Their unit is on the end of a large complex of attached houses clad in faded yellow siding. Instead of a driveway, there’s a courtyard in front. The parking lot for the complex is behind the backyards.
It’s strange to see where he grew up. It feels so ... detached from him. The Jay I know belongs in the huge, crumbling mansion-turned-dorm in the middle of the loud and busy downtown Toronto, not in this small townhouse. Short windows at the base of the house suggest a basement—probably where Jay and his mother lived. Or ...live. Steeling my shoulders, I knock on the door.
A woman opens the door—it’s not Salma Hoque. This woman is older. She’s in a pale-green salwar kameez, and her hair is pulled back. “We don’t need fiber internet,” she says instead of saying hello. Her South Asian accent is strong—stronger than Jay’s mother’s in the press conference.
“Oh, no, sorry. I’m not selling anything. My name is Aleeza. I’m looking for Salma Hoque?”
The woman narrows her eyes. I can see inside the house a bit and catch a glimpse of wood floors and pale-pink walls. The faint smell of spices is in the air. “She’s not talking to reporters.” She starts to close the door.
“I’m not a reporter,” I say quickly. “I’m a friend of her son’s from school.” But the woman, I assume Jay’s aunt, continues to close the door.
“Please,” I say quickly. “I just want to talk to someone about Jayesh!”
She shakes her head angrily. “No one is talking to anyone. Go away.” She slams the door closed.
I have no idea what to do next. If they won’t talk to me, then what else can I do here? I walk around to the back of the house and see the fenced backyard, which is empty. Should I knock on a neighbor’s door? Try to find out if Salma is even here? I have no idea how close anyone in the family is to their neighbors. And if reporters and media are comingaround a lot, maybe the neighbors have been told not to talk to anyone. But I’m not a reporter. I really am Jay’s friend.
It occurs to me that I’m in school to be the kind of reporter who’s been harassing this family. I sigh. Maybe now’s not the right time for me to question the ethics of my chosen career. I’m not here for some clickbait headline, anyway. I am here tosaveJay. There must be someone nearby who knows Salma. I consider going to her work, but it’s back downtown. And it’s a law office—they’d be even less likely to speak to me.
Has Jay ever mentioned Salma going somewhere else regularly? A library or nearby café? I didn’t see any cafés nearby. Just small takeout restaurants and corner stores. My stomach rumbles then. It’s lunchtime.
I smile. I know exactly where to go—a place that both Jay and Salma went to often. A quick Google search on my phone tells me that Shawarma Delight is only a five-minute walk from where I’m standing.
The moment I step into the tiny hole-in-the-wall shop, the smell of fire-roasted meat and garlic hits me. The place looks like it’s been recently renovated—or at least recently been slapped with new paint and signage. As it’s a bit early for the lunch rush, it isn’t too busy—only two people stand in front of me in line.
When I get to the front, the girl at the counter smiles. She looks to be about my age, and she has a cream-colored hijab on, along with a sweatshirt that saysSHAWARMADELIGHTon the corner. There’s another woman at the counter making the sandwiches for the people in front of me.
I need to be undercover here, and I’m worried I’m going to mess this up. I smile. “Hi!” I glance up at the menu. “A friend of mine told me to come here! She said it was the best shawarma in town. But I don’t remember if the chicken or the beef was her favorite. She comes here all the time. Do you know Salma Hoque?”
The expression on the girl’s face changes immediately from friendly to one of sympathy and compassion. “Of course we know Salma. Shewas our best customer. She even helped paint the restaurant last year. Salma always got beef.”
I nod. “Can you make me one like how she used to have it? And I’ll have a bottle of mango juice.”
The girl nods and calls back to the woman preparing the food. “Beef shawarma with everything on white pita. Extra spicy.”
I need to keep this conversation going. While I’m paying with my debit card, I say, “It’s so sad what happened to Salma’s family. I used to work with her. She came here a lot, didn’t she?”
The girl nods. “Yeah, Salma was like family. She hasn’t been here for months, though. Not since her son went away.”
“I know how much her son meant to her,” I say. “I’d love to send her a card—do you know where she is?”
She leans forward and lowers her voice. “She’s gone, too, but apparently her family won’t report her missing. It’s so terrible ... maybe her brother sent her back to Bangladesh because of the scandal.”
My breath hitches. Salma isgone? Where?
The other woman behind the counter turns sharply. “Amina! Don’t gossip!” She gives me a long stare, like she knows I’m lying.
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s really so heartbreaking. Salma and Jay were so great. I hope everything ends well for them.”
The girl nods. “I pray for them every day.”
“Thank you,” I say as she gives me my sandwich and drink. I take my lunch to a table, unwrap it, and take a bite. It’s amazing. A little spicier than I normally prefer, but so flavorful. Perfect charred meat, perfect garlicky sauce, perfect toppings, and fluffy pita. And for some reason, this perfect sandwich makes my eyes water.
Will Jay ever have this sandwich again? Will Salma? I can’t believe she’s gone too. Does her family know where she is? Did Salma leave town because she’s heartbroken over losing her only child?
The whole thing is so ... tragic. I feel close to both Jay and his mother here in their favorite restaurant. I have no idea where they are, but I do know that the little family doesn’t deserve the pain they’regoing through. And not just Jay and Salma—so many people are hurting. Jay’s aunt and uncle, Jay’s cousins, and all their other family. Even the people here in the shawarma shop are mourning them.
I’m not sure I believe that Jay’s uncle forced her to go back to Bangladesh, though. Jay did say his aunt and uncle were more religious and traditional than Salma and Jay, but from what Jay told me about his mother, she wouldn’t let anyone force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.
