Musa Badem doesn’t want me to disappoint him so I wear a Burqa now. When Musa opens our Quran he’s always wagging his finger at some random page that says stuff I can’t read because the words look so tiny and so curled like my zentangle doodles, so really, I say gently to Musa, I don’t want to disappoint Mohammed.
My father sprawls himself out in the lounger where Musa should be sitting and expels a motherload of air from his mouth because he has to announce that he’s just sat down.
“How well ya’ know this Moosah Badman, Nora?” he asks. I tell him to “sod off,” then stick up my ring finger and yell that Musa and I are engaged now, so he’d better act right. Dad sticks up his fingers too. Pointer then middle man, he laughs and shakes his head.
“Ok, Odd Job, Mum asked me to fetch you two idiots for dinner. Where’s Moo Moo?” Has he gone and left you for good this time?”
I tell Dad about the private hospital in Antalya, Turkey, where Musa is recuperating. And I tell him about the tragic misfortune, but mostly I tell him about how Musa’s chest caved in when some bugger ran him over on his moped. Dad’s mouth opens like a thin black hole. I want to grab a telephone book and throw it inside, but I also want to cry, so instead I reach out and grab my zentagle book and hug it. Then I reach for my Quran - I’m not sure what else to hold.
Dad is silent. Imagine that.
The police say the man whose moped crossed the divide and ran through Musa Badem was a career criminal, gunning for him, even.
“Ya don’t say?” Dad says. I still want to punch him, but less hard now. I’ve let my zentangle book drop to the floor. Dad gets out of Musa’s lounger and picks it up. He places it on my lap.
“We’ll go get him love. Bring ‘im home. We never leave our boys behind.” Dad puts his arms around me. He’s fat so it’s not so easy and for once I don’t think he’s murdering himself trying to be nice to me. Home. The word is pitch perfect and hangs between us. Dad looks down at me with his “not again eyes,” and holds me tightly. I think about Musa, then about Dad, but mostly I imagine Mohammed on a white horse beside a unicorn, because I think he’d smile if he could see us now.
My father sprawls himself out in the lounger where Musa should be sitting and expels a motherload of air from his mouth because he has to announce that he’s just sat down.
“How well ya’ know this Moosah Badman, Nora?” he asks. I tell him to “sod off,” then stick up my ring finger and yell that Musa and I are engaged now, so he’d better act right. Dad sticks up his fingers too. Pointer then middle man, he laughs and shakes his head.
“Ok, Odd Job, Mum asked me to fetch you two idiots for dinner. Where’s Moo Moo?” Has he gone and left you for good this time?”
I tell Dad about the private hospital in Antalya, Turkey, where Musa is recuperating. And I tell him about the tragic misfortune, but mostly I tell him about how Musa’s chest caved in when some bugger ran him over on his moped. Dad’s mouth opens like a thin black hole. I want to grab a telephone book and throw it inside, but I also want to cry, so instead I reach out and grab my zentagle book and hug it. Then I reach for my Quran - I’m not sure what else to hold.
Dad is silent. Imagine that.
The police say the man whose moped crossed the divide and ran through Musa Badem was a career criminal, gunning for him, even.
“Ya don’t say?” Dad says. I still want to punch him, but less hard now. I’ve let my zentangle book drop to the floor. Dad gets out of Musa’s lounger and picks it up. He places it on my lap.
“We’ll go get him love. Bring ‘im home. We never leave our boys behind.” Dad puts his arms around me. He’s fat so it’s not so easy and for once I don’t think he’s murdering himself trying to be nice to me. Home. The word is pitch perfect and hangs between us. Dad looks down at me with his “not again eyes,” and holds me tightly. I think about Musa, then about Dad, but mostly I imagine Mohammed on a white horse beside a unicorn, because I think he’d smile if he could see us now.
