CREATIVE

Goodbye (Full Story)

           Black and white: the color of his hair against my skin, the symbols for death and life. He lies in my arms, his head against my shoulder, in the crook of my neck. His skin against mine; Arab against Caucasian. It was moments like this that filled my heart with both happiness and sadness. Feelings of love and sorrow consumed my being as he slept, using my body as his pillow. I listened to his gentle breathing as music played softly on the stereo; he showed no sign of suffering while in my arms. He pulled me closer in his sleep, shifting so that his head now lay on my chest, his leg draped over mine.
            “Love hurts, but sometimes it’s a good hurt…” Incubus sang on the stereo.
            In my apartment, my sanctuary, we could be ourselves; we could be in love without fearing the consequences; we could take pleasure in the secret happiness we felt during our short visits together. It was of this freedom that Hassan was deprived in the outside world; and it was this lack of freedom that would take Hassan away from me when I needed him most. For eight years we’d been friends – for three we’d been lovers – but we would not be allowed to carry on after his marriage. This would be the last night we’d be together.

            I was fourteen years old. It was the middle of my freshman year, and I was tired as all hell. I was sitting in homeroom, resting my head on my hand, with closed eyes. I could feel myself drifting off to sleep, but I was too tired to stop myself. The next thing I knew, I was falling out of the desk and hitting the floor, effectively waking myself up. A chorus of laughter erupted around me and I sighed.
            Figures. I mean, this was me we were talking about.
            When I opened my eyes, Hassan was standing over me. I was surprised to see him standing there. He had always been the quiet, loner type – he certainly never talked to me. Now he was holding out his hand, offering to help. I reached out and let him hoist me to my feet. His hand was smooth and his grip was strong, nothing like I thought it would be. His skin felt like silk against mine.
            “Are you alright?” he asked with a heavy Arabic accent. His English was surprisingly smooth.
            “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, “Thanks.” He nodded and let go of my hand before turning to sit back down in the desk behind mine. I never realized that was his seat. I sat down and turned to look at him.
            “May I help you?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
            “You’re really good-looking, you know.”
            He laughed smoothly, which made me smile. That was when our friendship really began, with that laugh. It melted any awkward ice that separated us.

            I was sixteen years old. Today, I would meet Hassan’s parents. I walked the few blocks to his house, my right hand fiddling with some extra change in my pocket. He told me beforehand that his parents were very strict Muslims, which could have proven problematic, considering my family’s Pagan beliefs. It had taken Hassan a whole year to feel even somewhat comfortable with my religion. I couldn’t imagine how his parents would react. This made me uneasy. I was mostly afraid of not being allowed to see my best friend. If his parents forbade him from seeing me, he was the kind of person who would do as they say, even if he didn’t like it.
            When I approached his street, the sun in my eyes, I saw his silhouette on the barren corner, leaning against the sign post, just where he said he would be. I walked up to him slowly, nervous about going to his home for the first time. He smiled warmly at me, taking the edge off my uneasiness.
            Without a word, we walked up his street together. He stopped in front of a cozy two-story townhome with a beautiful garden out front. He opened the black cast-iron gate for me, and I stepped into the small front yard.
            “My mother likes to garden,” he mentioned and I smiled. That was a good sign. Someone who loved nature couldn’t be that judgmental of someone with a nature-based religion… right?
            At the front door, Hassan instructed me to take my shoes off before we walked into the house. I did as I was told and slipped off my black Vans. Without my shoes, my jeans bunched up on the wooden floor of the porch. I wondered if I looked scruffy as Hassan opened the red door and let me step into the dimly-lit living room. Already I could tell that I didn’t like the feel of this house. I looked around. The living room was extremely organized and so clean – with the pristine white walls and shiny hardwood floors – that I didn’t want to take another step. I felt tremendously unclean in this room.
            An older man and woman entered the room from a door directly across from us. They both bore uncanny resemblances to Hassan, so I assumed these were his parents. His mother, dressed traditionally in a pale pink Hijab, was carrying a few drinks on a tray. The liquid was yellow. I wondered if it was mango juice; Hassan was always drinking mango juice at lunch.
            “Mama, Papa, this is my best friend, Ruby,” Hassan said. That made it awkward for me.
            “Hello,” I replied, at a complete loss for words. I was overwhelmingly glad that my pentacle necklace was hidden beneath my t-shirt, something I had never been shy about before.
            “It is nice to meet you,” his father said, his accent so strong I could barely understand his words. Hassan’s mother just nodded as she stepped forward and handed me a drink. I thanked her and fell silent again. “Please, sit down.”
            I took a seat on the large, fuchsia L-shaped couch between Hassan and his mother. I rubbed my thumb over the glass in my hands, trying to think of something – anything – to say.
            “What do your parents do?” his father asked as he tapped his fingers against his knee, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of having to make small talk.
            “My mom teaches Anthropology at the local college and my dad teaches Math,” I replied as quickly as possible.
            “That is very impressive,” he said. Hassan smiled. “And what are your plans for the future?”
            “I want to teach English. Or I might go into journalism. I like to write.”
            “You are in classes with Hassan?”
            I nodded and replied, “Yeah, we have Physics and, um, Gym together.”
            “You do not distract him, I hope?” he asked.
            “Papa!” Hassan whined. The look on Hassan’s father’s face when he looked at Hassan was almost scary. His eyes were so intense they looked almost black. Beside me, Hassan’s mother looked down at the glass of juice in her hand. I wondered why she hadn’t said a word.
            A moment later, Hassan’s father directed his attention back to me, his eyes much warmer. He commented, “Of course, why would you distract him when you have such an impressive educational history in your family?” I smiled and nodded. I thought this was starting to go well.
            “Papa, Ruby writes the most highly read segment in our school newspaper,” Hassan explained.
            “Oh? Which segment is that?”
            “The Dear Abby section,” I replied, “I get emails from students asking for advice and I respond either in an email back or in the newspaper.”
            “What do you advise your followers to do?”
            I thought for a moment, my mind less free than usual. I could only think of one thing. “That all depends on the situation. There was this one time someone asked me one of the most stereotypical questions about whether or not she should sleep with her boyfriend. I told her that she shouldn’t let herself feel rushed. She should wait until she’s ready. Of course, I couldn’t put that one in the paper, since the school is all about abstinence…” Hassan went still next to me, which led me to believe that that was not the best example. Hassan’s father’s eyes narrowed.
            “What are your religious beliefs?” he asked suddenly. My breath caught in my throat.
            “Papa!” Hassan whined again before saying something in a language I didn’t understand. It had to be Arabic. His father replied in that same language, a sour look on his face. I looked between the two as feelings of confusion and discomfort overwhelmed me. Hassan’s mother just sat there, staring at her hands. I wondered if they argued a lot.
            Hassan’s father shot something at Hassan in Arabic, his voice sounding heated. Hassan rolled his eyes and replied, sounding bored, “So what if she’s a Pagan? She’s just a friend.”
            His father raised his eyebrows, his mouth open wide, speechless.
            After a few moments, he said, “A Pagan? Is that a family belief?” I nodded silently, afraid that I would make the situation worse if I spoke. He said something in Arabic before Hassan turned to me, his mouth tight.
            His voice steady and concentrated, he said, “Let us go for a walk.”
            Hassan’s parents were polite as we left, smiling at me and thanking me for coming over. I thanked them for having me and left with a smile. I didn’t think that was so bad as we made our way towards my house.
            “My dad does not want you to come over again,” Hassan said quietly, “That is what he told me before we left.”
            My heart fell. “Oh.”
            “He does not want me to go to your house either. But he did not say that we could not be friends.”
            “Why did you tell him?” I asked, successfully holding back the unexpected tears that pushed against the back of my eyes. This always happened when I heard the opposite of what I wanted.
            “I am sorry. It slipped out…” We crossed the street, stepping onto the school grounds that separated our houses. “I do not know why, but I thought that he would be more understanding. How stupid of me.”
            “No, no, it’s cool,” I said as I wrapped my arm around his. I paused for a long moment. “I’m kind of used to it. It’s just like what our psych teacher said last year. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. Maybe they’ll come around?” I let go of his arm as we turned into my driveway.
            “I do not think so. My father is stubborn. He does not go back on his decisions.”

            I was eighteen years old. It was graduation day, but I wasn’t happy. After the ceremony, my boyfriend, Ronnie, broke up with me. He said that he couldn’t be tied down while he was away at college. Still in shock, I sought out Hassan, my best friend. In the middle of the huge crowd in the back gym – where everyone was getting their actual diplomas – he stood with some friends, laughing. However, when he saw me, he left them to join my little somber party.
            “Hello, Graduate,” he said, cheerfully, before jumping right into a joyous chatter. “I hear everyone saying that they cannot believe that we are here, that we have all graduated. But I can believe it. We have worked hard for this goal and we have reached it. It is not that hard of a concept to wrap one’s head around.” He sounded cheerful, so I gave him a half smile. He looked at me and frowned. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he looked into my face. “Today is your graduation day. Why are you so serious?”
            “Ronnie broke up with me…”
            “He did what?” Hassan’s overall attitude changed from cheerful to angry in the span of a moment. “Where is he? I will hit him.” He tried to push passed me, but I hugged him around the waist to keep him still. “Let me go, Ruby,” he said, trying to be forceful. I knew he wouldn’t struggle for fear that he would hurt me. Though he was angry often, he was never so angry that he would lose his head.
            “Don’t get yourself in trouble,” I said. He took a deep breath and hugged me back, cooling off in a matter of seconds.
            “He does not deserve you, my dear. The two of you were not good together. You could do much better than Ronnie Berks.”
            “At least I’ll always have you, love,” I replied, hugging him even closer. I never wanted to let him go. I felt him go still in my arms.
            “Uhm…” he hesitated. His voice was grave. “I wanted to wait until later to tell you this, but…” I froze. That was the one word that could change everything, ‘but.’ I braced myself for the worst. “I am moving back to Jordan with my parents. They want me to return there for University.” I could feel tears well up behind my eyes. For fear that he would see, I buried my face in his graduation robes.
            “Can’t you just tell them you wanna go to college here?” I whined, “There are plenty of good schools around here.”
            “Yes, I did tell them that, but they will not listen. They want me to be reemerged in the culture of our homeland. They think that I have assimilated myself too much. Plus, they do not approve of our friendship. You know that.”
            “Yeah, yeah, I know. Muslim boy and pagan girl do not mix. I get it. But that doesn’t mean you have to move away!” I let go of him and took a step back. I looked into his face, thinking that if he saw the tears in my eyes, he would find a way to stay.
            “I am sorry, babe. I will miss you…”

            I was twenty years old. The airport was bursting with life around me. I watched the monitors to check on the flight from Jordan – it was to arrive on time. Hassan was coming back today, for good. His parents would follow him in a week or so. The way he had put it in his email, his parents changed their minds about where they wanted him to get his pre-med degree. It sounded to me like he was leaving something out, but I ignored it. My best friend was coming home.
            I waited at baggage claim, where flight 468’s luggage would be. The plane arrived and I stood there anxiously. I could not wait to see the changes in Hassan. He sent me pictures, of course, but I wanted to see him for myself. When he rounded the corner from the escalators, I couldn’t help but smile. What had once been long hair was now short and spiky; what had once been a smooth face was now covered in carefully shaped stubble; what had once been a tall, lanky teenager was now a strong and sturdy man. I was thoroughly impressed.
            “Ruby, you do not look a bit different,” he commented as soon as he was close enough. He was always so formal. He dropped his carry on and wrapped his strong arms around me in a hug.
            “I wish I could say the same about you,” I replied, “You look great!” I marveled at his hold on me. For the first time in two years, I felt safe.
            That was the moment I fell in love.
            I held on to him as long as I possibly could.
About ten minutes later, we finished loading his luggage into the back of my little Toyota and climbed into the car. After the engine turned over, he played around with the radio for a few minutes before finally shutting it off. We were both quiet as he looked out the window. I couldn’t get over the fact that Hassan was here, sitting right beside me. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
            “Would you like to know my real reason for coming back?” he asked suddenly. My imagination ran wild. I pictured Hassan confessing his love for me; I pictured Hassan proposing to me; I pictured Hassan kissing me…
            “Of course,” I replied, “I knew you were hiding something.” My mind raced from possibility to possibility.
            “I came back for my arranged marriage.”
            My heart stopped for a minute, but I kept my composure. He explained that his parents had arranged the whole thing with the father of a girl who was currently studying in the area. He came back because their parents wanted the pair to get to know each other better, which he explained was very unusual for an arranged marriage in his family. Since the engagement was to last until after graduation, they would have plenty of time to get to know each other. At least, that’s how he put it.
            That same night, after he was settled into his hotel, Hassan came over to my apartment to see how I lived life on my own. I rented a studio apartment, so my living room was also my bedroom, my kitchen and my dining room. I felt ashamed of the pathetic excuse for a home with its bare beige walls and bland white carpet. I didn’t even have any plants. However, Hassan commented on how cozy it felt.
             “I like it here,” he added, “the air is good. It must be your presence… or maybe it is your intoxicating smell.” With that, he leaned down to kiss my cheek, but lingered a moment longer than I expect he originally wanted to. “Oh, how I have missed you…” He then hooked his finger under my chin and lifted my face so I could look him in the eyes. He leaned closer, but made no move further than that. Overwhelmed with emotion, I kissed him. I ran my fingers through his short hair and kissed him. And with that one kiss, six years of tension rolled into the first night of our affair.

            I was twenty-two years old. My apartment was dead silent as we sat on opposite ends of the fold-out couch. His face was hard as he looked forward towards a picture of the two of us that hung on the wall, his jaw set. I looked down at my hands, folded neatly in my lap. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t let myself. The silence was killing me.
              “If you’re not gonna talk to me, then why are you here?” I finally asked.
              “Would you like me to leave?” was his stoic reply. I said nothing. “I did not think so.”
              The clock on the wall ticked loudly, accentuating the silence, driving me crazy. The seconds passed us by, but neither one of us moved. We were silent for what felt like hours, but, in reality, was probably only minutes. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded strained. It was unusual to hear him struggle to keep his guard up.
              “For two years I have been home, and you have yet to have one boyfriend. Why is that?”
              “Well, you –”
              “Ah, me. Ruby…” The tone of his voice triggered a dull pain in my chest. I forced back the inevitable tears as I reached out to pick the dead leaves off the bonsai tree Hassan bought me a year before. “You cannot use me as your reason. I cannot be who you want me to be… I have responsibilities… I have an obligation to my family… and to God…”
              One tear escaped, only to fall and splatter on my knee, closely followed by another.
              “You would not understand,” he added, “I will be married next year, and we cannot see each other after that…” He finished quietly, his voice full of distress.
              I looked up at him, the tears falling freely from my sore eyes. He was looking down at his hands, almost as if he were hiding his face from me. Then I thought about what he had just said.
              “Wait,” I started, my voice cracking, “What do you mean when you say we can’t see each other?”
              “Just what I said.”
              “I know we won’t be able to keep on with whatever it is we’re doing, but… are you saying that we can’t even be friends?” I felt like my chest was splitting open just over my heart.
              “We cannot.” I could tell he was trying to keep his voice steady. “You mean too much to me… I – I would feel a kind of temptation with you that…” He trailed off, at a loss for words. “I will be making a commitment in front of God. Being friends with you… I would be risking… I am already committing a sin by this affair… I do not know how to explain it…”
              “I understand,” I commented. My tears still fell freely and that pain remained in my chest, as I knew it would for longer than I cared to think. “To see me would be too much temptation and if you were to fall to it… you would be committing a hell-worthy sin. I understand.”
              “You understand, but you do not like it.” He looked at me now, an expression of pain on his face. My heart melted. I wanted to comfort him, but I couldn’t do anything but lean back and fold my hands over my lap.
              He slid over and hugged me, like he had so many times before, and he kissed the top of my head. Our time together was limited, and I wasn’t so sure I could handle that.
 
              Now, here I was: twenty-three years old and listening to Hassan sleep during the last night we would be together. The song on the stereo switched to Pink’s “So What?” and my attitude immediately changed when I heard her sing, “So what? I’m still a rockstar! I’ve got my rock moves and I don’t need you!”
              Why am I just sitting here, feeling sorry for myself? I don’t need to have a man to feel good about my life. I have a lot going for me: I’m out of college, I’m an up-and-coming journalist at the local newspaper and I have my life on track. Who says I need Hassan? I –
              “What time is it?” came Hassan’s tired voice, interrupting my thoughts. I loved his voice most after he just woke up.
              “Almost seven,” I replied.
              “Oh.” He took a deep breath and groaned as he pushed himself up and kissed me on the cheek. Wearing nothing but boxers, he climbed out of bed, stretched and retreated into the bathroom, just like every morning after he stayed over. I heard the water flow as he started the shower. He usually went straight to work or school from my place, but today – the day before his wedding – he would go to wherever the pre-wedding dealings would be taking place. He would not give me any details. I assumed he would be at his mosque or at home, but I couldn’t be positive. I wasn’t sure of the details of Islamic wedding ceremonies or the pre-ceremony procedures.
              As I waited for him to get out of the shower, I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen. I started a pot of coffee, since I hadn’t slept a wink, and looked around in the fridge for something to eat. I had nothing but ingredients. I would have to prepare breakfast this morning. Hassan usually stayed to eat, but I had a feeling that today would be different, so I just made something simple: peanut butter on toast. I made two pieces. That way, if he wanted something, he could have the other piece, but if he had to run, I could easily eat both.
              As I made the toast, I thought about the smile I saw on Hassan’s face a few days before. I had been walking in the park, just to enjoy the spring weather, when I saw Hassan. I almost called out to him, but then I saw another woman. Her skin was the color of dark honey and her hair, which was only partly concealed under a light blue scarf, was the darkest black I had ever seen. She was beautiful and she was smiling up at Hassan in the same way I did. He smiled back at her, obviously enjoying his time with her. I knew at that moment that Hassan would be happy with his life, even if I wasn’t a part of it.
              When he came out of the bathroom, he was fully dressed and towel-drying his hair. He wore a black three piece suit with a white dress-shirt and a black tie. He was black and white, like a penguin. He looked handsome, but I had always preferred him in jeans and a t-shirt. He threw the towel into the hamper by the bathroom door and looked up at me. I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, just watching him.
            Seeing him like that, I couldn’t help but picture him standing at the altar, waiting for his bride to approach, waiting to recite his vows, waiting for that promising kiss…
            “How do I look?” he asked, a crooked, nervous smile on his face. My thoughts vanished.
            “You look like a goof,” I replied, returning an altogether fake smile. He laughed and ran a hand through his messy hair.
            “I probably should brush my hair, right?” he asked, “I do not want to look… What is the word? Scrag-uh-ley?”
            “You’ll always look scraggly, no matter what you do with that hair of yours,” I joked. He stuck out his tongue at me before he started to look for his shoes. I took a bite of my toast and just watched him, keeping my mind on happy memories instead of the pain in my chest. I wanted my last memory of him to be a good one.
              When he finally got his shoes on, he joined me in the kitchen. Grabbing the other piece of toast, he leaned against the counter next to me and took a bite. We fell silent, both of us awful with goodbyes. I remembered when he left for Jordan, we had avoided each other his whole last week in town, trying to delay our goodbye.
               I decided to break the silence.
              “I’m going to miss you, you know?” I said before taking a bite of my toast. I wanted to seem nonchalant, casual.
              “And I will miss you,” he replied. “But we will see each other again.”
              “No, we won’t.”
              He paused for a moment before replying, “You are right. I was trying to make you feel better.”
             “Well, don’t,” I said, “Because I’m fine. I know you’ll be happy.”
             “You are lying through your teeth,” he commented, “But thank you.” After kissing me on the cheek, he pushed himself away from the counter and started walking towards the door. I followed quietly. He turned back around before he left. “Goodbye, Ruby.”
              “G’bye…” I watched as he opened my front door and walked out for the last time. The torn hole in my chest thrived on this kind of thing. He left, effectively murdering our relationship, but I would not let it affect me anymore. I tried desperately to convince myself of one thing: I did not need him.
              The growing life inside my belly, however, begged to differ…