bar, the porcelain in their china cabinet. My own house did not have a
bar, I noticed then. My fiancé and I had not so much as considered such
extravagance.
Mariya was to be married three months before me. In the week
before her wedding, she insisted I stay with her to help with final purchases, to slather her hair and face with oil treatments Naani had taught
us so many years ago. Mariya was still small and lithe, infectiously energetic. She didn’t carry herself in any way to suggest she had been orphaned early.
“I think I did it,” I confessed while we picked up centerpieces
from the florist. I watched Mariya stoop over her knee for a moment by
the poinsettias. “I think I caused your accident.” I reminded her of the
curse, about the evil eye. “I was stupid and jealous back then.”
Mariya put her hand on my elbow and laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous, Aisha. I was stupid too. What kid isn’t? I overestimated my balancing ability. Your eyes had nothing to do with it.” She turned away to
speak with the florist.
I paused at her dismissal, feeling almost angry. It was as though
she had forgotten everything about the time we spent together, about
every story she had delivered to me as truth. Had she already forgotten
her trauma—forgotten mine? For a moment, I was tempted to allow the
same elementary school sourness to boil, but I shook my head and smiled
at Mariya nonetheless. We were adults, after all.
Mariya held a vase of orchids to the light. “Look how pretty,” she
said, “How sweet.” Purple shadows fell over her smile.
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