Kulsoom's Notebook

By the time Kulsoom turned 20, she was already graduating college. By the time she was 23, she had graduated from Columbia Medical School and matched at the country’s most prestigious pediatric program. By 25, she was married. By 26, dead.

All throughout high school, then college, then medical school, Kulsoom had never once been distracted by a boy. I’m glad she never seemed to entertain or even notice any of the fawning idiots usually gawking at her beauty but too intimidated by her brilliance to do anything more.

So, it was a real bummer when she met Bilal and was no longer immune to a man’s charms. They met at a party one of her medical school friends was throwing in a private room at this steakhouse in Murray Hill. I got a pity invite too. I was outside sneaking cigarettes and hiding it from the current and future doctors inside.

I had enrolled and dropped out from NYU at this point, so we were sharing an apartment uptown in Washington Heights. I was working as a line cook and getting paid next-to-nothing, putting what little extra money I could save toward the restaurant I vowed Kulsoom I would eventually open. Tonight was a rare night off, but I wasn’t having a great time. Everyone here had a Master’s or higher, and I barely got through my sophomore year of college doing a Communications degree. I tried not to feel intimidated, realized I could make better food they were paying shitloads for at this overpriced overrated flavor-of-the-week type spot. That made me feel better.

I went back inside and quickly took off my coat, trying to hide the smell of cigarettes my sister hated. I took out a $20 bill from my pocket and dropped it on the bar, ordering another Coke with a lemon wedge.

I saw Kulsoom with a beer in hand. I was surprised. It’s not like she had never drank before, but we both grew up with Muslim parents who never, ever drank. I wasn’t necessarily morally opposed, but I just never had the urge. Kulsoom was usually too much of a stickler to break the rules.

I took the Coke and sucked it down in three big gulps, needing the caffeine and sugar combination to get me through the rest of the night. I looked over to see Kulsoom talking to someone at the other end of the bar. A pretty good-looking Desi man. But kind of a greasy one. I walked over, returning my glass to the bar as if there had been liquor in it.

“Hey, I’m Nour,” I said, thrusting my arm forward. Never had a handshake been more aggressive.

“Hello, I’ve heard a lot about you already. I’m Bilal. I’m friends with some of Kulsoom’s friends from high school,” he replied, firmly returning the shake. He looked like he was in his early 30s, smelled like a Brook’s Brothers store, had a hard-to-place accent that just *sounded* rich, and was apparently unironically drinking a martini.

“Bilal was just telling me about going to school in Abu Dhabi. His family is from Karachi originally. He just moved here last month to work on his business.”

“What is your business exactly?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Oh, I just export cars,” he replied.

“What does that entail?” I asked.

“Well, let’s just say that I help my clients in the Emirates overcome some of the barriers to accessing the American automobile industry.”

“So, you do some shady shit to help your shady clients get expensive cars for cheaper.”

“Nour! Go take another smoke break. Byeee.” She held the last syllable until I started moving. Kulsoom was giving me the you’re-overstaying-your-welcome look that she saved for emergency situations only.

“Okay, fine,” I thought I had covered up the smell better than I had. I stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi back uptown.

The next morning, I was supposed to meet Kulsoom by Union Square for our Saturday ritual. We were going to get bubble tea and pineapple tarts before going to *The Strand* for a good 2-3 hours, our truly sacred sister time. I got out of the station and saw I had a voicemail from Kulsoom.

“Not gonna make it, I’m sorry! Not feeling well. I tried texting you but it kept not going through. Love you!”

“What are you doing? I know you feel fine. I saw you post about your SoulCycle class,” I texted her. I knew she couldn’t lie to me, not in person, not via message, not ever.

“Damn it, I wanted to check in for the discount. I thought I took it off my story. Anyway, I’m seeing Bilal. I’m sorry I should’ve told you but you were being all judgey yesterday”

“Wowww cancelling because of a guy. Low, sis”

“Yeah yeah I know. I need this right now, ok? I have been doing school for years now. I have a few months until my residency starts, so I’m trying to do fun right…”

“Fine fineee,” I replied. I went to get my taro bubble tea and awaited her update later that week at dinner.

The update didn’t come, because she canceled *again.* And then another time the week after that. For her to flake once was pretty rare, but three times in a row was frankly unprecedented.

The next time we met up was nearly two months later. She was smitten with Bilal; he was buying her jewelry, taking her on weekend trips to Miami or the Hamptons or Paris, and he was already talking marriage.

“Isn’t it a little early?” I asked when we finally did get one of our Saturdays together.

“Yeah, but I kind of just want to get this out of the way before starting my residency.” As with most milestones in her life, Kulsoom was thinking of marriage as the next thing to check off.

“Why is this something you need to get out of the way?”

“I mean, I just don’t want to have to keep working to pay off my old student loans while my new student loans pile up. I haven’t made a dent in my payments, and you know our parents have already done what they can. I don’t want to ask them for more help.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I mean, Bilal has money. He would take care of rent and food and everything. I could focus on just working. He has his finances and shit all figured out. I could pay off those loans.”

I didn’t approve, but my approval had mattered little to Kulsoom. Anyone’s approval, for that. Six months later, she was married.

I began to see her less and less. I found it odd that none of Bilal’s family came to the wedding, but I figured getting visas for them on such short notice was difficult. But I never saw any of Bilal’s family. Never met any of Bilal’s friends.

The next time I saw Kulsoom, she seemed distracted. She had started her first year of residency at this point and wasn’t doing well, which defied all logic given her exceptional past. She had lost a considerable amount of weight and seemed to not be sleeping much. I figured it was the stress of the job. I later found out she had become pregnant and gotten an abortion. She wasn’t ready to derail her entire career. Kulsoom had always looked down on women who got pregnant and abandoned all their aspirations. She wasn’t going to raise a kid that resented her. But, she more felt like she had lost part of her soul.

Bilal at this point was back in the Emirates. Kulsoom had discovered that he did not, in fact, have his finances and shit all figured out. He was deeply in debt, as his business was crumbling post-Recession. I began to work overtime and started dipping into savings that I had set aside for my restaurant. A depressed Kulsoom finally had to take a semester off medical school to rest.

One day, I was making Kulsoom’s favorite *channa puri*, like our amma used to make. When I asked Kulsoom when Bilal was coming back, she very nonchalantly told me he wasn’t.

“What do you mean? Are you saying that asshole left you? Wow I am going to mess him up.”

“No, I kicked him out. He was pretty upset about the abortion. He slapped me.”

“What?!” I shrieked in anger but not in surprise.

“Yeah, I mean he’s done it before, but it’s usually not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal! But also, you did tell talk to him about the abortion before, right? He’s your husband still, though you need to dump his ass.”

“No. I don’t care. He can barely pay his own bills, let alone mine, let alone a kid’s. He’s back over in Abu Dhabi now trying to beg his investors not to drop him. He’s pathetic honestly.”

Her glare indicated that this conversation was done, so I ended it. We ate in silence.

A week after that conversation, I was calling Kulsoom, and she wasn’t picking up. I decided to stop by her apartment. She wasn’t there. Nor were her keys, her laptop, her phone, or her weekender. I checked the emergency safe, for which only I had the passcode, and her backup cash was gone. Her little black notebook was still on her bedside table though, which was unusual, as her whole life was in there. On top sat a page ripped out from the back. The perforated edge wasn’t neat, so already I knew Kulsoom didn’t write this. She would never leave a perforated page unevenly torn.

*I have to leave New York. I need to start a new life. I’m going to Mexico. Don’t try to stop me, and don’t try to contact me. I am disconnecting my phone. I’ll send you a letter when I’m there.”

*What? Mexico? Is this some sort of prank?*I attempted to call all five of Bilal’s international numbers that were saved on my phone. He finally called back and asked me what was wrong.

“Listen, I don’t know where Kulsoom is. Do you have something to do with this?” I didn’t tell him about the note, waiting to hear what he knew.

“What do you mean, you don’t know where she is? How would I have anything to do with this? You’re the one in New York with her! I’m like seven thousand miles away.”

“She told me she kicked you out. I know you’re a proud man. And you know I don’t trust you.”

“I would never do that to Kulsoom. I’m sure she’s not actually in Mexico.”

“Mexico? I never said that. How did you know?”

“Because you said it.”

“No, I definitely didn’t.”

“Okay, well, she left me a voicemail before she left, okay?”

“Play me the voicemail.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No.”

“Then get a lawyer.” He hung up.

Three days after that phone call, I went to ransack Kulsoom’s apartment yet again, hoping I’d somehow happen upon something I hadn’t already looked, seen, touched, smelled in the last visits. I had already filed a missing person’s report, but the cops didn’t care much about an Indian woman’s disappearance, one with a history of depression and possible domestic violence.

I was feeling antsy, so I decided to move some furniture around. I hadn’t moved my dresser in like six years, I realized, and cleaning seemed like something to temporarily distract me. The dresser snagged on some splintered wood, and it was stuck in place. As I undid the snag, I realized there was a loose floorboard the dresser was covering up. I managed to move the dresser and pried open the floorboard, dust caking underneath my fingernails. In it was a lockbox I recognized from when we were younger. Kulsoom had found an old tool box at a yard sale and painted it pink and purple. She left a couple of screwdrivers and a wrench in there but added mementos sporadically over the years.

I started tearing up. There was a stack of polaroids of us from high school, a torn stuffed unicorn named Lovebug, a small jewelry bag, another one of Kulsoom’s little notebooks, and an envelope. I wasn’t sure whether to open the notebook first, or the envelope. I settled for the latter. I gasped. In it were $20,000 in crisp $100 bills. Around the stack was wrapped a note that read: Nour, I don’t know what may happen with Bilal, but, if you find this, please put it toward your restaurant.

My hands were shaking. I felt myself disassociating. I sat in front of that dusty toolbox staring into nothingness for at least 30 minutes. What did she mean? Was Bilal responsible?

I opened the notebook. The first few pages were grocery and to-do lists, mundanities that felt bittersweet to read. I flipped the notebook, the pages’ rapid turning fanning my face. A folded piece of paper fell out; on it was an address in New Jersey. Kulsoom had been missing five days now, and I was desperate for any direction. I called Detective Hernandez, who was assigned to the case, and told him where I was going. He looked up the address and said it had been bought under Kulsoom’s name. That she would buy a house without telling me seemed insane.

Within 15 minutes, I was following my GPS further north in Jersey than I’d been. I don’t remember if the radio was on, or if I drove in silence, still in shock.

I arrived at a dark house tucked away behind a thicket of trees. I was desperate for answers, but I was scared, and I wasn’t about to be an idiot. When the Detective and his team got there, I was still sitting in my car with the doors locked. It was dark now. Together, we went into the house. The house was minimally furnished, newly renovated, but devoid of life. It felt like someone moved into a model home as is, fake furniture and all. The curtains were all drawn. We went upstairs, carefully stepping as to not disturb possible evidence. I opened the first door. There, in the master bedroom, in a bed fitted with sheets I recognized, we found her body.