OneAir Quality Index: No Clue.
DURING THE SPEECHES AT her high school graduation, Noreen picked at dirt on her sneakers and thought about her dead aunt. Today was the first anniversary of Sonia Khala’s funeral, and Noreen would have preferred to stay home, bake Sonia Khala’s favorite blueberry scones, and eat them on the hammock while listening to Sonia Khala’s three musical beloveds (Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Marc Anthony, and Prince), but her mother, Ruby, had insisted, saying, imagine how my sister would feel if she knew she was the reason you skipped your graduation.
Having researched notions of barzakh, the period between death and resurrection, Noreen had learned it was widely accepted that souls awaiting the Day of Judgment in Paradise (where, if there was a Paradise, Sonia Khala’s soul would certainly be) could have knowledge of the actions of the living. Better not to risk it, given how much Sonia Khala had loved the academy, with all its towers and traditions. Had she been alive, she would have flown out for Noreen’s graduation and decorated the house with balloons and a big cheesy sign made by her nine-year-old twins, Amir and Sohail, illustrated by Amir with a silly rhyming couplet by Sohail. Somewhere on the sign, Amir would have drawn her portrait. The last time, he’d gotten the shape of her eyes exactly right.
He’d stopped drawing since his mother died.
Noreen had worn running sneakers under her lacy white graduation dress so she could go far and fast on a moment’s notice. She used to hate running, but her adviser had suggested rounding out her high school resume with a sport, and she’d joined cross-country because it didn’t cut anyone. Though Noreen was not athletically inclined and considered second to last a victory, running grew on her. It was like writing; she approached it with a modicum of dread but was always glad to have done it, and, unlike her unfinished scripts, she always completed a race. She hadn’t been able to write in the past year, but she ran four to five times a week. It took her out of her head, provided a respite from the grief and the doubts and the dark.
At the podium, valedictorian Purima Sen was addressing her fellow graduates, fifty-three white-clad girls poised at the brink of their futures. “As you go through life, do not take no as an answer, but a challenge. Because if you put your mind to it, nothing is beyond your reach, whether it’s the stars or a Nobel Prize.”
Every year, the same solemn speeches, go forth, bright young women, and achieve greatness in the world, courage kindness girl power Nobel Prize blah blah blah. Even Sonia Khala, when she was high school valedictorian, must have uttered the same sincere, inspirational hokiness, while a thirteen-year-old Ruby sat in the audience between their parents, rolling her eyes as their mother cried and their father filmed every last moment on his giant camcorder.
Why all these false promises? Why not speak the truth? That getting hit by a bus, dying quickly of a disease, dying slowly of a disease, even sunbathing at the unlucky moment an epic tsunami powered by climate change swept the whole island, all of those things were more likely than any of them winning the Nobel Prize for anything? Or at least quote Chris Rock—you can be anything you’re good at, as long as they’re hiring.
The speeches ended; the distribution of diplomas began. Noreen made sure to smile at the congratulations of her teachers, some of whom had watched her grow from quiet, awkward middle schooler, mustache over braces, errant eyebrows, and a roving band of small but vicious pimples, to high school graduate with a far more manicured face,
quiet still but less awkward. Coach Novak, for example, had witnessed Noreen’s transformation from girl who tried to dodge dodgeball to reluctant runner to breast cancer 10K participant. She was saying goodbye to the school where she’d spent her formative years, met Abby, and started a humor zine (after the debut issue, half the junior class had come to her with some version of, “Noreen, I didn’t realize you were so funny!”), and though she was moved by the finality and poignancy of this academic rite of passage, her aunt was rotting under six feet of dirt, of which Noreen had thrown three fistfuls, and since then everything—laughter, hope, nostalgia—came steeped in grief.
“Greetings, high school graduate! Care to spike your lemonade with some of Mama Wu’s finest bourbon?” Abby wrapped her arm around Noreen’s waist, pulling her close as she dug inside a canvas bag for her flask, a skull and crossbones poison symbol etched into the leather. Noreen refused the booze and rested her head on her best friend’s shoulder.
“How you doing?” Abby asked.
“Better than I expected, honestly,” Noreen said.
“Did your grandparents come?”
“Nah. They were going to but my grandmother couldn’t get out of bed this morning, first anniversary and all, and my grandfather didn’t want to leave her.”
“Got it. Where are Ruby Auntie and Adi Uncle?”
“Hitting up the jerk shrimp skewers before they disappear.”
“Did somebody say shrimp skewers?” Abby despised fish but could eat half her weight in crustaceans.
“Jumbo. Better get some before they’re gone.”
“I’m on it. Want one?”
Noreen shook her head. A few seconds later, her stomach gurgled. “Hey, get me one too,” she called out to Abby, girl on a mission in her fuchsia Doc Martens boots and a tight, white silk dress. Poor outfit for running, but excellent for the ass.
Then whoever had appointed themselves DJ—Coach Novak, probably, who always opened their school dances and was the reason every student at Covington School for Girls could perform the electric slide in their sleep—decided it was time to switch up the dulcet harp instrumental.
One, two, one two three huh!
Prince.
You had to be kidding.
She’d pretended through the ceremony, but she couldn’t pretend through Prince.
Noreen threw her drink at a trash can, missed, kept going, turned back a moment later because grief would not make a litterer of her, dammit, disposed of the cup properly. She waved at Abby and her mother, hitched up her dress, lengthened her stride.
“Raspberry Beret.” Of all the songs in the world.
Her feet hit asphalt.
Go.
See Noreen.
See Noreen run.
Watch her long, dark hair fly as she pushes uphill against the wind. Note the grimace on her face, taste the salt on her lips. Feel her muscles fire, her heart expand and contract. Hear her inhale, exhale. See how it helps her forget, memory replaced by breath.
On their last happy visit to the Bay Area, Noreen and Ruby had convinced Sonia Khala to rock out to Prince behind the wheel of a sports car. It was early December, sunny, sixty degrees. They’d stopped by the BMW dealership because Sonia Khala was interested in trading in her SUV for a newer model with improved safety features. Noreen and Ruby went straight to the center of the showroom, where a sleek blue sports car rotated on a platform strung with paper snowflake cutouts. “Feliz Navidad” played through the speakers.
“Do you think we could get Sonia Khala to test-drive this?” Noreen said.
Sonia Khala had once said if she didn’t have five things going on at once, she felt bereft. For their visits, she prepared a daily itinerary, with backup options in case of rain. She spent her “free” time fundraising for Muslim refugees, engaging in political protests, volunteering every Satuday in a soup kitchen, and overseeing tutors and signing up the boys for extracurriculars to help them along the path to Yale. Ruby joked that Sonia Khala was “half martyr, half Tiger Mom.” Even her band, an international group of pathologists who donated all show proceeds to charity, combined pleasure with
purpose. Whenever Noreen and Ruby visited, they tried to get her to do something spontaneous, for no other reason than the hell of it.
“Hey, Apa,” Ruby said. “Come here.”
Sonia Khala looked up from the window sticker on a silver SUV. She pushed at the bridge of her glasses, an old habit from her Yale undergrad days, when her glasses had been loose and her head bent over books, and walked over.
“What do you want?” she said. “You usually call me Apa when you want me to do something.”
“We want you to test-drive this sports car,” Noreen said.
“Oh my goodness,” she said. “I hope you’re joking.”
This could be an episode, Noreen thought. Risk-averse aunt test-drives fancy sports car, hijinks and hilarity ensue, all’s well that ends well (at In-N-Out Burger).
“Come on, Khala,” Noreen said. “YOLO.”
“What?”
“You only live once,” Ruby explained. “When does your comfort zone become a prison?”
“Even if I did have any interest in driving a race car, which I don’t, we don’t have time. Sohail has his violin lesson at one and right after Amir has aikido and we have to be at that cheese-tasting benefit by five.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to drive a sports car?” Ruby asked.
“Have you ever heard of Newton’s laws of motion?” Sonia Khala said.
“Mom, maybe we should drop it,” Noreen said.
Ruby nodded. “True. You’re too nervous a driver, Apa. A sports car might overwhelm you.”
“And she doesn’t like to try new things,” Noreen said.
“False, on both counts.” Sonia Khala folded her arms over her backpack-sized purse. “I did Zumba last week. Have either of you tried Zumba?”
“I don’t like dancing to instructions,” Noreen said.
“If you’re not a nervous driver, how come you won’t play music with words in the car?” Ruby said.
“Because I find words distracting while driving,” Sonia Khala said.
“But you’ll listen to NPR,” Noreen said.
“That’s information. Knowledge is power.”
“Come on, Apa.” Ruby nudged her elbow. “If you don’t want to do it for you, then do it for us.”
Sonia Khala looked at Noreen, then Ruby. “All right. I’ll do it, though I won’t drive fast, and only if you two come to Zumba with me tomorrow.”
“Ooh, barter,” Noreen said. “I like.”
“Done.” Ruby rubbed her hands together. “This is gonna be fun!”
“What if someone sees me?” Sonia Khala asked.
“They’ll say, hey, isn’t that woman rocking out in the sports car the bass guitarist from that awesome eighties cover band that raises money for charity? And people say pathologists aren’t cool,” Noreen said.
“I better wear my sunglasses, then.” She took her sunglasses out of her purse, which was stuffed with
smaller zipped purses to keep things organized. “The boys chose these, but they’re a little too Jackie O, hai na?”
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
Enter Sharlene, a Black woman in her forties who’d greeted them when they’d come in. Noreen made a note of the silk bow at her shirt collar, tied with perfect symmetry.
“I’m Sharlene, the manager. I’m so sorry about the wait. How can I help you this fine December day?”
Sonia Khala removed her sunglasses. “I’m interested in trading in my SUV,” she said.
“Maybe for that blue sports car,” Ruby said. “She’d like to test-drive it.”
Sharlene took in Sonia Khala’s wrinkle-free slacks and scuffed loafers, the thick, frayed leather tie of her mom purse. Seeing the two sisters together, you’d think Ruby was the rich one. “Looking for a change?”
“We heard adrenaline delays menopause,” Ruby said.
Sharlene laughed. “Is that the secret now? Well, this model goes zero to sixty in 3.9 seconds.”
“My SUV can do it in a little over five,” Sonia Khala said. “What difference does a moment make?”
“Everything,” Noreen said. “Right, Sharlene?”
“I’ve got an SUV and a sports coupe myself,” Sharlene said. “It’s a different feel, different aerodynamics. And different reactions from other people.”
They all four looked at the sports car, the hood rotating away to the “fa la la la la la” of “Deck the Halls.”
“I’d like to try it,” Sonia Khala told Sharlene. “Just to see what it’s like—I don’t think I’d ever actually purchase a sports car. Is that possible? Trying it, I mean?”
“I don’t see why not. Come with me.”
Noreen and Ruby high-fived each other.
“You two,” Sonia Khala said as they followed Sharlene to her desk. “Do I need to get a Mirza girls rider on my life insurance?”
“It’s all in fun,” Ruby said. “No one’s dying.”
“Amen,” Sharlene said. “Also to that point, this car has some state-of-the-art safety features, which I’ll explain on the ride.”
Ten minutes later, Noreen and Ruby were squished in the puny back seat (they hadn’t quite thought this through), Sharlene in front with Sonia Khala, who was waiting to take a right out of the lot.
“All clear,” Sharlene said.
Sonia Khala recited bismillah and took a slow turn, stopping well before the red light.
“Don’t be afraid to give it a little gas,” Sharlene said.
“Okay. Any other tips?” Sonia Khala said.
“Relax,” Sharlene said. “Enjoy the ride.”
Sonia Khala rolled her shoulders back. “YOLO,” she said, with an earnestness so endearing that Noreen wished she could bottle for whenever the world felt too cynical.
Mere minutes later, Sonia Khala was relaxed enough to accelerate up the ramp, then, after a second, breathy bismillah, cut all the way across to the left lane with a Yippee.
Noreen leaned forward to look at the speedometer. Seventy-five! she mouthed to her mother.
Ruby made a roaring sound. “Excuse me, cheetah, who are you and what have you done with my sister?”
“Actually, cheetahs can’t roar,” Sonia Khala said. “Unlike a lion, the cheetah’s hyoid bone is one piece rather than two, making them physically incapable of roaring.”
“I did not know that,” Sharlene said.
“My sister used to read the Encyclopedia Britannica for fun, back when it was books,” Ruby said. “Before Siri, there was Sonia.”
“Not anymore,” Sonia Khala said. “After all those IVF hormones and being pregnant with twins, I’ve forgotten half of what I knew. Back in my heyday, I would have at least made it to finalist on Jeopardy!”
“I still remember,” Sharlene said, “when I was pregnant with my first and I was buying something at Walgreens and gave the guy a twenty from my purse and he looked at me funny and I realized I’d handed him a panty liner.”
“Speaking of words that begin with P,” Noreen said, “Sonia Khala, you ready for some tunes?”
“For you, my beloved niece,” Sonia Khala said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror, “anything.”
“Sharlene, can you please connect my phone to this twelve-speakered radio with its powerful 360-watt amplifier?” Noreen asked.
Sharlene laughed. “You looking for an internship?”
Like their mother, the twins also loved Prince, and each had their favorite song. “Raspberry Beret” was Sohail’s, and when it began to play, they all cheered.
“Girl, this is my jam.” Sharlene started singing along, prompting a collective gasp at the deep, bright timbre of her voice. Fine December day indeed, Noreen thought.
Cruising at a cool sixty-five in the middle lane, they sang and shimmied and laughed.
Even as it was unfolding, Noreen knew this would be a memory she’d hold precious and dear, one that would bring her great joy with every remembrance, the exhilarating high of being (relatively) fast and free with the two people she loved best and one she would never forget.
After Sonia Khala died, Noreen learned that buttressing this joy had been the implicit promise of more such moments. Now that Fate, or Allah, or the Incredible Unfairness of the Universe had stolen this promise, the memory had become a painful reminder, of what had been lost, and what would never be again.
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