Thirty-Two

"I won't let you. You'll regret not going for the rest of your life."
I stare at my hands which are trembling. Proof that I am falling apart with each breath. "But Aunt Du—"
She interrupts me in frustration. "Stop being difficult, Clara." She imitates Papa so perfectly that I can't stop myself from scanning the room for Papa. My heart squeezes. He's not here. He's gone. Gone. I'll never hear his voice again.
"Aunt Dahab. The whole —"
"Shh. No excuses." She leans forward to study my face. Jaw set.
"But —"
She disappears for a few moments and she comes back with the dress. My eyes go wide with shock. Dahab loves this dress, she wore it to her first date ever, with a man from down the street who's now a junkie, when she was still slender/ younger.
"You're going," she insists. Her tone lightening some. "Here." She extends the dress towards me. "Now change."
I shake my head. I can't wear this dress. It isn't fair to my Aunt. This dress holds special memories for her. I can't have her look at it and be reminded by this day. A day I'd rather forget myself.
I guess I'll have to be a sausage in another dress. I try to remain calm but can't hold the tears.
I'm crying for the last time. I swear. Papa you hear that? I'm crying for the last time.
Aunt Dahab hesitates and her eyes soften, flings the dress to the bed and takes me in her arms. "You'll get through this. We'll get through this. Okay? Go say goodbye to Zayed, everything else doesn't matter."
"I don't know if I can let go of him," I say, swiveling around to face away from her. I'm afraid Papa's death has completely unhinged me.
"You'll be fine," she insists and then releases me from the hug. "Put on a dress, I want to see how good you'll look in it."
I let out a shaky breath and pull my feet into the silky dress. It's blue . A dress that Papa bought last Wednesday for me. The same dress he said he couldn't wait to see me in. The same dress I was supposed to wear the first day he bought a car for me, now I'm wearing it to his funeral. A pond of dread (guilt, too) opens over me, wrapping me in it's cold wreath. He'll never get to see me in it.
I turn to Dahab. She is smiling, crying but smiling all the same.
"Zayed had impeccable taste. He always knew what looked best on you. He was a great father, honey. You chose well."
My Aunt believes children choose the parents they’re born into.
I believe her(about Papa's taste that is. How could I not? She is giving me that look; the same look she had the day her book hit the New York Times Bestseller list. The reason I didn't mention she's an author is because she isn't. She stole the plot from a former friend of hers, hired a ghostwriter and as they say: the rest is publishing history.
I peep at her, uncomfortable. My eyes struggle to focus on her blank face. As blank as a canopy of snow. "Thanks Aunty D."
Dahab lingers for a second in the doorway before sighing and wishing me a smooth day. Her wish is in vain. But I smile regardless and return the kiss she gives me. The pane of anxiety that's been sneaking towards me finally reaches me.
After she's gone, I slip on some pumps, spread transparent lip gloss over my lips and then grab my purse. Walking down the stairs, I hold my breath, hoping she, her husband and my brother aren't in the house. Luck is on my side. They have left for the prayer already. I pour myself some coke, my breath shallow as I stare at the contents in the fridge, none of which Papa considered healthy even though halal.