“I can’t remember the last time we did that.” Seema winces in enjoyment. “It must have been a day like this.” A holiday spent indoors, sitting on a damp windowsill with Tahera, cracking each other’s toes to pass time, watching the rain and praying it would stop or at least lessen by the evening so she could persuade their father to take them out, perhaps to the bakery or a movie. She detested the monsoon season, for the claustrophobic powerlessness it stirred up in her, with its cloaked skies and smothering rain. “But, Tahera, you liked rainy days.”

“I still do. I miss the monsoons. It never rains like that in Irvine.” Tahera recalls with a pang what she liked most about them: the long weekends forced to stay indoors, she and Seema lying side by side in bed, heads on the same clammy pillow, reading aloud to each other, and nights spent huddling under blankets against the nippy tentacles of the monsoon chill. “But I hated that moldy smell in our clothes from drying inside. And our shoes and socks would be caked with mud.”

“Remember how Ammi would scold you for getting wet? You kept losing your raincoat at school until she—”

“Let’s not talk about Ammi.” The morning’s wretchedness is too fresh. There’s clearly not much time left for their mother, and much of what’s left is to be consumed by pain. The worst of the morning is the memory of her trying to force her mother to apologize for wanting to ease her heart’s worries about her other child. Why fault Ammi, when she herself cares for Arshad and Amina so differently? And as for Ammi’s behest: If you want to help me, help Seema . . .

Seema senses Tahera’s ache. Unlike the previous times when Tahera rebuffed conversation involving their mother, her current tone doesn’t signal a rebuke. Soon, when only reminiscences will have the power to bring their mother back to some semblance of life, who can they talk to about their mother but each other? And how are they to do that, without reopening old wounds, reliving old griefs?

As if not knowing what to do next, Tahera starts massaging her feet all over again. “Stop, Tahera. My feet have had enough, thank you.”

How to comfort a sister she hasn’t comforted in so many years, or perhaps never? She’d like to touch Tahera’s bent head, to stroke her hair, but though she has accepted Tahera’s attentions of the past twenty-four hours, she’s unsure how Tahera might react to her overtures. You couldn’t be bothered with me, Seema, Tahera said only yesterday. Reclaiming her feet from Tahera’s lap, Seema manages to find her voice. “Tahera, can I ask you something?”

Tahera stirs, but she doesn’t look up. “Is it about the guardianship? I haven’t spoken to Ismail yet.”

“No. Can I ask—what happened? After I left?”

“What happened?” Tahera rises abruptly. “You really want to know?”