already forgiven her.
The next day was Eid. I don’t remember much about the day, but
we must have awoken early in the morning to put on new dresses and
stacks of matching bangles, and to stuff sweets into our mouths before
the celebratory prayer. Then, we went to Naani’s house, and everything
quickly deteriorated.
I remember Mariya climbing to the top of the swingset, throwing
her leg over the metal bar, pushing herself up; I remember Mariya’s sharp,
shrieking laughter. And then, I remember a different kind of shriek:
Mariya splayed on the gravel like a broken star, still and silent.
I knew immediately that somehow, I had caused it to happen—
Mariya lifeless on the cold ground: a direct result of my jealousy, my evil
glares. In the emergency room, I averted my eyes from Naani’s, certain
that if she only looked at me she would know what I had done.
The fall broke Mariya’s leg and dislocated something in her knee.
During her recovery, Mariya simultaneously experienced a growth spurt.
By the time her cast came off, the broken leg was shorter than the other,
and Mariya’s gait became the slightest bit lopsided. Was this what I had
desired, I wondered later: perfect Mariya with a barely noticeable limp?
She spent her recovery under Naani’s care. “Your parents have
already done too much,” Naani explained to me. “They can’t wait on
her hand and foot also. That’s my job.” Gradually, Mariya’s things were
moved into Naani’s house, and as the months went by, it became clear
that Mariya would not return.
Nor did I ask for her. Though my family visited at least once a
month until her mother passed away, Mariya and I treated each other
with austere politeness and false enthusiasm, wary about making eye
contact or getting too close. Afterwards, our relationship was limited to
phone-calls of congratulations—on her admittance to New York University, on mine to Bryn Mawr College; on her acceptance to medical school,
on my first job offer as an accountant. We wouldn’t be true friends again
until many years later, until we were both engaged and otherwise content.
She was completing her residency in anaesthesiology. Her fiancé
ran a textile business; his name was Thomas. She had called me for dinner
one night to meet him, and I grew suddenly bashful and quiet at his charisma, taken aback by the black bottles of pinot noir displayed on their
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