s p l i n t e r e d

chapter n i n e

"Artists run their fingers over the fabric of eternity."
― Heather Rose. 

When Baba calls a second time, I no longer have the heart to ignore him. 

"Asia?" the call clicks through, and immediately, I can hear the tension in his voice, from the way he called me Asia. Not Asia jaan. His tone is pitched far lower than usual, his words strained and hurried. "Is everything alright? Why didn't you return my call? I haven't heard from you in so long. What's going on?" 

I feel longing and yearning and guilt coursing through me, all at once. It's been three days since Baba called, three days of radio silence from me.

I climb out of the living room window onto the fire escape. The metal is cold against my bare feet. I breathe in the cool, evening air. The seven p.m. darkness is punctured through with streetlights and headlights and the church light that is fractured through the stained glass window. 

"I'm so sorry, Baba jaan," I manage to say, trying to maintain composure of my voice. "I meant to, I really did, but I got so busy with classes, and extra credit." I pause briefly, the lies flowing easier than expected. I close my eyes, guiltily. "I'm sorry," I exhale. "How are you? How is work, and home?"

There is a pregnant silence. An icy wind sends shivers down my spine.

"Baba?" My voice is quiet and afraid. Afraid, because I don't want Baba to be mad, or upset. Despite everything, he is my only anchor. 

"Mm," Baba's throat makes a sound as he clears it. "Yes. I'm here. You worried me, Asia jaan. Is something else the matter?" 

His voice turns soft and gentle and it threatens the thinly veiled strength that I attempt to muster. I feel heat pricking my eyes. Tears, threatening. I squeeze them shut, and swallow, past the knot in my throat.

"No, Baba, nothing," I lie, forcing the words from my throat. "I'm just - homesick. That's all. I miss you, a lot." 

That part could only ever be truth. I miss his faint smell of tobacco and coffee. I miss the sound of him praying. I miss him reading out headlines from the morning paper. All I have ever known is Baba. 

"I will visit. Hm? How about that?" Baba's voice lifts, as if he can hear the sadness in my voice, and wants to dispel it. "One of these days. The weekend, perhaps? You can show me around your school." 

I take a breath and smile, holding the cell phone closer to my ear as if it would somehow reduce the distance between us. I lean against the wall, the cold bricks seeping through the fabric of my tee. "There's a bakery that you would love, Baba jaan. Their coffee and butter croissants are great." 

His laughter is as smooth and warm as melting butter. "I must come, then. Tell me, how are your classes going?"

The knot in my throat loosens, and I swallow it away. "Alhamdulillah, Baba, they're okay. There's an alumni art exhibition tomorrow night, and I'm helping out." 

"An alumni art exhibition?" 

"Ji. I'm working with the founder of it. She's one of my professors."

"Ah," Baba muses. "That sounds interesting." 

"It is."

"I'm glad you are enjoying it." 

"I am. What about you? Have you been eating properly?"

He chuckles. "There she is! The daughter that is really my mother. I eat when I can, yes, but I am very busy in the office, these days."