’ and I yell, remember? Okay, here it is: your choice? It’s simple: her or me. And I’m sure she’s really great. But Derek, I love you. In a really really big, pretend-to-like-your-taste-in-music, let-you-eat-the-last-piece-of-cheesecake, hold-a-radio-over-my-head-outside-your-window, unfortunate-way-that-makes-me-hate-you, love you. So pick me. Choose me. Love me.”
“Oh Lord.” Adele’s voice jerked me out of my Grey’s Anatomy reverie. “Have you moved since I left?”
I shook my head. Although I contractually had a three-month notice period, Reuben wanted me, a liability on legs, gone. The same day I resigned, I was placed on immediate gardening leave. Escorted out of the building by security. Adele had had to meet me outside with my coat and bag. In the last two weeks, I had watched seven hours of Grey’s Anatomy a day. It took me half a day to recover from Lexie and Mark’s final moments. Having exhausted all available seasons, I started revisiting favorite episodes. Watching the same scenes swirl round and round, unchanged by time, knowing that I couldn’t be blindsided by any twist the writers threw at me, was a huge solace. Safe in the comfort of knowing that Ross and Rachel, or Meredith and Derek, finally ended up together, I could enjoy all the dramatic turns that predated the happy ending. I had control.
“Have you eaten?” Adele asked.
“I have.”
“A mini Babybel doesn’t count as a meal, Jade.”
“You’ve got me there.”
“When did Eve leave?” Adele sauntered over and plonked on the sofa next to me.
“About two hours ago.”
Adele and Eve had worked shifts, rallying to keep me company round the clock. A crèche for a brokenhearted woman. Baba had tried to convince me to come home. As the sun set over Adele’s building, I thought of him preparing for iftar. People acted as if Ramadan was so restrictive, a month of starvation and deprivation. But it was a time of joy. I envied Baba’s annual month of faithfulness, and the peace it brought him. The solitary nights in prayer and reflection, the introspective discipline of his days, the smile of camaraderie he returned from the mosque with, the submission to the rising and setting of the sun, the spirit of charity and community.
Baba didn’t break his fast by chugging a bottle of water or cramming food in as fast as possible. Instead, I pictured him in my mind’s eye, calmly going to the cupboard as he always did, reaching for the jar of Medjool dates and forking out three little brown beads. He would go outside after saying his duas and eat each date one by one, watching the last of the sunset behind the oblong gardens and fading fences of South London. He did this because the Prophet broke his fast with three dates and water. Omma was not a Muslim, but she and Baba came to an agreement when they married that they would both celebrate each other’s festivals. So, our blended family lived by the moon: our two biggest celebrations, Eid and Lunar New Year, decided by the celestial calendar.
I welled up, watching the same sky as Baba. Viewing its transition through coats of coral and peach. I missed him. Omma too. How can there be a world in which the three of us no longer knew how to exist in our unit?
We had spoken once since I left Reuben. Baba had called me a few days ago.
Baba opened with, “Hayatim.” He was in proactive mode. He hired a van and drove over to the Clapham Flat with my set of keys. Packed up my old life and brought it all home where it belonged.
“Baba?”
“Of course it’s your baba. Who else is calling you ‘hayatim’? You have a Turkish boyfriend now?”
“No, Baba,” I laughed. “No boyfriend on the scene.”
There was a semibreve rest, the four beats passing on the phone before he spoke.
“I wanted to check, you know, how you are.”
“I’m good, Baba.” I knew why he was calling. My mum had sent him in as a spy—too bad he was the least subtle person imaginable.
“Is it done?”
“Is what done?”
“Child, tell me.”
“Yes, Baba.” I paused. “I’ve handed in my resignation.” The period of silence seemed to stretch out as long as the telephone wires in the ground that connected us. “Are you still on the line?”
“I’m here, kizim.”
“Are you going to say anything?”
He let out a long sigh.
“Your mother,” he eventually said, “she will be very disappointed.”
“Funnily enough, Dad, I’m pretty disappointed in her too.”
“It is not your place to be disappointed in your parents.” Baba sounded resigned. “It’s not that she doesn’t care about you. Yani, you don’t know yet, but it’s hard for a parent to see their child in so much pain. And she especially doesn’t understand why leaving your job is the solution to all of this. Why must you burn the whole blanket to kill a flea?”
“Well, I don’t understand her, either. Not talking to me also isn’t the solution,” I retorted.
“Give her time. She’s broken too.”
I suddenly realized my cheeks were wet. A small whimper broke free.
“Geçmiş olsun, yavrum,” Baba said finally, his voice cracking. “Geçmiş olsun.”
May it pass, my darling. May it pass.