Page 11 of The Matchmaker

“Nura, we’ve talked about this. She’d have to travel back and forth to New Mexico for years, and she might be in the placebo group for all we know. Mom and I discussed it, and she agrees it’s too much for her.”

“It’s not a surefire cure, but isn’t it worth trying everything we can?”

“She’s getting older, Nura. That’s how it is. You can’t fix her.”

“So that’s it? We give up?”

“Nura, please. I don’t want to relitigate this.”

The oven beeps, preheated and ready, warming up the kitchen. Nina turns back to her mixing bowl. I jot Tuesday’s appointment into my work calendar. I’m glad I’ll be the one taking her to the doctor next. I’ll see what Dr. Pang thinks. If he agrees with Nina, I’ll get a second opinion. A third. There’s got to be a way to help Khala get better. She’s my aunt in name, but in all practical senses, she’s my mother. I can’t lose her.

I watch Nina pour the batter into the baking pan. Nina and I were both raised by the same woman. She should be more sister than cousin—instead, she feels like neither. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re twelve years apart. By the time I arrived, she was at Stanford, as geographically distant as she possibly could get, visiting for the occasional Thanksgiving holiday. I once thought her coolness toward me was because I’d taken on the family business instead of her. But she turned it down long before I entered the picture. She hated how all-consuming the work was. She derided it as archaic. She’d adamantly told Khala she wanted no part of it. Still, the only explanation for the way her eyes flash toward me when she thinks I’m not looking is jealousy.

The doorbell rings. When I open it, Azar is standing at the doorstep holding flowers. Seeing him, I feel my jaw unclench.

“Happy birthday.” He kisses my cheek.

“Azar! Beta!” Khala embraces him.

Even Nina cracks a smile when Azar retrieves a vase from beneath the sink for the flowers. He pulls a miniature stuffed Pikachu from his pocket and presents it to Lilah for her collection.

Dinner, a few hours later, is lovely as usual. Khala ordered averitable feast: Haleem with sliced ginger and serrano peppers. Mouth-watering goat biryani. Pan-fried shami kebabs. Later that evening, when I blow out the candles on the red velvet cake—which, I grudgingly admit, tastes moist and delicious—I start to relax.

Lilah hands me a card. Stick figures of the two of us and an enormous pink heart that takes up the entire page. Nina surprises me with a cream wristlet wallet with red trim. Khala hands me a wrapped box, which I assume is a necklace or earrings—her favorite go-to gifts—but tonight’s gift isn’t jewelry.

“A smartwatch?” I hold up the smooth white box.

“I bought one for myself a few months earlier—you really need one with how busy work is. Frankly, I am shocked you don’t have one already.”

Nina scoffs. That’s exactly what I need, she says without saying. More ways to be connected to my work. She doesn’t get it. Matchmaking isn’t just a job for me; it’s a calling. A part of who I am.

When I look at the cake she went to great effort to bake, I could almost convince myself she’s trying to bridge the gap between us, but then the scoff and headshake—we are no closer to any meaningful connection at all.

“The watch buzzes when someone rings you, so no more missing my phone calls,” Khala says. “We can also keep track of one another’s steps. I hit ten thousand even on a bad day.”

“Why does this sound more like a gift for you?” I tease her. “I love it, thank you.”

When I open Azar’s envelope, I gasp. It’s a four-night stay at a Sofitel resort in Cartagena, Colombia.

“You’ve been wanting to go since college,” he says before I can speak. “Plane tickets included, of course, but I figured we’d get to that once you’ve picked your dates.”

“Azar…this is too much.”

“You’d already gotten yourself a Moccamaster, so what was I supposed to do?”

“I can’t go!”

“Why not?”

“Because…” I sputter. “It’s…it’s wedding season.”

“Wedding season will pass,” he says. “When’s the last time you’ve been on vacation?”

“When was Italy?”

“Italy was three years ago, Nur. You’re overdue.”

Three years ago? I count back. He’s right. It was right around the time he moved back. After we’d cleared up our years-long misunderstanding. Before Khala’s most recent stroke. Before my life became quite this hectic.

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