Under the Tiles

Sadiya walked up to the lime tree and set her suitcase down, staring at the dried up leaves resting atop the red clay tiles. They made an interlocking pattern spanning the length of what used to be the yard, bracketed by dirt beds that bloomed with an assorted collection of flowers. Further down, rows of green leaves were sprouting from the dirt, radishes and the early beginnings of carrots. A night jasmine bush crawled along the wall that separated the yard from the school next to it, the screeching of children on lunch break floating over.

She strolled along the left and stopped at a point where she had found her own children digging once, matted with dirt and grinning with a feral glint in their eyes. After she had dashed their hopes of hidden treasure, they had covered the hole up begrudgingly and ran inside for chai and snacks. She stared at the tile sitting on top now, hard against the sole of her slippers, and wondered if she was imagining it being slightly sunken in.

The news of the yard being tiled up had been given to her as a passing comment. She’d been tossing vegetables in a pan, her neck bent to hold her phone to her ear, her mother’s voice frail and broken up over the connection, “I’m too old to keep up with all of that watering.”

She hadn’t thought anything of it until she saw it now, a house lizard skittering across the hot surface under the desert sun, where it would have been chased in the grass by a stray cat. It was easy to forget when you were separated by an ocean.

“Sadiya? Is that you?” Her spine straightened at the sound of his voice from behind, turning around.

She flinched at how quickly he approached her, but he didn’t seem to notice as he pulled her into an embrace. She returned the gesture stiffly, glancing over his shoulder like she was expecting someone else behind him. The metal gate creaked shut behind him. “Brother.”

He pulled back and she could smell the chewing tobacco on his breath. Age had softened his stern face with wrinkles; the hairs on his thick brow were beginning to streak with white. It had been years since she had seen him, and last she remembered he hadn’t had a pot belly. They stood apart staring at each other for a minute or two, unused to making conversation.

Finally, mercifully, he broke the silence, “I collected everything into different piles in the living room inside. Furniture’s already been sold off.”

They shuffled up the ramp from the yard to the doorstep, suitcase in tow. He went through his keys and shook the old knob to pull the screen door free from its frame. The entire time, her eyes looked to the opposite wall, where a cheap plastic chair would be on the cool summer evenings. If she squinted she could still imagine a flash of wispy white hair, a smile that was yellow from use, and the newspaper that would be used to cover it.

When she stepped inside, she was met with the smell of the jasmine blossoms her mother used to leave resting in bowls of water across the house. She closed her eyes to commit it to memory, not quite ready to see what had become of the house.

Over the hush of her brother’s footsteps, she could hear her daughters’ oblivious giggles as they wove in and out between the adults during tense family gatherings. There was the sizzling of ground meat being pressed into frying pans to make kebabs, the clink of metal—

“Since you came so late, we don’t have a lot of time before the new tenants are going to move in. You should hurry it up.” His voice echoed over the empty space.

She slowly blinked her eyes open. Bare, bright yellow walls danced with patterns of dappled sunlight, dusty imprints left from the frames that used to hold pressed flowers and shimmering foil. Neat stacks of their possessions lay on the floor over faded fabric. Sadiya always used to marvel at how easily the vendors could flatter her mother by claiming their prints suited her.

Their old school books were arranged neatly in stacks in a corner. She traced a finger over the worn spines, all second hand from her brother, even though he didn’t bother to write with pencil. She flipped open an album that displayed her and her husband’s arms wound around each other, gold circling her head. Some stretches in it were strangely empty, pictures folded over.

She wandered over to the jewelry neatly arranged on a blue-purple print, passing her finger over the chains she’d borrowed for her wedding.

“I was thinking I would keep them.” His thumb rubbed the gold chain around his neck. “We’re looking for a man for my daughter. We’ll need the money for the dowry.”

She eyed the new watch on his wrist. “Sure, best wishes for her.”

She passed over the hard drives, the silverware, the china—objects her brother looked upon with purpose. She swept old packets of seeds into her handbag instead, even though the rabbits in her own yard made it impossible for anything to grow.

There was a notable exception in the room. “Where are all the clothes?”

He cocked his head in the direction of her parents’ room. She slowly undid the latch, not sure why her hands had begun to tremble.

The bed was gone, in its place a hulking mass of fabric. Brilliant cobalts, spring greens, deep reds, and stark patterns all paled in comparison to one another. Unused bolts of fabric rested against the wall. In one long row were many bolts of the baby pink that their mother had always claimed was Sadiya’s color, decorated with checkered patterns, embroidered through with gold, patched with bunches of flowers.

Almost involuntarily, her eyes wandered to the far corner of the room.

It had taken a long time for Sadiya to erase the image of her mother huddled there after the fallout between her siblings, two days after her father’s funeral. She had flinched at the door slamming and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the faded print swallowing her. It struck Sadiya then, how small she looked.

Your sister just doesn’t understand him. None of you understand him. He’s going to be the only one there when I die. He’s my only son.

At that moment, Sadiya had felt small too, watching her mother stare into the space over her shoulder like she wasn’t there. I will be there, Amma. I’m your daughter.

Daughters were only ever made to leave.

As though he was reading her mind, her brother crossed his arms next to the newer fabric. “You should have been at the funeral.”

The words struck her like a slap, but they didn’t come as a surprise. “I know, it’s just that the visa—”

“If you just wanted money, I could have transferred you some,” he cut in, “It would have saved you the trip.”

She pursed her lips and turned instead to dig through the heap at the center of the room, willing her hands to stop trembling. Her fingers caught on the brilliant pink gold of her wedding dress, specifically requested by her daughter. She kept digging. Fabric spilled over her lap— whimsical florals, soft pastels, eccentric prints.

No dark greens. No silver. No geometric patterns. A dull cold pressed into her gut. “Where are the rest of the clothes?”

He shrugged and gestured toward the yard through the window. A lizard darted over the tiles, vanishing into the shed’s shadow. “Trash.”

She didn’t respond. She just rose and walked past him. She walked past the finery in the living room, past the scent of jasmine, past where her father’s chair would have been. She flipped over the sack next to the shed, ignoring the sound of her brother’s slippers slapping against the tiles and his angry yelling.

In the middle of tattered old documents, torn up pictures, and broken dishes were emerald silks and jewelry that had gone black with use. There were faded plush animals and newer books. She sank down and picked up an old stuffed rabbit. It was easy to forget when you were separated by an ocean.

“These are all Sabiha’s.”

His face constricted with anger. Her heart sank. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

She passed her fingers over the hem of one of her sister’s wedding suits, dancing with silver zardosi embroidery that had glittered once on a starlit roof.

Thin mattresses had been rolled out for the ceremony and pitchers of lemonade were plowed through. Her sister's arms were painted down to the elbows in twisting, geometric henna patterns. During a lull, the women had filed downstairs to make some snacks, leaving just her and Sabiha on the roof.

I hate you for leaving me here with them. She still vividly remembered whispering her confession into the stars, her head just next to her sister’s lap.

Sabiha’s eyes had widened before she’d looked away, the thickness of her voice betraying the tears in them. You can’t say that. Not when we both know out of the two of us you’re the one going places.

Sadiya clutched the fabric under her fingers and looked back at the sunken red tile. A small laugh shook through her.

How many nights had she spent staring up at her ceiling, guilt pressing down on her chest gradually like a weight trying to make her ribcage cave in? How many nights had she turned a deaf ear to all the screaming, fearing her brother would snap her branch off the family tree on a whim? Her mother’s words had flipped in her mind over the years, first a spark, then a prophecy.

She’d spent her entire life clawing at tiles, grass, and roots, driven by hope of hidden treasure beneath this house. All she’d been left with was dirt under her fingernails.

She let go of the suit and stood up. “I think I’m done here.”

She passed the radishes, the carrots, and the dried leaves by the lime tree, edges curled like old paper. Her brother’s words were swallowed by the rusted groan of the metal gate. She didn’t turn around for a final look. There wasn’t anything left to leave behind.