A meets Z

My untied shoe laces start clicking on the marble as soon as I walk in. I notice the sound and bend down near the reception counter to fix it. When I rear back up, I see three people have magically teleported in front of me, and we’re mutually startled. I recognize the boy as the new transfer student from my school. Somewhat typical badboy, tattoos, colored hair, way too much black for the tropical heat. Rumored to have run away from military school. Good looking enough to make be render me mute, but that’s teenage hormones for you.

He blinks in surprise, taking a step back, his purple faux hawk making an almost perfect comic exclamation mark on top of his expression. His mouth slacks open, and I notice his tongue is pierced, which is something I’ve never seen in the year of math classes we’ve shared. My mind brings up a shadowy name with a Z. Zaid? Suddenly with horror, I realize it’s coming back. I’m breathing fast, my brain pulling me down to a flashback, drowning in a swimming pool at night with someone screaming a name. Please don’t embarrass yourself! Get a grip!  I grit my teeth and pray for a miracle. I usually surface a few minutes later, on the floor, concerned faces forever marking me as crazy. Not today! Please God!

“Do you… work here?” his hesitant baritone pulls me back to the present, surprising me. I blink in confusion. Was it because he sounded so self-assured compared to the almost broken falsettos of our other classmates? I realize he hasn’t spoken even once in math the entire year. And then I realize my prayers are answered, the shadowy poolside screaming has dimmed, and I’m back in the present. He looks sullen and wilted, and hasn’t noticed my flashback or breathlessness. I feel a twisting of something, camaraderie, pulled from my past to him now. He’s practically left scuff marks on the floor as his reluctant feet have been dragged here.

I’m about to smile, but then notice that he has two extremely ordinary people behind him, a woman with a headscarf, lips paused temporarily in anticipation of my voice. I can imagine those lips fervently praying over the clicking beads of a tasbeeh, blowing on purple hair, praying for his salvation in the car on the way over. The man is average. Middle aged. Bland. Typical. Artificially black mustache jarring next to his son’s purple head, slim legs with amazing paunch like a basketball hidden under his sweater vest that spoke of many second helpings of home-made curry finished off by halwa served helpfully by a dutiful wife.

“Err no I’m here for an appointment myself” I move away from the counter that has caused all this confusion.

They exhale together, with slight annoyance mingled with relief.

The cute t-shirt from my favorite band suddenly feels satanic as the woman’s eyes narrow on to my chest. I resist the urge to pull the back of the shirt to cover my denim clad bottom. Good Muslim girls wear shalwar kameez her voice wafts telepathically between us, unbidden, familiar echoes of elderly intrusive aunties hell bent on enforcing the patriarchy through girls’ clothing.

“Zain beta please hold my bag I need to sit” her voice says instead, frail with hypochondria but with underlying steel, familiar with matriarchal dominance. She demands the attention of her family away from my usurping outfit.

Zain wilts more under her request, his almost six foot body hunching in defeat, but he dutifully holds his hand out. He looks back and squirms when he notices I’m still looking.

A door opens, cracking through the awkward silence, and Dr. Khan walks out. Plush carpet, a comfortable sofa, and wall to wall windows in front of Karachi’s beach open up behind him. Sure enough Zain’s parents are impressed by his shock of white hair, imposing black outfit and Italian loafers. But then I see their expressions all snap in unison to the tattoos creeping out from under Dr. Khan’s rolled up sleeves. I wonder if the woman will demand an explanation like my mother did all those years ago, rousing her red rimmed eyes to question his credentials and potential gang membership.

This moment stays silent though, steeped in accusatory judgement which Dr. Khan ignores easily. He shakes hands with Zain’s father, hand on chest to acknowledge the mother. Maisa magically appears behind him, winks at me, her head respectably covered, white lab coat, and the mother relaxes with the relief of familiarity.

“Since this is your first appointment, Dr. Maisa here will handle the paperwork, and then I’ll see you in an hour” He looks over at me. “Ready to go Belieber?”

I ignore the mountain of embarrassment instantly coloring me pink. Death by false accusation of being a fan of pop. “Sure Dr. Fanilow” His eyes crinkle in amusement as I flee the waiting area into the comfort of the familiar sofa.

***

I’m cross legged on the sofa.

“Let’s start with the meditation exercise” Dr. Khan also assumes the position, but on the ground.

While I’m used to the routine, I always find it hard to clear my mind. I close my eyes, and try to think of nothing. Blackness intrudes, and I’m frightened by the memories lurking behind it. I quickly think of bright sun, a meadow, purple flowers. Am I thinking of purple because of Zain? Does he think I’m a Justin Beiber Fan because of what Dr. K said. Why does Dr. K always have to try to embarrass me!?

I hear the rustling of Dr. Khan getting up, and know the exercise is over.

“Why did you try to embarrass me just now Dr. K?”  

 He’s sitting on the chair, notepad and old school fountain pen in hand, his face impassive as always.

“That’s an interesting viewpoint. Did you notice how you said I embarrassed you. I challenged your music affiliation. If anything I embarrassed a very superficial aspect that will change in the coming years”

“Music is a part of my identity”

“Is it?”

I sit back. Are all conversations with a shrink supposed to be this confusing? “Are your tattoos a part of your identity? Why haven’t you lasered them off or something. It would make parents more comfortable”

He smiles, the sun emerging from dark clouds. A close lipped stretching of the lips reluctantly pulled from the serious, calm, still pool of his face. “They are a daily reminder of my past. I would like to keep them”

“Even if the reminder causes you pain?”

“Do old reminders cause pain? It made me who I am. I have to embrace it”

I mull over that for a while.  “My reminders aren’t physical. Should I get a tattoo?”

“That is for you and your parents to decide. But if anything, use my example as a reminder that decisions made in youth can be permanent”

I huff, feeling like I’m going around in circles. I fall back on the sofa and put my feet up.

“Have you had any more flashbacks this week?”

I think about the one outside just now. Darkness. A name being screamed. “No”. The memory waits for me, at the lip of my consciousness. I stare at the beach appearing in the distance from between my shoes, willing my mind not to embarrass me.

He sighs. “You don’t have to be honest with me all the time Amal. But I would ask you to give in to the flashback if you can. Embrace the fear. What’s the worse that could happen?”

For some reason tears threaten to fall. “No. I can’t do that. Not yet. Don’t ask me”

He stands up and brings me a glass of water, and waits for me to sit up and sip it.

“Water is like oxygen. If you find yourself getting overwhelmed, take a deep breath, and then take a sip of water. I trust you are remembering to carry your bottle with you?”

I want to hate him. I really do. But I can’t deny the soul as pure white as his hair. He’s faced his demons. I desperately wish I could do the same. I look up at his eyes, a muddy grey, looking into the depths of my soul. “Yes Dr. K”

“Tell me about your week”

For the rest of the session I talk about school, home, my parents, and the latest exploits of Fundi and Fahdi the wonder twins at college.