January, 2015

Yusha

The weather forecast promised rain but I decided to go for a run anyway. It's eleven now. Almost too late for me to call it a morning anymore, but I'm not expected in the office for another hour.

Target is in my line of vision, and I enter spontaneously. I'm not particularly a carbonated beverage junkie but two hours of aerobic exercise calls for something cool. The mall is mostly empty so I strip off my mask so I can finally breathe, without the barrier of a fabric, and stow it in the pocket of my threadbare sweatshirt.

I pull open one of the refrigerators that are stocked with drinks and choose one bottle. As I purposefully saunter towards the till something bumps into me. A shopping cart. I hear a sorry but I'm already walking away to prevent whoever it is from looking at my face. I withdraw my wallet from my back pocket and two seconds later the same voice calls out, "Hey, you dropped something!"

I pretend like I didn't think it's me she's calling. Because, if I turn around then... let's just say I don't want to deal with the look of recognition. Then I feel a tug on my hoodie and freeze. When this person comes around in front of me, I avert my head to one side and pull down my baseball cap, feeling extremely conscious of my bare face.

"I said you dropped something." There is a hint of exasperation on her tone as she reiterates. She holds out a ten dollar note.

"You can keep it." I definitely did not try to sound like a filthy rich bastard who likes to toss around bills like toilet paper but that's precisely how I inadvertently sounded. I'm about to bypass her but she gets on my way.

"Excuse me?" The girl whose face I haven't yet seen, lest she sees mine, says. "Kindly give your charity to someone who needs it." She tucks the money into my pocket and walks away.

<>

I check the time on my Fitbit before calling Dylan, my chauffeur, and tell him to pick me up from in front of Archival Automotive Repairs. Presently, I'm making my way there. The repair shop is owned by Gaston Archival, whom I've known since I was six. He taught me everything I needed to know about cars.

By now, the sky is nothing but gloomy masses of clouds.

Someone smacks roughly against my side from behind and continues to run without a single apology. I scowl at the back of the person- a girl with a headscarf- before my eyes catch a manila envelop lying on the pavement which I don't remember seeing there five seconds ago. Intrigued because it appears somewhat familiar, I pick it up. It barely takes me a second to recognize the company emblem imprinted on one side.

Because I see this emblem every single day.

AIDEN Technologies.

My company.

There are pictures inside. I shuffle through them, frowning at the faces for a few seconds until I realize what I'm looking at. Who I'm looking at.

Lightning flashes, ensued by a screech of thunder. When I look up from the photos I see the girl who bumped into me earlier standing about twenty paces ahead of me, stock-still with her hands clasped against the sides of her head. I can literally hear the cog-wheels in my head rotate as I struggle to make sense of the situation, while I mechanically clomp towards her with my gaze trained on her back. When I reach her, I swallow hard before tentatively moving to stand in front of her.

You have astraphobia.

Sorry?

Fear of thunder.

Did you swallow the pages of a dictionary when you were three? Or an encyclopedia, perhaps?

And sarcasm is your defense mechanism.

Everyone's afraid of something.

It's finally started to rain. I take in her face: eyebrows drawn together, eyes squeezed shut and incisors digging into her bottom lip. Her breathing comes out shallow and ragged and her hands are tremulous. 

My hands act involuntarily. I take off my baseball cap and pull it down her head. Then I remove the circumaural headphones from around my neck. Gently prying her arms away, I dispose the headphones on her head. The palpable feeling of déjà vu sets my mind reeling.

I doff the mask concealing the lower half of my face as the girl's eyes flutter open. The initial fear in those earthy brown orbs recede as I opt for a reassuring smile and her gradually breath evens out. Her teeth relinquishes her bottom lip, which has become swollen. I have a sudden irrational urge to rub my thumb over it. I fiercely guillotine the thought.

I tear my gaze away from her face and notice that we're standing near a bus stop. I amble over to it, hoping she'll follow. She stares at me for a second or two, with a slightly dazed expression. I jerk my head to my side and a moment later she, seemingly reluctantly, comes over. The distance she puts between us shows her wariness of me, alongside her fisted hands. An orange bus screeches to a stop in front of us and, through the reflection on its window, I see the girl surreptitiously glancing my way while an elderly lady boards the bus.

I think I should stop referring to her as 'the girl'. I know her name. Or at least the name I used to call her with. If she is indeed who I think she is. The bus rumbles away and the rain gradually ceases. I turn and take two steps towards her and immediately both her arms rise in a sort of boxer stance. My own arms fly up in a gesture of surrender. I then point at her head to convey the message that I just want my stuffs back. Her eyebrows wrinkle before she gets the message. She takes off my headphones and cap and hands them back. I jam my cap over my head and loop the headphones around my neck.

"Um, thanks. I guess." she mutters.

For some reason I'm tongue-tied. I just manage a fleeting smile in response.

I should leave. But a part of me, a very negligible part, is wishing for her to show some sort of recognition. Although I can confirm her identity myself with a single phone call. I turn to walk away when-

"Oh no. Oh no, Mia. No, no, no."

Mia.

Did I hear her right?

I swivel around and find her desperately scouring through her shirt's pockets.

"Did you..." I wanted to ask if her name's Mia. But what I end up asking is, "Did you lose something?"

"I... yes. It's this envelope. Brown. And it had- "

My phone rings in my pocket and I fish it out. It's probably Dylan. I'm right. "One sec." I tell Dylan to wait in front of Archival Automotive Repairs and that I'll be there in a few minutes. Then I return my attention to Mia.

But something had happened in the short span of time while I was answering my phone, because Mia's eyes are now hardened and dubious.

"I thought you seemed familiar." She says. "The suspicious guy carrying counterfeit cash. From Target."

"What?" I stare incredulously at her. The bloody hell? Counterfeit cash?

"You bludgering monkey. Give it back."

Has she lost a screw?

Her eyes flick to the ground. I look down and find the envelope with the photos I picked up earlier now lying at my feet.

Sh*t. I must've dropped it when taking out my phone.

"No, this isn't what it looks like." I say.

"Oh, and I'm supposed to believe you." she retorts wryly. "What did you think was inside it? Some thousand dollar check?"

I rake a hand through my hair and almost laugh out loud. This girl has obviously no clue who she's talking to. If she did she'd know how far-fetched the idea of me pick-pocketing is. I pick up the envelope, dust it with my hand, and hold it out to her with a smile.

"Try searching Yusha Zaber. Who knows, Google might hold some answers."

It's been a decade since I last saw Mia. I let a beat of silence lapse for a spark of recognition to cross her features. When it doesn't come, I leave.

----------------------

______________

"Has anyone ever told you how liberating it is to yell at your parents and siblings and then thunder out of the house like they're all toxic people you can't bear to share a roof with? Frankly, I've never felt more suffocated after doing exactly that."

"Sounds more like a case of misplaced anger to me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Bro, if I'm to make a list of all the likely causes of your temper tantrum, learning about an older brother you never remember having through an anonymous letter would not make it among the top five."

"Your point?"

"If I were to make a guess, you used that information as an excuse to blow off steam. I mean, you did witness your crush being all sanctimonious only to be caught secretly dating. Sorry, was I not supposed to mention that?"

Kaif shuts his eyes briefly as he tries to banish the memory of this morning. "Yeah, whatever. No harm done."

"Where are you, by the way? Want me to join you?" Hamza asks eagerly.

Kaif checks the time on his phone before putting it back against his ear.

"Are you using my situation to try to skip AP Math?"

"No." Hamza replies instantly, with zero conviction. "Well. Okay, maybe. Yes. But it's more about letting you know my priorities!"

"Appreciate that. But, no. I'm in Alien Gang. I'll be here for a while so why don't you meet me here after school?"

"Aw man! I would've been grounded if I were in your place, and there you are in an internet cafe. Did you ever get grounded?"

"Believe me, I am looking for my first time when I go home."

Once the call disconnects, Kaif pockets his phone and returns his attention to the computer screen in front of him where the Google interface is displaying. His sister, Kaif can admit anytime, is a different brand of annoying. With an unfailing appetite for sarcasm and jokes, she's always feeling the need to keep up to her troublemaker name. And, while Kaif is naturally uncomplaining, with Maha's almost unremitting refusal to act like an adult, he couldn't help occasionally fantasizing a parallel life where he has a responsible older brother who guides him through the process of how to function as a guy in this century.

Sometimes he has dreams which don't feel like dreams. Like a lost memory dredged up from a hidden chamber. He'd hear voices and laughter and see figures and images. And they'd play like flashbacks, blurry and echoey. Maha and his parents had been the only figures he'd identified. But there's this guy who would blend in just like a part of their family. Every time he'd wake up from such a dream he immediately tries to recall it. The voices would ring in his head but he has never been able to put a clear face to the owner of that young male voice. Kaif assumed that the guy is some distant relative of his, some sort of uncle or family friend who had temporarily stayed with his family for some reason. Not his brother who's been missing for more than a few years now.

But Kaif is furious with himself because, despite Maha not exactly meeting the criteria of an older sibling, he didn't have the right to downgrade her effort. She didn't deserve it. Maha may not be of great assistance when it comes to homework; she may be ridiculously disorganized; perpetually cutting things too close and, not to mention, careless and childlike; but in her own way, his sister has always been there for him. He remembers all those times when Maha had smuggled cookies and brownies and left them on his desk on those late nights while he was studying. All those times when she'd slipped a packet of m&m's or skittles into his backpack for 'emergencies'. At school, he's seen kids studiously blank their siblings like they don't exist, and he's always been grateful he didn't share such a relationship with his sister. All he could think after he had succumbed to his anger was that Satan was there gloating at them, and he hated himself. Now he can't waltz back home and pretend what happened didn't happen.

His friend, Hamza, wasn't wrong. It had been misdirected anger. Nevertheless, it would've been nice to know directly from your own family and not through a letter from God-knows-who that the brother, probably the very same kind whom he likes to dream about, actually existed. However, if Kaif's family has been keeping him in the dark about him, surely they have good reason to.

But somebody wanted him to know. Wanted him to find out. Hence the envelope, with the pictures and the news article and no return address or name, slipped through the vent in his locker. Somebody from school? Kaif digs into his pockets and finds the crumpled paper he'd stuffed there when Maha knocked on his bedroom door. He straightens it and tries to smooth out the creases. Then rereads the bold heading. After deliberating long enough with his mixed feelings, Kaif heaves a deep sigh before dragging his fingers to the keyboard. Then he types.

Wissam Ayat.