Nadiya Hussain - The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters - the ultimate heart-warming read for 2018

‘Oh, God,’ said Farah, clutching her stomach.

‘So, the coma’s not permanent?’ said Fatti.

‘No, no. Just temporary and reversible.’

Farah shook her head. ‘I told him,’ she said to Fatti. ‘Always use your head-set. You’ll get caught by the police. You’ll have an accident.’

I felt a lump in my throat but pushed it back. Fatti rubbed Farah’s back, not saying much. She did look a little slimmer at this angle.

Every1s asking what’s goin on with ur bro-in-law. U should tweet sumthin.

I tweeted:

Bro-in-law in coma. In hospital with amazin staff.

#Pray4Family

‘Who was he speaking to?’ asked Fatti.

Farah shook her head. ‘Don’t know. His phone’s dead—’

She stopped and did this weird staccato intake of breath as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. I realised only then that I didn’t think I’d ever seen Farah cry. Fatti cries all the time. I know because I sometimes hear her in her room. All it takes is me offering her a salad before her eyes fill with tears. Bubblee cried the day she said she was moving to London. Those were more tears of rage, though. What a drama that was. I should watch that video back one day – ‘You’re stifling me! We’re human beings, not just girls who are made to get married and churn out babies …’ On and on it went.

Fatti took Farah into a hug and I zoomed in on Fatti’s face again, looking so sad and sorry that I decided to switch the camera off. Though I did wonder: what’s she got to be sorry about?

When Bubblee came running down the corridor, Farah looked up as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Bubblee slowed down to a walk as she approached us and took the seat next to Farah. When I was a child I used to pretend that Farah and Bubblee were the two ugly step-sisters (except they weren’t ugly, obvs) and Fatti was my fairy godmother.

‘You came,’ said Farah. Not like she sounded grateful or anything – just surprised.

Bubblee gave a tight kind of smile. Smiling never did come naturally to her.

‘What do the doctors say?’ Bubblee asked.

‘Severe head trauma,’ replied Farah, pressing her hand to her forehead.

I couldn’t help it. I had to get my phone out again. I put it on video and then tucked it into my shirt pocket so it recorded everything without anyone going, Mae, turn it off. Mae, stop it. Maeeeeeee .

‘But what does that mean?’ asked Bubblee.

Farah looked at her. ‘It means they don’t know if he’ll make it.’

‘Oh,’ replied Bubblee.

‘He’ll be okay,’ added Fatti. ‘You’ll see. He’ll be just fine.’

Unlike Fatti’s eating habits, her voice is kind of even. Some might say it’s monotone – they’re people who have a problem with consistency – but right then her voice had a note of panic.

‘Why are you being so weird?’ I asked her later when she got up to use the bathroom.

‘Am I? No, I’m not.’

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Your face,’ I replied, laughing.

She sighed. ‘You should go and sit with Farah.’

‘And say what? Sorry your husband’s in a coma?’

‘ Mae .’

Fatti closed her eyes and splashed her face with some water. The problem with Fatti is that she’s a worrier. Every little thing will have her crease her eyebrows, look from side to side and probably throw up.

‘Poor Farah,’ she said, under her breath. ‘She doesn’t deserve this,’ she added, looking at me.

‘You’re telling me.’

‘And Mustafa . Lying there with all those wires going through him, not having a clue that his wife’s crying her eyes out.’

I squirted some disinfectant soap and rubbed it into my hands.

‘He’s too nice to be in a coma,’ she added.

‘Yeah, well, it’d be great if only murderers and rapists got put in comas, but I don’t think that’s how it works.’

She paused, leaning against the sink. ‘Did you finish your history homework?’

‘Not exactly top of my list of priorities right now,’ I said.

‘You’ve had all week. You’ve got subjects other than media and English, Mae.’

‘Have I?’ I said, leaning forward in shock as if I’d just found this out. I leaned back and rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t know how I’d keep up if it wasn’t for you.’

Fatti dragged me by the arm as we came out of the bathroom and sat me down in the waiting room.

‘My poor daughter,’ said Mum. ‘My poor sister.’

I glanced at Fatti as Bubblee walked into the room. ‘Has anyone called Mustafa’s mum to let her know?’

We all looked at each other. No-one had enough of their head about them to actually call Mustafa’s mum in Bangladesh.

‘She won’t forgive me,’ said Mum.

Bubblee sighed and got her phone out. ‘You didn’t drive into him, Amma. What’s her number?’

‘No, no. I’ll call her myself.’

With which Mum got her special calling card out and left the room. Dad got up a few moments later and followed her out of the room.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Bubblee. ‘Her sister’s son is married to her daughter and they still only speak to each other once every few months.’

‘Weird, for sure,’ I mumbled, scrolling through Twitter, reading all the messages I was getting about Mustafa.

Bubblee nudged me and looked over at Fatti who was wringing her hands. She’s mostly like a human but also a bit like a puppy – especially when she looks up at you like she did just then.

‘I don’t want Farah to be unhappy,’ she said.

Er, obviously.

‘Then you’d better stop looking like someone’s about to die,’ said Bubblee. ‘Because that’s the last thing Farah needs.’

*

We all came home that night – Bubblee volunteered to go home with Farah so she wouldn’t be sleeping alone. Mum, Dad, Fatti and I went to bed but when I got to my room and put my hand in my jeans pocket I realised I’d forgotten my phone, recording and propped up against the bread-bin in the kitchen. Walking past Mum and Dad’s bedroom, I heard them muttering. I’d have just walked past but something made me lean in and listen.

‘Did you see how short she’d cut her beautiful, long hair?’ I heard Mum say to Dad from outside their bedroom.

Amazing, isn’t it? Their son-in-law’s done in and in a coma, and Mum wanted to chat about Bubblee’s hair.

‘I spoke to Mrs Bhatchariya about boys for her. She said she’d send me some details, but you know what I think. We shouldn’t have let her go to London,’ added Mum.

‘Why couldn’t she be like our Faru?’ said Dad.

I was surprised they didn’t say Fatti. Nothing Fatti does is ever wrong. Speaking of the expanding devil, she came up the stairs and saw me crouching outside Mum and Dad’s door.

‘What are you doing there?’ she whispered, crouching with me.

‘Shh. I thought you’d gone to bed.’

‘Is that Mum crying?’ she asked.

I nodded.

‘Do you think Dad’s comforting her?’ she asked.

I let out a stifled laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

Fatti began shifting on each leg until she couldn’t take it any more and sat back, leaning against the wall.

‘Why do you think that’s weird?’ she asked. ‘They’re always chatting in that room.’

‘Are they?’ I asked.

‘You might notice if you weren’t on your phone all the time.’

‘I only know what I need to know, thanks,’ I replied.

Fatti shook her head at me.

‘You think he’s going to be okay?’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘Mustafa.’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Hope so.’

‘What if he’s not, though?’ Fatti looked at me, fear in her eyes. ‘What if he … dies ?’ Tears welled and were in danger of rolling down her cheeks.