“It’s just…” I struggle to find words. A guard appears at my other side, holding a sun umbrella over me. I flash a quick, grateful smile, still searching for how to phrase what I’m feeling. “The last time I was here, I left for a holiday. I had no idea it would be so long before I was back again. It feels as though I’m about to cross the threshold of time. Does that make sense?”
“In a way.” He brushes his fingers over mine – a simple, light gesture but it nonetheless stirs my nerve endings, anchoring me in some way to the present when the past is threatening to swallow me whole. “You don’t have to go in. It is your decision.”
“I know that,” I murmur, scanning the house, my heart pounding. “I should. I think I’ll regret it if I don’t. After all, who knows when I’ll be back next.”
“Would you like me to wait outside?”
He should wait outside. Having him come into my parents’ house, my father’s house, feels like an even greater betrayal than what’s happening between us, and yet I don’t want to do this alone. No, that’s not entirely accurate; it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. I want Zahir with me. Perhaps I want him to see the happy domesticity in which we lived, to realise what he took from us all, or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to justify my actions.
“It’s fine. Come with me.”
He dips his head in silent agreement. On legs that aren’t quite steady I start to make my way up the path, my pulse pounding under my skin as I approach the door. It’s locked, and of course I don’t have a key. But with a single gesture, one of the guards approaches, shoving it with his shoulder until the door opens.
I shudder at the wanton destruction. “He will repair it once we leave,” Zahir murmurs, stepping back, waiting for me to move into the house.
I stand on the threshold looking in, my body quivering and my mind racing. Shards of the past slice into me. Pain is everywhere. Before I can realise what I’m doing, I reach down and grab Zahir’s hand, needing his strength to spread to me even as I acknowledge how much of this is his fault.
“I’m here,” he says quietly, understanding how I feel and that I need reassurance.
One foot in front of the other, just like I did on our wedding day. I step up into the hallway, and a sob rushes out of me without warning. Everything is just as I remember, but less well cared for. The hallway light is broken, shards of glass at my feet, and a window at the back has been broken so that dust and detritus have blown in. I press my hand to the wall – rough and cool – and close my eyes, remembering the sounds of my childhood. My father and his frequent visits with friends, my mother cooking and singing – she would always sing.
When I open my eyes, Zahir is watching me with an intensity that robs me of breath. I can’t look at him. My emotions are a maelstrom. When I try to relinquish my hand he holds it tight, squeezing my fingers. To the left of us is a drawing room. Father used to meet his friends here. I always loved it in that way children adore the prohibited spaces of their homes.
“I wasn’t allowed in here,” I explain, hesitating for a moment before stepping into the room.
“But you came in anyway?” He guesses.
A wistful smile touches my lips. “From time to time.” I gesture across the room with my other hand. “I used to hide over there.” I point to a small piece of furniture with a pot plant on top of it. When we lived here, it housed a glossy green fern, but now it’s withered away, just a pot with dry, dusty soil. The sofas have become drab, the cushions faded and there is a smell of dust in the air. I move towards the window, looking out at where the swimming pool used to be. The water is gone, now it’s just a concrete hole in the ground, dusty and dirty. It’s horrible to see it like that, quite eerie and soul-destroying.
“What was the room for?”
“Dad would meet his friends here,” I say innocently, then stiffen when I remember the animosity between my father and this man. “No doubt to plot your downfall,” I say sarcastically.
He doesn’t take the bait. His eyes move slowly around the room and I see it as he must. It’s drab now, but still beautiful, the mid-century designer furniture gleaming in the morning sunlight. The floors are pale, catching the warmth. There’s a desk near the window, large and made of dark timber. I remember dad had a key he wore around his wrist that he would use to unlock the drawers. On the top of the desk is a red leather-bound notebook he used to write in often. He would always store it in the top drawer before locking it – strange that he left it out now.
I move back towards the door. The kitchen is opposite. “Mom loved to cook,” I say quietly, unable to breach the space of the kitchen. “She spent a lot of time in here. She could watch me play in the garden out front, and my father was close by.” I sigh. “They were so happy here.”
I feel him stiffen at my side and this time when I pull at my hand, he lets it go; something between us has changed.
Across the hallway there’s the kitchen, so much my mother’s domain that I stand on the threshold and my heart judders almost to a stop. I feel her there. I almost see her, hands kneading dough, as she did every morning, fingers elegantly weaving it to make the most elaborate plaited breads. I hold my breath as I step inside, running my fingertips over the counter. A thousand memories fracture in my mind. Eating porridge with pomegranates and date syrup, right here, as the sun grew high and hot, drinking sweet tea with my mother and her friends, learning to read in this very chair, my mother patient as she taught me the sounds each mysterious letter made.
I blink quickly, moving to the cupboards above the sink. I open one automatically, a weak smile on my face as I curl my fingers around what I knew I’d find.
“His Alabaya,” I turn to show Zahir, who’s watching with an expression I can’t decipher.
He nods once.
“It was left here, all along.” Like all of my father’s most precious things. His entire life suspended in this place, waiting for his return. I put it back as though suddenly crawling with spiders, slamming the cupboard shut. My mother is everywhere here and my heart breaks because I’ve never felt her absence more keenly.
Back to the corridor I go, moving deeper into the house. I pass the lounge room, Dad’s office, and then my parents’ bedroom. I peek my head in, everything just as I remembered it except for one important detail. It’s so much smaller.
As an adult, I see it as it really is, rather than through the eyes of a little girl in a grown-up space. The next room is my bedroom. I push the door open and step inside, right back into my past. I was only six when I left here for the last time, and the room reflects that. The bed is tiny and narrow, covered in a pale pink coverlet and stuffed animals. My slippers rest at the foot of the bed, waiting dutifully for me to return, and across the room there’s a low timber desk I used to sit at to do drawings. I move to it now, lifting one of my childish pictures and tracing the lines with an unsteady finger. The window displays a view back over Thakirt, all the low roofs something I remember staring out at with fascination. The floor is tiled with a large rug, and as a girl I used to lie on my tummy and pull at the balls of wool, working them loose then trying to push them back in so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Across the other side of the room is a chest of drawers. I open the top one and remove a dress – so tiny, like doll’s clothes.
“I remember wearing this,” I say, lifting the pale-yellow fabric to my chest and breathing it in. Nostalgia engulfs me.
“Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.” His voice is grim and as he crosses to me, he rubs his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t realised I’d spent.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’m glad to be here.”