A Good Wife Read online

  Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible despite my pink shalwar kameez, I slipped into the vast, window-lined atrium of the centre and followed the signs to the Students’ Union, my mother quietly following my lead. As I walked into the office, heads turned towards me. I felt as if I had interrupted a conversation between the young men and women who were lounging in the reception area.

  “Hi there,” said one of the men. “Can I help you?” He sounded friendly enough, but I was still nervous. I explained that I wanted to apply for a bursary.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. The person in charge of all that isn’t here right now.”

  Everyone was watching me. Feeling strangely exposed, and relieved to have an excuse to make a fast exit, I thanked the young man, turned on my heel and hurried out of the room.

  As my mother and I made our way through the sun-soaked atrium, I heard a voice ringing through the air. It was the fellow I had just been talking with in the office. He was running after us.

  When he caught up, he was holding out a business card. “Hi. My name is Abhi. I’m the VP of part-time students for the Students’ Union. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  I told him that I was starting again in the fall as a full-time student but I needed financial help. My nervousness and self-consciousness must have inflected everything I said. I could see that Abhi understood things were not as simple as that. “Well, listen, the Students’ Union is here to assist with all kinds of things. You can call me whenever you need help. Day or night.”

  I hadn’t been back in the apartment for more than a couple of hours when I decided to call. My mother was out visiting an old friend who had moved to Mississauga. Alone with my thoughts about the coming year, I was sliding into full-blown hysteria. How was I ever going to manage once my mother left? Abhi had offered assistance. I had no idea what that might mean, but I knew I needed some kind of help.

  * * *

  The next afternoon Abhi was settled on my living-room couch, and I was telling him every sorry detail of my current circumstances.

  “Listen,” he said once I’d finished, “come back to the Students’ Union tonight. We have a council meeting. I want to introduce you to people. You don’t have to go through all of this alone. We’ll help you.”

  I didn’t know it at the time, nor would I fully appreciate it for many, many months, but that call and my subsequent talk with Abhi were perhaps the most important things I did once I was on my own. They opened up a new world to me, a world that would both support and sustain me in the coming years. Ahmed was right. I would never make it on my own. But that phone call ensured I didn’t have to.

  That evening I was back at the Student Centre, this time with Sonia and Aisha in tow. As soon as I walked through the door, Abhi began to introduce to me to the other students who were milling about. Walied, the executive director, asked me a bit about my life, and like Abhi he insisted that the group at the Students’ Union would support me. A woman named Cherri told me how much she loved kids and how happy she would be to help with Sonia and Aisha if I needed it. But the person who made the biggest impact on me that evening was a woman named Saba.

  When I first walked into the office, Saba was stretched out on one of the couches that lined the walls. She appeared to be of South Asian descent—it turned out she was Pakistani—but she was wearing Western clothes. What struck me, however, was not her dress but her demeanour. There, in a crowded room of men and women, she was sprawled unselfconsciously across the furniture, as relaxed and at home as if she were in her own bedroom. Even when she sat up and approached me, everything about her calm confidence said that she belonged. I simply couldn’t imagine feeling that way. But I knew that I desperately wanted to.

  The meeting, and the entire evening, flew by, and I left feeling hopeful and excited. In the coming days, Abhi, Walied and the others were true to their word. Ruba, the person in charge of the bursaries, came by my apartment to talk to me, so I didn’t have to trek down to the Student Centre with both kids. And others offered to take the girls whenever I had court dates or meetings with my lawyers, which was depressingly often. Frequently, this child care took place in the Students’ Union office, which my girls soon discovered was as good as any playground or amusement park.

  One afternoon, I returned to the office to pick up the girls and found Sonia squealing with delight as she was propelled around the place on a wheeled chair. While Sonia enjoyed her ride, Aisha was at a desk with a stack of paper in front of her. One of the union members, Matthew, was sitting in front of her, posing while she sketched him. The table held half-eaten cupcakes and cans of pop. The only thing missing from the party was balloons. Sonia and Aisha didn’t want to leave.

  The union office became a refuge for me and for the girls, one that I returned to again and again as I struggled to adjust to my new single life. I was taken aback by how thoughtful and supportive everyone was to a near stranger and her two small children—and how hard they worked to include me.

  One afternoon, I was having coffee with my new friends when someone suggested going to a movie later in the day. They assured me that it was a kid-friendly film and told me I should bring the girls. There was no way I could spare that kind of money, so I mumbled a few excuses about other things I had to do. Saba disappeared from the office and then walked in a few minutes later with four printed movie tickets—one for her and the rest for me and the girls. “You’re coming with us. I’m not taking no for an answer.” When I started to protest she told me that I could repay her by cooking her a meal.

  Indeed, over the course of the summer, whenever my new friends popped by, I tried to repay their kindnesses by feeding them. I also let everyone know that they were welcome to stay at my apartment whenever they wanted. As many of them lived a distance from the campus, they started to take up my offer—whether it was for a quick midday nap on the spare mattress I kept propped against the living-room wall or overnight when they had a class or test early the next morning. I loved the company and the social energy. For the first time since high school, I could make friends freely. For the first time since I’d started school, I wasn’t checking my watch constantly when I was on campus. For the first time in my life, I could open the door to my own home and welcome others into it. It was extraordinary to feel a part of something beyond my family. By the time the fall term was underway, my tiny, stuffy apartment had been dubbed the Union Station of UTM. I puffed with pride at that.

  My connection with the Students’ Union gang also helped me overcome one of the biggest hurdles I faced during those early months of separation. Even though the campus housing organization was allowing me to defer my rent payments, my financial situation in those summer months was nothing short of perilous. The small amount of equity in the house would not be divided between Ahmed and me until our separation agreement was finalized. In the meantime, he was paying only a tiny amount of child support, and it didn’t come close to covering groceries, gas and my cellphone payments. My OSAP and teaching assistant position wouldn’t kick in until the fall. Michelle, a friend from the Students’ Union office, helped me apply for Ontario Works government assistance to tide me over, but that too would take time to arrive, and my cupboards were literally bare. She suggested that I visit a food bank—which seemed to be my only option until my first government cheque arrived.

  So one hot July evening, I put both girls into the minivan and drove to the little church where the food bank operated. As we descended the stairs into the dank basement, my heart sank. A table stretched across the room, a line of metal shelves filled with cans and boxes behind it. A sour-looking woman put her hand out to take my Ontario Works registration information. After glancing at the papers, she gave them back to me and without a word began filling a paper bag with various items. She was about to drop a can of tuna into the bag when I stopped her.

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said. “I’m afraid my girls won’t eat that.”

  Her hand hung in the air above the bag
as she looked at me in disbelief. “You come to a food bank and then you’re going to tell me what you want?” She put the tuna back on the shelf and then thrust the half-filled bag at me. “Have a good night,” she said, dismissing me.

  As Aisha, Sonia and I retreated up the stairs, I tried to keep my eyes from filling.

  “Mommy,” said Aisha, reaching for my hand. “I don’t want to come back here again.” She needn’t have worried.

  The next morning, I returned to the Students’ Union to see if anyone had ideas about where I might find a part-time job. Walied suggested I apply for a shift at the info desk in the Student Centre.

  As I went through my closet looking for something to wear to the interview, I let out a little sigh. I hoped that I might squeeze a few dollars from any future paycheques for some new Western clothes. I had acquired a few loose, unfashionable pairs of jeans and shirts when I started university, but now I wanted a whole new look. I didn’t want any of the South Asian outfits that Amma and Ahmed had expected me to wear. I’d already given away all my hijabs.

  The interview itself was nerve-racking. Other than my job at Zellers, I’d never worked outside my home, and as I sat in front of Ruba and Walied, I was quite sure that Walied was regretting his suggestion. Besides, how could someone so desperately in need of help herself possibly answer questions and give assistance to others? In my favour, however, I was interested in a shift that few people wanted: 8:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. It seemed a perfect time to me—I could be in class or at the library during the day, come home, feed the girls and put them to bed, then come to work. I figured that shift would also be the quietest, and therefore allow me to study while I staffed the desk.

  I was able to take that late-night shift because I’d just found a foreign exchange student, Maria, who was willing to take the second bedroom in my place. (I was happy to squeeze Sonia and Aisha in with me if I could make a bit of extra income.) We struck a deal that she would receive meals as well, and in exchange pay a small amount of rent and provide me with child care during the evenings and on other occasions as needed. So when I got the job, I was ready to go.

  All these bits and pieces of income kept our stomachs full until the fall started. And by the time classes got underway, I had started earning a little extra money in yet another way. Abhi had become an enthusiastic fan of my cooking, and one day he suggested that I start to provide dinners for students—for a fee. He would spread the word if I were interested. I immediately stocked up on cheap plastic containers and started to cook massive portions of everything. Before long, I had a loyal group of customers who would show up once or twice a week and purchase dinners for the coming evenings. When they came back for refills, they’d return my containers.

  * * *

  When the fall 2011 term began my schedule was bursting. I had a full course load, I was a teaching assistant, or TA, and I was working part time at the info booth. But of course I was also making sure that Aisha and Sonia were fed, cared for and off to school each day. I was taking care of my little home while running a small catering business out of it. I was volunteering at the university’s Accessibility Centre and the Afghan Women’s Organization. And I was finally enjoying a university social life.

  Through it all, my new friends shored me up and cheered me on. I can’t adequately express how important these extraordinary people were (and still are) to me. They threw me a buoy when I was sinking, and they continued to be a lifeline for me in the coming years.

  As I read through everything I’ve written in the last few pages, I’m struck by the upbeat energy of it all, the sense that my first six months on my own were a frenetic push forward marked by enthusiastic industry and remarkable good luck, by a new-found community and much-enjoyed freedom. All that is true. But it is a far cry from the whole truth.

  The reality of those first months was far more uneven, a pockmarked landscape that had me living as much in the shadows as in the breaking daylight. Eventually those shadows almost undid me.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE WAY FORWARD

  Those summer months of 2011, when everything was new and frightening and when my work and study schedule had not yet filled every minute of my day, I was often immobilized by intense loneliness and despair. On some days when Aisha and Sonia were with Amma or Ahmed I would go back to bed as soon as the girls had departed, lying there hour after hour until it was time to pick them up again. But even in the autumn, once the pace of my life intensified, days and weeks disappeared into darkness.

  My new friends, as wonderful and helpful as they were, simply could not understand why I would miss my old life, or Ahmed, but I did. Intensely. At times my married past seemed to disappear into a dense fog, and all that broke through were bright beacons of occasional happy times and sporadic kindnesses.

  During these periods, all my bold acts—protesting loudly when Ahmed grabbed me or called me names, telling everyone I wanted a divorce, calling the police—no longer looked like acts of bravery, dignity and self-possession but instead the self-defeating tantrums of a spoiled child. Why hadn’t my previous life been good enough for me?

  Ten-year-old Aisha, wise beyond her years, continued to save me—just as she had years ago when I collapsed on that prayer mat, ready to let go of everything.

  One evening, she and I were driving to McDonald’s to treat ourselves to a junk-food dinner. As I was thinking about what we would bring back for Sonia, whom we had left with my tenant at the apartment, a picture floated into my mind—Ahmed tiptoeing into my basement room, clutching a paper bag, a soft look on his face as I turned to him. Since our rukhsati, other than the diamond ring and the booby-trapped BlackBerry, Ahmed had never given me gifts. But fast food had been his quirky language of love. It was his way of apologizing after a fight. It was his thoughtful offering when he knew I had struggled through another dinner of his mother’s spicy food. It was the mark of each honeymoon period, each period of peace and relative happiness. As the bright red-and-yellow McDonald’s sign came into view, I felt my throat grow tight and painful and the tears pool under my eyes. In that moment, nothing seemed as romantic to me as those late-night visits, announced by the comforting smell of hot French fries and savoury burgers. Ahmed had been kind. He had loved me.

  “What have I done?” I said out loud.

  I felt a small hand on my arm. Aisha was giving it a little shake. She knew exactly what I was talking about. “Mommy, if you go back, it will only be worse because everyone will want to punish you for leaving. Look at how much progress you’ve made. You’ve got real friends now. It will get better. We can do this.”

  We held hands in the car all the way home.

  * * *

  It wasn’t just the loss of Ahmed and my marriage that made me ache. It was the evaporation of the entire community I had lived in. What social circle I had formed was through Ahmed and Amma. All my old friends were the wives of Ahmed’s pals, and they wanted nothing to do with me now. I tried to phone a few of them at first, but no one would take my calls. I soon realized that was perhaps a good thing.

  I was delighted one summer afternoon when I saw a familiar number pop up on my cell. It was one of those wives. “Is it true?” she asked after I’d said hello. “Everyone says you were cheating on Ahmed and now you’ve left so you can live with some guy.” She sounded thrilled by the scandal, and after making a few ignored denials I gave up. I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince her.

  My family was an ocean away, but more than physical distance separated us. I was not in touch much with my sisters, and I knew Warda and Saira were both unnerved by my separation. Warda hadn’t even been able to tell her husband. While my mother had been supportive during the past few years and I could reach out to her in a crisis, our long-distance phone calls did not make me feel as if I had a kindred spirit to help me through the quotidian struggles of my new life. (“How am I ever going to make it without a man in my life?” I asked her one day. She murmured sympathetically, but I could sense her
unspoken response: You can’t.) What’s more, given what I knew of my extended family’s feelings about divorce, I did not expect to be welcomed into their lives now.

  My alienation stretched beyond the people I knew. Even strangers from my community were often hostile and threatening once they found out that I was separated from my husband.

  One day in midsummer I answered my phone and was met with a voice I didn’t recognize. The man was speaking Urdu. “Hello, Samra Zafar? I am calling in response to your daycare ad.”

  I was taken aback. I hadn’t run any online ads for the daycare for almost two years now. “I don’t run a daycare anymore,” I told the man. I did need money, however. Perhaps this was an opportunity. “But if it would help, I could provide some daycare for your children until September,” I offered.

  “Well, where are you living?” the man asked. “Who lives with you?”

  These were the standard kinds of questions I was asked by people phoning about the daycare. I told him I was living on the UTM campus with my two children.

  “You’re divorced then?”

  “I’m separated,” I responded. “How old are your children?”

  “Oh, they’re not my children. I’m just calling for a friend.”

  I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. “Ask your friend to call me,” I said, trying to sound as coolly professional as I could.

  “I’ve heard about you,” the man continued, “that you were separated. My wife is in Pakistan right now, and I’m lonely. We should get together. Have coffee and chat and maybe more . . .”

  My breath caught in my throat. “How did you get my number?” I said.

  “You’re not that hard to find.”

  “Please don’t call me again.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be that way.” The man’s tone was slippery and smug.