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‘When was the last time you said their names out loud?’
‘With you,’ he growled.
‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’
‘It’s not important,’ he said, unable to stop himself from peering through the doorway to the room that would have been for Nadya and Nayla.
I want the two beds facing each other, and the mosquito netting to be pink, and the nightlight to have stars so that it covers the ceiling with the night sky. It’s going to be beautiful, Kal.
Samira had been the only other person to call him that.
‘It might not be important to you. Or your parents, who must have many memories of Faizan and Samira’s life—’
‘Don’t!’
In that instant he genuinely wasn’t sure if it was because Star used her name, or because of what she was saying, but he really didn’t want her to continue.
‘It’s important to Nadya and Nayla. It will be, if it’s not already.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, turning, her words ringing in his heart.
‘It means that I know what it’s like to grow up in the shadow of grief. I know what it’s like to want to know who your parent was before they died. You want to know everything about them. Where they came from, what they were like at every birthday you reach. Whether you’re like them, whether they would have liked who you are becoming, whether...whether they would have loved you.’
Everything hurt. For Nadya, Nayla, for Star...for himself.
‘And if no one talks about them, it’s like a denial. A denial that the person existed. And that makes it feel as if the ache in your heart has no real anchor, cutting you adrift in your grief.’
He opened his mouth to ask, but she pressed on before he could.
‘And this?’ she said, sweeping her arms out wide and spinning in a circle. ‘This suite? This palace? It was going to be theirhome. It meant so much to Faizan and Samira that they wanted tolivehere, they wanted to decorate this suite and make it perfect for their children. It’s clear from the photos, the memories, the plans...this was where their heart was and their children haven’t been back, their family hasn’t been back to it and it’s just so sad.’
It was an accusation that cut him to the bone.
‘We were trying to do what was best for them,’ he defended.
‘No. You were trying to do what was easiest.’
‘Don’t push me on this,’ he warned, half growl, half plea.
‘Why? Someone has to. You can’t stay like this,’ she warned. ‘You’re unhappy with the memorial plans—’
‘But they’re done!’ he yelled, no longer caring what effect it caused. ‘Three years on from the accident and at least it’s done.’
‘Really? Then why are you so dissatisfied with them? You keep changing things to fix it, but it’s never going to work if you know in your heart it’s wrong.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, slicing his hand through the air, trying to terminate the conversation.
‘At least I’m talking. Really, Kal, is everyone around you so afraid of you that they refuse to tell you what they think?’
‘Okay, Star, you tell me. What do you really think?’
‘I think you’re so afraid of whatever you feel guilty over that it’s stopping you from feeling anything real about Faizan and Samira. And because of that you’ve somehow allowed the memorial to be something not even half worthy of their memory.’
He felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to fight, to rage, to shout against what she was saying, but he couldn’t.
Not even half worthy.
He felt sick. ‘It’s a disaster,’ he admitted through the acidic taste of bile at the back of his throat. ‘Everyone knows it. No one wants to admit it. But trying to find something that Samira’s father wants, something that my parents would be happy with, not to mention my nieces...’
