Once Upon an Eid Page 4

  “What is it, Teta?” he asked.

  “Anytime you share something you love, it comes right back to you like a boomerang. You never lose it. Just wait and see.”

  On Eid morning, the apartment smelled like butter, cinnamon, and coconut. No more fasting!

  As Kareem put on his white thobe for Eid prayer, he heard a loud rapping at the door. “FedEx delivery!” a man called from outside.

  “It’s for me,” Dad said, answering the door. “Wow, this is a huge box!”

  Dad ripped open the note inside.

  Dear Mr. Nasir,

  Thanks for your fantastic work on the ad campaign. We look forward to working with you again. Enjoy this gift!

  Yours truly,

  OutStride Ltd.

  “Shall we open it and see what’s inside?”

  “Yeah!” Kareem yelled.

  Dad used kitchen scissors to slice open the layers of tape on the box before pulling out some Styrofoam padding.

  Dad scratched his head. “It’s a bike.”

  “Umm, Dad?” Kareem said. “This isn’t just any bike. This is a Super Speedster X bike. It’s exactly like the one I just bought. Like, exactly exactly. It’s even the same color.”

  “Well, that’s a strange coincidence,” said Dad. “Anyway, I already have a great bike in storage. Since you inspired my design idea, the bike is yours.”

  There’s no way this is a coincidence. This must be the boomerang Teta told me about. An Eid boomerang.

  Kareem looked at the bike sitting in the middle of the living room. He immediately knew what he was going to do.

  After Eid prayer, Kareem knocked on Shawn’s door.

  “Hey, Kareem!” Shawn said, yanking the door open. “Wait, wait—I know what to say today . . . Eed-moo-baw-rack,” he read off his palm.

  “Ha-ha, thanks,” Kareem replied. “Eid Mubarak. Hey, do you want to go on a bike ride with me?”

  “I know I’m skinny,” said Shawn, “but I’m not sitting in the delivery basket.”

  Kareem burst out laughing. He grabbed Shawn’s arm and pulled him into the hallway. Two identical shiny bikes stood there, waiting to be ridden.

  “What . . . where did you get . . . I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “It’s a long story, and I’ll explain it all. But first, get your helmet, and let’s ride!”

  The boys walked toward the elevator. A week ago, they had awkwardly stood in this same spot to go on Shawn’s first paper route.

  “This has honestly been the weirdest week of my life!” said Shawn, mounting his new bike outside their building.

  “Same here,” Kareem replied. “But a good kind of weird.”

  They both grinned.

  As he rode next to his new friend, Kareem felt the cool breeze whoosh against his face. Teta’s words echoed in his mind: Anytime you share something you love, it comes right back to you.

  He believed it.

  It’s Eid, but it doesn’t feel like Eid.

  I’m wearing pajamas, the house is empty (except for Mama, who’s sleeping), and if you look around and check in with all your senses, there’s nothing to tell you today’s a special day.

  No delicious smells coming from the kitchen, no colorful balloon bundles in room corners, no music playing from the stereo system.

  There’s no happiness in the air.

  I want to go back to bed.

  But I can’t, because I’m waiting for Mama to wake up and need me.

  What makes a day special? What I mean is, what makes a special day special?

  Today just feels like a day I don’t have to go to school because my parents said so.

  Because they told me it’s a special day.

  But so far it’s been the opposite—an un-special day. Which is worse than a regular, normal day, when you think about it.

  Tons worse, because my brain shows me all the things I should be doing today. The things we did every Eid before happiness left the house.

  My bed calls me to climb back into it, so I force myself to go to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.

  I can try to pretend it’s a boring regular day, at least.

  I look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

  Maybe it’s because I’m wearing pajamas, not fancy Eid clothes.

  Maybe that’s why my face looks exactly the way I feel inside. Like all of me is getting squished and pushed into a small empty space I didn’t know was there.

  I can wear last year’s Eid clothes from when I was ten. I still fit into the dress. Except for the way the sleeves don’t reach all the way to my wrists.

  And okay, when I tried it on yesterday, the neck was pinchy.

  But last year’s velvet dress is my favorite color—almost-black purple—and I know exactly where to find the dark tights that match it. (In the suitcase by the solarium window.)

  But I don’t change into Eid clothes.

  Instead I check on Mama (still sleeping), pull on jeans, put on a coat, and run out of the house.

  Because all of a sudden, I remembered something special.

  Really special.

  Donuts.

  The donuts at Mr. Laidlaw’s Bakery aren’t like other donuts. That’s what people say to each other. “Laidlaw’s donuts? They’re not like other donuts.”

  The next sentence is different for different people.

  “They’re fluffier.”

  “They’re flakier.”

  “They’re lighter.”

  “They’re spongier.”

  And then my dad: “They’re mystical.”

  I open the door to the bakery and join the line, which ends right in front of the entrance.

  Morning rush. So many people sniffing the deliciousness in the air.

  It almost smells like Eid.

  When I’m third from the counter, I can see the entire selection of donuts. But my eyes go straight to my favorite at the very bottom right of the glass display case: the plainest one. So plain they’re called Old Tyme.

  “Yes?” It’s the bored-looking cashier letting me know it’s my turn. Her hair is striped pastel pink, violet, and gray and braided so that you can see each color separately. She has on four choker necklaces that go almost all the way up to where her neck meets her jawline. And she has on lipstick in my favorite purple-black color, but her face is like my favorite donut: no expression.

  “Hi. I’d like six donuts,” I say. “Apple Crunch, Cinnamon Swirl, Chocolate Chocolate, Strawberry Kiss, Powdered Delight, and Old Tyme.”

  “Half a dozen.” She punches it in. “Coffee with that?”

  “No. Just the donuts.”

  “It’s free. It’s a promotion. Buy half a dozen, get a coffee.”

  “But I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Hot chocolate? Lemonade?” She indicates the display board behind her head.

  “Um, okay. I’ll have the hot chocolate.” I hold out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “You’re Kareem’s sister, right?”

  “Yes?”

  “I used to go to school with him,” she says, a small smile lighting up her face.

  Then it becomes big enough to show her braces, dark blue rubber bands on the top teeth and turquoise on the bottom.

  Now her face matches the name tag on her uniform: Joy.

  I smile back.

  Can a smile make a day special?

  Then her face switches back to normal, back to Old Tyme, and she hands me my change, a big turquoise ring flashing on her thumb.

  Mama’s sleeping face, her bare head resting on the pillow, flashes in my mind.

  I count the change. Joy’s given me an idea. And maybe I have enough money for it.

  I walk back home, balancing the box of donuts in one hand and the cup of hot chocolate in the other, a plastic Buyway bag hanging off my wrist.

  That’s when I see him.

  Mr. Laidlaw. In front of his own bakery.

  He’s coming out of a black car, hunched over and reach
ing for the cane that a younger man in dark glasses holds out for him.

  I stop. It’s like seeing Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  But a Willy Wonka who you got to see a lot before he disappeared. Well, before he retired.

  Mr. Laidlaw straightens and turns by holding on to the open car door. He has on a long black coat.

  I realize I’m staring, so I begin walking again, head down, eyes on the slushes of melted snow still left on the ground.

  “Hello there, I see you’ve bought my donuts.” His voice sounds the same, just a bit quieter.

  I stop and smile up at him. “Yes. They’re for my family. For Eid.”

  He takes a step closer, and from beneath his short-brimmed black felt hat, his eyes peer at me. “Ah, yes. I remember your family. You’d pick up things for the mosque bake sales sometimes. And every Eid, you’d stop by on the way to prayers to get donuts.”

  I nod. Kareem’s laughing voice comes into my head: Don’ut ever break Eid tradition.

  “Your brother or sister would run in. And I’d see your mother on those bake sale days.” His eyes are staring past me at the front window of his bakery. “I remember that she usually bought cinnamon buns for the mosque.”

  He looks kind of sad. Is it because he doesn’t have a family of his own? Everyone knows that Mr. Laidlaw only has the bakery. Maybe that’s why he visits it still—because it’s like his family.

  He turns to me again. “And you—I only ever saw you attached to your mother’s side. You’re Nadia.”

  “I’d always wait in the car on Eid.”

  “And now you’re old enough to run in by yourself!” Mr. Laidlaw laughs, slow and rumbly. “Tell your family I said hello. And happy Eid. Where are they?”

  He turns around to look at the road. To check for our car.

  “They’re at Eid prayers already. I stayed home.”

  “Ah, you’re bringing donuts for them. How lovely, Nadia.” He smiles in a kind way.

  So kind it makes me blurt, “My mother is sick, and it’s my turn to stay with her.”

  I don’t add how sick.

  I don’t add what’s in the plastic bag dangling from my wrist.

  But if I look at his smile any longer, I might blurt everything out. “I have to go because she might be waking up now. Bye, Mr. Laidlaw!”

  Mr. Laidlaw nods.

  I used to love our house so much. It’s red brick with wide steps leading up to an even wider porch.

  It’s hard to love it so much now that we live only on the first floor. We used to live in all of it, but then we had to rent the upstairs and basement out. That was after we sold the car. When happiness began to leave our home.

  But every time something “bad” happened, Dad pointed out something good. Like that the bus stop is right outside our house. Actually, the bus heading south stops right outside, but the one heading north stops across the street. That’s what Kareem told Dad with a laugh. Then he’d added, still laughing, I know, I know, Dad! You’re trying to tell us it’s still pretty easy to go anywhere we want to go! Because, bus! (Kareem’s donut is Strawberry Kiss. Because he’s like summer all the time.)

  Early this morning, everyone hopped on the northbound bus in their most beautiful Eid clothes from last year and went to Eid prayers.

  Could it be that they took Eid with them when they got on that bus?

  Before they left, Dad gave me my Eidhi, my money gift. “Because, binti, Daddy won’t see you in the prayer hall to give it to you after salaat.”

  Twenty dollars.

  “Why so much? Can you afford it?” I held the bill in my hand, in the air between us. I calculated. That was eighty dollars of Eidhi in total between all four of us kids.

  “Yes, binti, I can afford it.” Dad dabbed oud on his wrists and then wiped them on both sides of his neck, as he did every time he went to the mosque. The air filled with perfume. Dad’s oud.

  Mama’s oud is still in the little glass bottle on the dresser. Her perfume has a bit of jasmine scent, her favorite flower.

  After setting the box of donuts, hot chocolate, and bag on the porch to get my key out, I let myself into the house, pick everything up again, and go straight to Mama’s dresser to get the jasmine perfume.

  Eid doesn’t only have to smell good because of food.

  When Mama got sick, Dad began to work from home. He does people’s taxes and accounts. He loves February, March, and April the best because that’s when he has a lot of work. He calls it Happy Tax Crunch Time! (Dad’s donut: Apple Crunch.)

  Maybe that’s why he can afford to give us each a twenty for Eidhi this year. Because it’s February. Happy Tax Crunch Time.

  Well, except that I don’t have twenty dollars anymore. Now I have two dollars left.

  I open the Buyway bag and look inside.

  Mama’s still sleeping. Beside her on the cream bedspread lie a dark blue abaya with big turquoise flowers on the hem, a navy cardigan, and her favorite slippers. Yes, they’re fuzzy and worn, but they’re also dotted with tiny pearly beads.

  Noor helped get everything ready and spread the clothes out way before I even woke up this morning. But she’d whispered about it to me last night. I want Mama to get ready for Eid day. (Noor’s donut: Chocolate Chocolate. Doubly sweet.)

  For some reason, Noor forgot to put Mama’s hijab on the bed too. I saw that this morning right after everyone left for Eid prayers.

  Maybe it’s because Noor has a lot on her mind now that Mama’s sick and because she’s the oldest.

  Or maybe she thinks Mama doesn’t need a hijab. Because of her hair situation.

  But Mama loves her hijabs. She always loved wearing them to the mosque in Ramadan and on Eid. Before.

  She had a lot of colorful scarves.

  So I went through her things and looked everywhere, but there were only two hijabs left in her dresser drawer. Black and white.

  Nothing special.

  I set Mama’s jasmine perfume and the Buyway bag on the kitchen table by the box of donuts and the hot chocolate that isn’t hot anymore. I’d better get dressed first. If Mama sees me all ready, she’ll probably want to change too.

  Noor and I share the solarium room. Every morning, we pull the blinds up all the way on all six windows to let the light in. But then it feels weird getting dressed in there. It feels like the trees outside can see too much.

  I change into my dress in the bathroom and leave the top part of the back zipper unzipped so my neck thanks me. Back in the solarium, I climb onto our bed to see the whole of myself in Noor’s dresser mirror.

  It’s better than pajamas. I’ll never ever get tired of purple-black.

  I remember the girl with the dark lips at Mr. Laid-law’s bakery: Joy.

  Plain, no expression, but still special.

  I spot Noor’s makeup bag on top of the dresser. She isn’t here to check on me.

  Noor doesn’t have any dark purple lipstick, so first I put on dark pink. Then I put light red on top of that. Then I add some blue eyeliner and a bit of black eyeliner—but not on my eyes. On my lips. I smudge them in and smack them.

  I climb back on the bed.

  They kind of look like Joy’s lips. And they almost match the dress.

  They almost look special.

  After I help Mama use the bathroom, she eats watery oatmeal in bed with me sitting beside her.

  I wonder if I should tell her about the donuts. I want it to be a surprise, but it was never a surprise before. We always just knew we’d stop for donuts on Eid mornings.

  Don’ut ever break Eid tradition.

  But still, it feels different today. Everything’s different.

  Our house, our clothes, our Eid.

  Then Mama looks up from her oatmeal spoon, and her eyes go from my dress to my lips.

  Her eyes widen, and they look like they did before she got sick.

  They look like they want to see everything again.

  Everything in front of her and ev
en more than that.

  She smiles at my lips, covered in my favorite color. At first her smile is small, like a spark you’re not sure you saw, but then it grows big—big enough for me to know something for 100 percent sure: Yes, a smile can make a day special.

  I run out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. I put the jasmine oud and the Buyway bag and even the cup of hot chocolate on top of the box of donuts.

  I carry it all like a tray to Mama and Dad’s room that used to be Dad’s office. Mama needs to know everything.

  But first, she needs to feel the way I do in my dress, in purple-black.

  Leaving the things on Dad’s desk, I get the clothes that Noor laid out on the bed.

  Mama changes slowly. And I wait to help her only when she needs it. She doesn’t need it that much.

  Except when she looks in the mirror. I stand beside her and look in the mirror at her face, and it looks just like my face did before I ran out of the house this morning.

  Squished.

  I know she doesn’t see anything special.

  What makes a day special?

  Smiles. Favorite-colored dresses and fancy lips.

  And smells.

  I unscrew the jasmine oud and hold out the wet perfume wand. Mama reaches her wrists out to get them dabbed and then rubs them together, but she never stops looking at her reflection, at the top of her bare head.

  Her hair is growing in, but only in small bits, mostly only at the back.

  “Mama? Do you want a hijab?”

  “It’s in the drawer, sweetie. The bottom right.”

  I open the Buyway bag. “Do you want your favorite color? Turquoise?”

  It’s a pashmina scarf, the kind of long scarf that’s rectangular and soft and sort of thick. The kind of scarf that Mama used to wrap around her neck when she went to work, with her heeled boots and shiny black hair.

  Now she can wrap the pashmina around her head, make her mouth smile, make her eyes wide, make herself feel special.

  When she turns to me, her face tells me it’s true—she’s starting to feel it.