The Gift of Qamar

THE GIFT OF QAMAR

The woman looked down at her fingernails. They were filthy and ragged. Her eyes continued down to her worn and dirty jeans. They didn’t even fit her anymore. They were baggy, too long, and she held them up with a hank of old yellow rope she had found on the street. Her shoes were worn and she knew that she was only a few days away from wearing a hole all the way through the sole of her left shoe.  She was thankful she didn’t have a mirror. She did not want to scrutinize her own reflection — the loss, the hurt, the despair — all reflected in her face.

How had she gotten here? That was the question that tumbled through her mind. Intellectually, she knew what had brought her to this low point. But emotionally, she questioned how she had given up, and let fate dictate her downward spiral to homelessness

Her name was Angelique, and she was forty-eight years old. She didn’t have a drug or alcohol addiction, she didn’t have a mental health problems. She just didn’t have anything, either worldly or emotionally.

At one time she’d had a home — a nice two bedroom rental in an okay part of town. She shared the apartment with her husband Anwar, and their kids Cynthia and Devon. But those days were long past, a different life.

She looked around. Sitting on the curb she had a pretty good view of the “encampment” — that’s what the officials called it. She called it home. The lucky ones had tents — real tents, with rain flies to keep them dry, zippers that provided privacy and a bit of safety, and windows that could be opened to circulate the air or shut to keep out the cold wind, depending on the weather. Those were the mansions of the homeless camp she was part of. She had managed to cobble together a shelter from the discarded detritus of those who had moved on or died. A blue tarp with a tear in it that had been poorly repaired using duct tape, an old refrigerator box, which was quite sturdy, but she wished the previous owner had not also used it as a latrine. Now that it was fall, she wore most of her clothes for warmth, and supplemented that with an old sleeping bag someone from the Sally Ann had given her just last week. She slept on more loose cardboard and newspaper to stop the cold from creeping up from the ground, and chilling her to the bone.  Last night had been cold, though, and she was shivering uncontrollably this morning. She needed to warm up. She stood up.

She’d only been on the street a short time. She wasn’t sure exactly how long, probably around a month — she'd lost track of the days.  It had been a steep learning curve. When she first found herself on the street, she had gone to a women’s shelter, but that had been overwhelming, and frightening. And dangerous. The third night she had been there, a woman, named Mona, had tried to stab her, shouting and screaming that Angelique had stolen her money.  Angelique had not. Mona was removed from the shelter, but was back the next night. Instead of shouting at Angelique, Mona had snuck up on her and stuck the tip of a knife to her throat — not enough to kill her, but enough to draw blood.

“Give me your money and your phone, or I’m going to gut you like a pig.”

Mona didn’t have any money. 

“I … I don’t have any money,” she had stammered.

Mona pushed the tip in a little more, and slid it across Angelique’s throat, leaving a two inch gash in her neck.

“Bitch, I am not kidding. I will kill you,” she hissed.

This was too much for Angelique. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she had fainted dead away, landing hard on the concrete floor of the shelter. Paramedics were called, and they placed a bandage on her neck to stop the bleeding — it wasn’t deep enough to require stitches. But they were concerned about her head injury, and transported her to the hospital.  

When she returned the next day, all of her belongings were missing.  No one at the shelter knew where they had gone. That meant that Angelique had lost everything she owned, including the only picture she had of her children. She was stricken.

Angelique shut her eyes, and imagined the photo. It had been taken fifteen years ago, on the last day that she had seen her children. They were standing in front of the apartment building, their luggage surrounding them. Both were wearing their best clothes and smiling widely. Her husband, Anwar was standing behind them, with a hand on each of the children’s shoulder, a smug smile on his face.  

Anwar had wanted to take the kids to visit his family. It had been years since they had seen them. Cynthia was twelve years old and Devon was ten in the photo. The last time Anwar’s family had visited them here was four years previous. Angelique had no family, so she valued the importance of maintaining family ties, and didn’t want to deprive her children of the experience of getting to know their family in Oman. 

If she had only known then what she knew today …

As she walked towards the drop-in centre, Angelique ran her finger along the mostly healed scar on her neck, thinking about her time on the street. She had never gone back to the shelter, too frightened that Mona would appear and finish what she had started. Instead, she found herself on the periphery of the homeless camp.  Her friend Morris had told her about the encampment. He said she might want to try living there — there wasn’t much harassment from the police, and there were only a few crazies. The one thing that Angelique liked was the fact that there were a couple of women her age living there. She had hoped that they would be able to help her find her way.

One of those women was Carrie. She was a bit younger than Angelique, in her early forties, and had been homeless for almost seven years. She took Angelique under her wing. She brought her to the women’s drop-in centre, which provided access to showers and laundry facilities during the day. She showed her where the best soup kitchens were, where else she could go during the day without being hassled. She gave her the low-down on other members of their community who to trust, who to avoid. Angelique had been eternally grateful for the help Carrie had given her.  

Unfortunately, Carrie overdosed and died two weeks ago.  Angelique had been the one who found her, and got one of the other camp residents to call 9-1-1, but it was too late. Carrie was dead. Angelique was surprised at the level of loss she felt, and the overwhelming loneliness Carrie’s death caused. She had only known Carrie for a short time, but she had been kind to Angelique.  Carrie had been her friend.

Since Carrie’s death, Angelique had been on her own, navigating her world alone.  She loved to spend time at the library, but only if she was clean. She was embarrassed if she went too many days without access to a shower. The looks of pity or disdain from other patrons was too much for Angelique to tolerate, so she only visited on shower day. On other days she would ride the subway if she could scrape together enough money. But by far her favourite stop was the women’s drop-in centre, but it only had funding for three days a week. She had started to help out at the centre — preparing coffee and tidying up after clients when they left. The manager of the centre would give Angelique a few dollars for her labour. When she wasn’t helping at the centre, she would sit and read. Unfortunately, the centre and the library were only open during the day, which meant that Angelique was alone with her thoughts at night.

As she trudged forward in the early morning, she thought back to the day after her family had left for Oman. It was the beginning of the end.

Angelique had not gone with her family to Oman because Anwar’s family was paying for the plane tickets, and there was not enough money for Angelique. She was okay with that because she wouldn’t have been able to get the time off of work.  Besides, Anwar’s family didn’t approve of Angelique because she wasn’t Omanis, nor was she Muslim — two very big strikes against her. But her children were. 

Cynthia and Devon were raised in a culturally diverse home. They were both trilingual. They spoke English, of course, but they were also fluent in French from Angelique and Arabic from Anwar. They attended Catholic services at Christmas and Easter, and seemed to enjoy the pageantry. But the majority of their religious experiences had been at the mosque, at Anwar’s insistence. They were well-prepared for what Angelique assumed had was a visit to Oman. But Angelique’s children had not come home. Anwar had kidnapped them.

The day after they left, Anwar had sent Angelique a text saying that the children were not returning home, that they were going to live in Oman permanently. He said that the children would be told that she was dead, and that she should not try to contact them.

Angelique was stunned. There had been no hint that he had been planning this. Anwar had never asked her to move to Oman, had never insinuated that he wanted to go home permanently. Angelique thought she had been a good wife, listening to her husband, keeping their home, looking after their children.  There had been no discontent in their marriage. But, despite her best efforts at a harmonious marriage, Anwar had spirited her children away from her forever.

She had also discovered that the money that they had put away for the children’s education was gone, and their chequing and savings accounts drained. Even the children’s piggy banks were emptied.  Angelique was left with nothing. She had no money for rent or food. She lost her apartment and was forced to sell her furniture, and move into a furnished room.

She had contacted consular officials and the Omanis embassy, but without the money to pay for an advocate, she was powerless.  The best that the government could promise was to notify her if either of her children entered the country using their passport.

Angelique languished during the ensuing years, barely getting by. She had very little education, and the only jobs that she had held were part-time, minimum wage, impossible to live on. So she took a second job waiting tables at an all-night diner. With that job she got a meal, sometimes the only meal she would have in that day.  

But she always kept her phone, no matter what the cost. Both of her children knew her phone number, and she wanted to make sure that they would be able contact her if they tried.

Then came the pandemic. First, the diner that she worked at closed temporarily, then permanently. Her part-time day job working at a Dollar General laid her off, with no promise of a recall. She was completely without an income. She applied for government assistance, but because she only worked part-time, she wasn’t eligible for the relief funds.

She had managed to cobble together the rent during the first wave, working day gigs when things started opening up which allowed her to almost keep up with her rent. But it wasn’t enough.  Eventually she sank farther and farther in debt. Her landlord had allowed her to fall behind in her rent for three months, but Angelique knew it was hopeless. She offered to work her rent off, cleaning and cooking, but he said he needed the rental income. He too had lost his job.

So, after almost fifteen years of living in the same furnished room, Angelique was homeless, with no possessions, except her clothes and her phone.  

Then she lost her phone. She had lied to Mona, when she said she didn't have a phone. But when she had been taken to the hospital, someone had stolen it. Her cheap burner phone was stolen.

Now she was completely adrift, rudderless. She had even contemplated suicide, believing it would end her pain and suffering. But Angelique was a devout Catholic and could not and would not condemn her own soul to damnation. So she soldiered on.

Angelique finally arrived at the drop-in centre. She needed to wash her body and her clothes, and was looking forward to a hot shower to warm her up after a miserable night at the encampment.

“Good morning, Angelique,” said Winona, the receptionist-slash-manager of the drop-in centre.  “There’s someone here to see you.”

Angelique stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t know anyone who would need to meet her at the centre. The only people she knew lived on the street.

She looked around the room. There was only one other person, a woman, standing with her back to Angelique, looking out the window at the other end of the room.

Angelique pointed.

Winona nodded.

“I’m Angelique,” she said, tentatively walking towards the woman, who turned and looked at Angelique.

“Mama, it’s me, Qamar.”

Angelique’s hands flew to her mouth. Qamar was Arabic for Cynthia.

“Cynthia? Is that you?”

“Yes, Mama, it’s me.” She walked towards Angelique, and grabbed her mother’s hands. “I’ve been looking for you for so long. Baba said you were dead, but I didn’t believe him. He has lied about so many things.”

She was gobsmacked. “How did you find me?” she stammered.

“I searched everywhere I could remember from before we went to Oman. I went to the apartment where we lived, but no one knew where you had gone. So I contacted the government and told them the story of our abduction to Oman. They searched their records, and found that you had petitioned to get us back. They also told me that you had applied for benefits, and shared your address with me. But when I got there, the man who owns the house said that you had moved out a month ago because you couldn’t pay the rent. I checked with other rooming houses, but no one had heard of you. So, I tried homeless shelters. I found one where had been an altercation, and a subsequent record of your hospital visit.”

Angelique absently ran her fingers along the length of the scar on her neck.

“Someone suggested this drop-in centre, so I came here.”

Angelique’s legs felt weak. Cynthia noticed her distress.

“Let’s sit down.”

They sat on the couch, and Winona brought them coffee.

Angelique looked at Cynthia. She was a beautiful young woman, posed and self-assured. Then she looked down at her own filthy clothes, and felt embarrassment and shame. Her cheeks flamed.

“I came back, Mama, to find you.”

“I dreamed that this day would come,” said Angelique, her voice thick with emotion.  

They sat in silence, holding hands. Angelique’s heart thumped, and her eyes filled with tears. Her daughter had returned. After fifteen long years.

“Your father said I was dead. How did you know he was lying?”

Cynthia looked at her mother. “At first I thought you had died, and I mourned you. But as I got older, the more I realized that Baba was a liar. When we were young he said that you had died in a terrible car crash. But we didn’t have a car. Then he said that you were seeing another man, and you were killed while riding in his car. He said Allah had struck you down because you were wicked.  He said that was the reason that we had fled to Oman, to escape the shame, and leave the godless world that we were living in. But I knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. I remember leaving in a taxi, with you waving at the curb as we drove away. When I told Baba that I remembered, he told me I was wrong. I asked Devon what he remembered, but he said he couldn’t recall anything before we moved to Oman.”

Angelique sucked in a breath. “Devon! How is Devon? Did he come with you?”

Cynthia looked sad. “When I told him I was coming to look for you, he told me I was a fool. He said he believed Baba, and would not question his father’s word. He said I was on a fool’s mission.”  She looked at Angelique. “He said that it didn’t matter if you were actually dead or not, you were dead to him because you had broken your marriage vows.”

Angelique was stunned. “But, I didn’t! I would never! I believed in our marriage. It was your father who took you away, and lied about it.”

Cynthia smiled and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I know. That’s why I am here. Because I believe in you.”

Angelique started to cry. She couldn’t help it. She had not cried since Anwar had taken her children. Cynthia held her, and rocked her back and forth, comforting her.

“I’m here now, Mama, and I’m not going away.”

Angelique felt blessed. Her daughter had come home. There was no greater gift than the embrace of her beloved daughter.