I comb through the numbers in the Yellow Pages, trying to find a lawyer who is available on the weekend. Only recorded messages.
Bilal’s phone is still switched off too.
Finally there is movement on my computer screen. A flashing icon indicating that John has sent a reply. I open the message, my heart playing Ping-Pong against my stomach.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Meet me at Parramatta police station in 1/2 hr.
38
I GRAB THE stash of money I keep in my makeup box and call a taxi. Bilal’s phone is still switched off and I resolve to give him a black eye when I see him next.
It takes an eternity for the taxi to arrive (well, fifteen minutes, but I feel like I’ve aged enough to qualify for a pension by the time I hear the beep of the horn). I instruct the driver to take me to Parramatta police station immediately. He gives me a suspicious look, which I ignore. Of course, because I’m in a hurry, he decides to creep along the roads, slowing down before each traffic light just in case it turns yellow. I crack my knuckles nervously. I try to withstand the powerful temptation to throw myself forward and press down on the accelerator.
We finally crawl onto the right street. My hands are all clamped and sweaty, and a heavy feeling descends on me as I walk up to the doors of the police station.
John should be here soon but I can’t bear another minute without seeing Shereen. I approach the front desk nervously and, in a timid voice, ask to see my sister.
“What’s her name?” a Sergeant Kris Doleson asks, giving me a patronizing look. Well, who can blame her? How many people have “sister” under “given name” on their police reports?
“Shereen Towfeek.”
“Wait one moment, please.”
She returns after several minutes. “You can’t see her. She’s in custody. She gets one visitor and has requested a lawyer.”
I take a seat in the reception area. It’s chaotic and noisy, police officers rushing in and out, people milling around, some talking loudly, others huddled together, engrossed in hushed discussions. I try to figure out if anybody looks like a lawyer. But the only exposure I’ve had to legal person alities has been through shows like Law & Order and the lawyers there are usually dressed in dark suits. The only person in business attire here is an old man dressed in a bottle-green tweed suit and hat, holding on to a string of worry beads as he speaks to a young man who is clearly related to him.
I lean my head back against the corkboard behind me and close my eyes for a moment, absorbing the noises around me. When I open them I decide to wait for John outside, hoping that it might make it easier for us to recognize each other away from the crowd of people.
I find a ledge and hop up onto it, leaning my elbow against my thigh and cupping my chin in my hand. I stare at two ants doing circles on the concrete and wonder if they’re in a relationship.
Ten minutes later I hear a voice from behind me: “Hi, Jamie.”
I turn around and to my bewilderment Timothy is standing there, his hands clamped down in his pockets, his face etched with nervous tension. I give him a long, searching look, not comprehending his presence.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice strained and confused.
“Mom’s a legal aid lawyer…She’s just parking the car.”
I’m still confused and blunder on. “But what are you doing here?”
He raises his eyebrows slowly and hunches his shoulders up, seemingly waiting for me to understand. And in a second it dawns on me. The truth hits me so hard that I almost lose my balance on the ledge. I suck in a deep breath to stop my insides from disintegrating like sand dunes washed into nothingness by a violent wave.
My eyes widen in shock. “No…” I whisper in horror.
He nods slowly, painfully, never once turning his gaze from me. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to deceive you…”
I raise my hand, cutting him off midway through his sentence. “You’re John? You’ve been John all along?”
He nods and I wince, as though defending myself from the cuts of a knife.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to but I chickened out.”
I’m too numb to yell and shout. Anyway, there isn’t a chance because a woman walks up to us from the curb, a folder wedged under her arm. She’s tall like Timothy and dressed in slacks and a shirt. Her hair is tied back into a low ponytail and her face is bare except for a touch of lipstick.
She stands before me and smiles warmly. “Hi, Jamie, I’m Sandra. Timothy’s told me a lot about you. I’m sorry to hear about your sister. Shall we go in and see what the story is?”
The words have been sucked right out of me. I open my mouth. Nothing.
So I nod slowly and hop off the ledge. As we walk to the doors, I remember my manners. I force myself to speak and turn to Sandra and thank her for coming.
“Not a problem,” she says. “I used to be an avid protestor myself in my university days.”
I give her a half-smile and turn my head away, averting my face from Timothy’s gaze.
Sandra instructs Timothy and me to wait in the lobby while she sees her “client.” The word hits me hard. It affirms Shereen’s induction into that group of Australians who have been arrested. I’d always joked about this and it was always my father’s deepest anxiety. For once his paranoia wasn’t misguided.
I take a seat and Timothy has the sense to choose a seat across from me, rather than fill the empty one next to me. He leans forward, then seems to think twice and leans back. Then he leans forward again, running his fingers through his hair, and says nervously: “Let me explain, Jamie.”
“I don’t want to talk about it now,” I say coldly.
“But—”
“No,” I cut him off.
He doesn’t continue and leans back.
I reach into my pocket and take out my phone, trying Bilal’s number again. It’s finally ringing and Bilal eventually answers.
“Where have you been?” I yell.
“I was helping a friend fix his car, why?”
“Shereen’s been arrested—”
“What?”
“I don’t know why, something about a protest. We’re at Parramatta police station. Can you please come now?”
“I’m in the car as we speak. I should be there in twenty. Does Dad know?”
“No! Of course not!”
“All right. I’ll see you soon. Stop stressing, OK, Jam?”
My chin starts to quiver but I force myself, with every brain cell and inch of willpower, to stop myself from crying. “Yeah, OK.”
I hang up and Timothy looks at me with concern. I ignore him and fumble with the zipper on my bag. Up and down, down and up. I’m sure the rest of the people in the reception area are ready to pounce on me in annoyance.
Several minutes of silence pass when Timothy suddenly says: “I wonder if there’s a phobia of police stations.”
I ignore his conciliatory smile and respond with my filthiest, most obnoxious look. “Very funny. You’re a natural.”
“I had no idea to begin with. I’m sorry.”
“You completely betrayed me. I wouldn’t even know where to start! I opened up to John about everything—”
“I never told any—”
“That’s beside the point! What right did you have? You knew that I was revealing my deepest secrets to somebody I thought was a stranger! And you didn’t even tell me!”
“If you hadn’t been so self-centered, you would have figured it out! It was there for you to see. And when you didn’t figure it out, I blocked your e-mail.”
“Seriously, shut up. Just shut up. There is nothing you can say to make this better.” I stand up and storm out of the reception area.
“Where are you going?” he calls out.
“I’m going to wait outside for my brother, Bilal. Oh, but you know his name is Bilal, don’t you? You know
all about him!”
I turn on my heel and walk out, resuming my position on the ledge. When Bilal arrives, I answer his barrage of questions and then we go inside and wait.
I’m tempted to ask Bilal to beat up Timothy, the way it happens in the movies. Protect my honor, stick up for me, that kind of thing.
This is the kind of totally stupid and violent fantasy I’m entertaining as I wait to know if my sister is going to forever be known as a convicted felon. I suppose, technically, an arrest over a peace rally won’t amount to that, but that’s what people like Uncle Joseph will say if they find out.
We’re sitting in the reception area and I’m ignoring Timothy, despite the fact that his mother is here helping Shereen. That presents a dilemma. I should probably introduce him to Bilal.
“Bilal, this is Timothy,” I half grunt. “His mom is a lawyer and she’s inside helping Shereen.”
“Hey, man,” Bilal says, leaning over and shaking Timothy’s hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem.” Timothy glances at me but I ignore him.
“School friend?” Bilal asks me in Arabic.
“Not a friend, just an acquaintance,” I reply in Arabic. Timothy looks at us inquisitively and I raise my eyebrows at him as if to say, you-don’t-understand-us-na-na-na-na-na. Completely childish, I know.
Bilal looks at me suspiciously. “Are you sure? He keeps staring at you.”
“He’s mentally deranged.”
“Then what hope is there with his mom?”
“She seems fine. Besides, we need whoever we can get.”
“He looks like he does pot. Does he smoke pot?”
“No, he gets high on tropical fish.”
“Is that a new drug?” Bilal asks, confused.
It’s been two hours and forty-five minutes since I first arrived at the police station. My butt is numb from sitting on the plastic chair. I look over at Timothy, who is sitting with his legs stretched out, his head leaning back against the wall as he listens to his iPod. It occurs to me that he doesn’t have to be here. That he could have left a long time ago. But I quickly light a match to that thought. I’m in no mood for feeling an ounce of appreciation or gratitude toward him. The shock and humiliation are still too raw.
Sandra finally emerges. Walking behind her is Shereen. I’m expecting to see her in handcuffs and zebra-striped jumpsuit. I wonder if they’d make her wear a zebra- striped hijab. I’ve watched way too many movies.
Shereen looks as normal as ever. White Yin-Yang-patched hijab, a scarf in the colors of the Iraqi flag wrapped around her shoulders, long-sleeved T-shirt with SILENCE IS CONSENT written over it, jeans, and brown boots. She grins at Bilal and me and rushes over. It’s group hug time.
I remember Timothy and Sandra. I turn around and thank Sandra.
“No problem. They didn’t press charges so everything’s fine from here. We can all go home now.”
“What do we owe you?” Bilal asks.
“Nothing!” she cries, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand.
“No, seriously,” Shereen says, stepping in. “I owe you something. I’ve taken up your whole afternoon.”
Sandra smiles. “I did this because Timothy asked me as a special favor. He said it was for a close friend. So please, don’t spoil it with talk of money. Consider it my contribution to civil rights.” She chuckles and Shereen gives her a warm hug.
Timothy is standing awkwardly beside his mother.
“Thanks…” I mutter uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters back.
We leave the police station. Shereen is gushing praise and thanks over Timothy’s valor in coming to her aid. I want to take her aside and quietly inform her that he is an e-mail imposter who tricked me into telling him all about our lives.
I jump into the backseat of Bilal’s car and we drive off to Parramatta for a quick coffee and debriefing session before we return home.
It’s now five o’clock and I suddenly remember that I’ve been out of the house for an entire day without Dad knowing or having even called. So I send him a text message and tell him that I’m with Shereen and Bilal in Parramatta.
He sends one back: Nex tim you ask befre you lev the hose.
I don’t have much in the way of a rebuttal argument so I reply: OK.
We choose a table outside a café on Church Street. Shereen proceeds to tell us what happened.
“We were trying to make a bit of noise as a procession of government officials and MPs were arriving at the entrance of Parliament House. It got out of hand. Some idiot started to burn the flag. I rushed over with Cam and Tisha to try and get him to stop. Of course the cameras started rolling at that point. Then he started throwing stuff at the cops. Bottles and cans. The cops came in hard and we got caught up in it all.”
“So was it worth it?” I ask.
Shereen stares at the table, fiddling with a packet of Sweet’N Low. A moment’s pause. Cars drive past. The traffic light turns red. A yellow Porsche revs its engine for our benefit. The steady hum of conversation and laughter surrounds us.
She looks up and our eyes connect. “I still think silence is consent. But I realized something while sitting in the holding cell, wondering whether I’d end up in jail. Despite the fact that I’ve been screaming and shouting and venting, I think my voice got lost. There are only so many causes you can champion. I was all rhetoric.” She pauses, tapping her fingers on the table. “I need a focus.”
“So what now?” Bilal asks.
“This will probably sound really sanctimonious—”
“Ahem!” Bilal says. “English, please!”
Shereen smiles. “Stuck up.”
“So say stuck up instead of using a word that has every letter of the alphabet.”
Shereen and I groan.
“Anyway,” Shereen continues, “I want to try and make an impact at the grassroots level of society. You know, reach out to communities who feel isolated and alienated. I want to help them feel connected. And besides, we need more diversity in the police force.”
Bilal slams his hands down on the table and bursts out laughing. “A cop? That’s awesome!”
Shereen grins. “Of course, I could never do any undercover assignments. Unless it’s investigating the beef content in a kebab at Lakemba.”
“I wonder what Dad will say.”
“He’ll probably think it’s too dangerous for a girl,” Bilal says, rolling his eyes.
“Actually I’m pretty optimistic that he’ll be OK with my decision. I think he’ll be happy that I’ve finally worked out what I want to do with my life.”
“I’m not so optimistic,” Bilal says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I got a job.”
Shereen and I squeal with excitement. “Really?”
“An apprenticeship with a top mechanic. Not exactly Dad’s ideal job description for me.”
“It’s fantastic!” Shereen cries.
“Yeah! You’re finally going to get off your butt and do something with your life,” I tease. “Think of all those poor bimbos you’ll no longer have time for.”
He hits me playfully on the shoulder. “You never have nothing positive to contribute, do you, Jam?”
“Double negatives, Bilal.”
“And I’m still hot and sexy.”
Shereen and I groan.
“So does Dad know yet?” I ask.
“Nope. I’ll tell him when he’s in a good mood.”
Shereen lets out a short laugh. “What happened today is going to ensure that window of opportunity is closed for the next thirty-five years.”
We arrive home an hour later. Dad is sitting on the back porch, smoking his argeela and reading a book of Arabic poetry. Each of us greets him with a kiss on the top of his head. No words of anger pass between Bilal and Dad. Just a kiss, a gruff “Hi,” and an uncomfortable few words about their day. It’s how they always make up and move on. Without acknowledgi
ng the past. Without talking about the future. Just quiet recognition that this is how it is and family goes on.
Shereen motions for Bilal and me to go inside. She has some confessing to do.
Bilal and I sit in the living room, each of us taking turns to eavesdrop.
At first he yells. About the shame. About the consequences. About police records and future job applications and community gossip.
And then she speaks. About ideals and dreams and naiveté. About mistakes and understanding and forgiveness and the future.
And then there is silence. We sneak a look outside.
There is no longer any talking.
Just a long hug between two people who are learning to understand each other a little more.
39
“WINDOW OF opportunity,” Shereen hisses at Bilal as she passes us in the hallway later on in the week.
We respond with blank expressions.
“Apprenticeship. Good mood. Dad.” Her voice is hushed as her eyes scan the end of the hallway for a sign of Dad. “Something must have happened at madrasa. He’s home on a high.”
“How do you know?” Bilal asks.
She looks at us calmly and then smiles. “He just suggested that I take Jamilah to the movies. I quote: She’s been cooped up at home and seems down lately. As you are both aware, it is past sunset. It is a weeknight. Jamilah being cooped up has never concerned him in the past.”
“Oh God! Dad’s gone senile!” I fan my face with my hand, trying to calm myself down.
“Maybe somebody slipped something into his coffee at madrasa,” Bilal suggests.
“Whatever the reason,” Shereen says impatiently, “just get your butt into the living room and talk to him.”
Bilal runs his fingers nervously through his hair. “OK, I’m going.”
“And Bilal,” Shereen says, gently touching his arm, “don’t lose your temper.”
Shereen turns to me when Bilal has disappeared inside the lounge room. “Positions?”
“I’ll take the kitchen door. You take the hallway. We’ll regroup in the bathroom.”
Bilal’s never been subtle or diplomatic. He’s as smooth as whipped cream on the dance floor or on the phone with a girl. But put him in a room with Dad and the cream curdles.