PAST PRAISE FOR KATHRYN K. ABDUL-BAKI
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For Fields of Fig and Olive
“A promising debut collection…Place and character are vividly evoked and the distinct flavor of a different culture well caught . . .”
—Kirkus Reviews
“It is difficult to heap enough praise on this author for her astonishingly vivid depictions of landscape and her ability to evoke spirit of place.”
—Seattle Times
“The stories offer insights into the cloistered world of Arab women . . . how women find means of expressing themselves in severely circumscribed settings.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“In her Middle East world, sexual roles are sternly defined and jealously protected. But you don’t have to be antediluvian to love the exotic settings and the humanity of the people in the 14 stories by Abdul-Baki. She has been blessed with the ability to make foreignness familiar.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“An excellent ‘translator’ of Middle East sensibilities, particularly those of women. Her politics are feminist, her theme is human ethics, and her writing is finely honed.”
—Ms. Magazine
“This collection is truly a breakthrough in the world of Middle Eastern literature . . . written in English by someone who has a foot planted . . . in both the West and the Middle East.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“She challenges Western ways of thinking about the nature and behavior of Arab women and men and causes us to question some of our assumptions about the intricate relationships of families and lovers.”
—The Trenton Times
“Abdul-Baki’s skillful and realistic presentation of characters, along with her masterly use of flashback and other narrative techniques, contributes to making her collection one of the most successful of its kind.”
—World Literature Today
“She does what every Arab leader would like to do—humanize the people of Arab descent, something long overdue in American literature.”
—Former U.S. Senator James G. Abouresk
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For Tower of Dreams
“She is a skilled craftsman . . . The spirit of place and landscape are palpable…she shines in her ability to penetrate the psyche of young Arab women.”
—Seattle Times
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For Ghost Songs
“A tranquil and beautiful novel . . . it gradually heats up into a thorough and tense examination of culture mores—both Arabic and American—without ever becoming judgmental.”
—Philadelphia City Paper
“She presents Arab culture . . . in narratives of exquisite technique, deep insights, and beautiful English . . . it bids fair to establish her as an Arab-American fiction writer worthy of wide recognition.”
—World Literature Today
A Marriage in Four Seasons
Copyright © 2018 Kathryn K. Abdul-Baki
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2018
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-427-1 pbk
ISBN:. 978-1-63152-428-8 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018947282
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Ahmad, with love, who has always gallantly changed our hotel room.
Prologue
Joy stumbled over the vacuum cleaner as she ran to the kitchen to find her phone. She had been vacuuming the living room when the pain shot through her, first in her back and then her abdomen, spearing her insides. Then the water started to spill onto the rug, a steady, ominous trickle.
She grabbed the phone and called Richard’s cell number. His voicemail picked up.
“My water just broke,” she said. “I think I’m in labor. Please call back. Hurry!”
The nurse in the doctor’s office told her to call 911, her voice almost scolding Joy as if she should know better than to expect the doctor to be available for an emergency during lunch hour. Joy grabbed a kitchen towel and clenched it between her legs to halt the stream, then sat down and took deep breaths, as she had been shown in the birthing course. She put both of her hands on her round, taut stomach and held it tight, trying to stop whatever was going on from continuing. She felt something was about to rupture any second, and she had to hold it in.
This couldn’t be happening now. They still had three months to go, and seven more classes before she’d be ready. She hadn’t even packed her hospital bag. She had stayed home today, giving her students a study period instead of going into Manhattan because she had barely slept the night before. She should have known better than to start vacuuming.
Fingers trembling, she punched in 911.
“I’m in labor,” she blurted to the woman on the other end of the line, her voice shaking. “Please come get me. What? I’m Joy Amis. Yes. My address?” She gave her address as she started to cry. The woman listening to her paused until Joy composed herself enough to give her the address, her name again, and the name of her doctor. The woman seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to note down the information, methodically repeating Joy’s name and the name of her street as though she had all day, and then she told Joy to lie down and stay comfortable until the ambulance came, but first to open the front door so the paramedics could get in.
The phone rang. “Honey, what’s—?”
“I’m in labor, Rich.”
“Now?”
Hearing the disbelief in his voice caused her to start to cry again. “My water just broke.”
“Are you sure—” his voice still registered doubt.
“Of course, I’m sure!”
“Okay—I’m leaving right now, but it may take me an hour. Can you call the neighbor to stay with you until I get there?”
“I called 911. This can’t be, Rich. It’s not time.”
“Honey, just lie down. Lift up your feet. Are you sure the ambulance is on its way?”
She nodded.
“Honey?” “Yes,” she said, “yes, it’s coming. But they’ll take me to the nearest hospital, not St. Agnes. I called Dr. Watson, but he’s not there.” She sucked in her breath. “I’m scared, Rich. It hurts. I know it’s . . . I’m twenty-two weeks along today.”
“Honey, you’re going to be okay. I’m grabbing a cab now. Just stay on the line with me. Don’t hang up. Can you get yourself a drink?”
“A drink?” she said, incredulous.
“Some water, honey. Maybe you’re dehydrated.”
“My insides are being ripped out. I’m not thirsty!”
“I mean, maybe it’ll—”
She barely heard him. “I know this isn’t good. This is not good,” she repeated slowly, as if explaining to the s
tudents in her class the meaning of going into labor in the sixth month. She could see their faces staring at her, some worried and others blank, trying to empathize with something so far removed from their daily concerns. She wondered whether the young man who periodically dozed through class would be jolted to attention by this news. They were supposed to have brought in their papers to read today—a critique of Nabokov’s “The Visit to the Museum.”
She could hear a siren. She got up off the chair and slowly walked to the window. A fire truck was coming down the road.
“They sent a fire truck,” she muttered in wonder. She noticed a single branch of a blooming white cherry tree fluttering daintily in the breeze as the fire truck passed it. It was too early for the cherry trees to bloom.
“It’s whatever is available,” Richard said. “They’ll have medics. I’m on my way. Just stay on the line with me, honey. I love you.”
The pain had eased momentarily, and she pulled the cloth from between her legs. There was a pale, crimson stain on it. She planted her feet into the carpet, as though she could put a stop to the involuntary actions of her body just by willing it so. All that they had been planning for these past treasured months was slipping away. Her world was disintegrating, one cramp at a time.
The knocks on the door came just as the pain started up again.
Richard was beside her, wearing a blue mask and gown, bending to kiss her forehead. “My love,” he was saying. “My beautiful Joy. It’s going to be okay.”
Again, she felt the shrieking pain in her belly. Another man was standing at the foot of the bed, holding up his hands, still dripping, as someone behind him tied his gown. Like Richard, the man was also wearing a blue cap. She barely recognized him without his thick, white hair.
“Dr. Watson?” she asked, trying to lift her head.
“Yes,” Richard said, “he’s here.”
She heard the doctor talking with several people near him. She heard him say, “She’s already dilated.”
“No!” she snapped, looking up at Richard.
He rubbed her hand, glancing at the doctor and then at her, his eyes moist.
“No,” she said again, angrily. “Leave my baby alone!”
The doctor came up to her and gently touched her forehead. “Mrs. Amis,” he said steadily, father-like, “we’re going to do everything we can. Take some deep breaths for me. That’s right. Take another one.” He looked at Richard. “It’s fear,” he said. Then he strode away, issuing orders.
She squeezed Richard’s hand.
“Honey,” he said, stroking her cheek with his other hand.
She started to cry, confused, but knowing that not even the doctor doing everything he could was going to work a miracle, now. She could feel her stomach tighten like a bullet, feel it again and again as she started to give in to the pain.
“Stephen, Stephen,” she groaned, repeating the name that had become so dear to her.
Richard’s face was next to hers, his eyes warm but his skin pale, trying to soothe her as he kissed her forehead again.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to be touched. She screamed. That felt good. She screamed again, and that seemed to make everything stop, the stiffening of her stomach, the pain. She screamed until it all flowed into one long song, filling the roomful of strangers trying to take her baby away.
Looking for Washington Irving
JOY
1
“I feel you’re unhappy,” Richard said, once they were in the room.
Joy unpacked her makeup case and headed for the bathroom to wash up after the afternoon drive to Granada. “Aren’t you?”
“I thought it would be different, but it’s not that bad.”
She sighed. “I should have specified a room on an upper floor. It’s the only way to get a view. Instead, I asked for a quiet room— and we get this. A view of the fire escape.”
“It is quiet,” Richard said, flopping down on the bed. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
This was just like Richard, always quick to settle, but it had never grated on her nerves so much as it had since the loss of the baby. She had a brief wave of extraordinary doubt that she and Richard were even meant to be together, but as always, she pushed it down.
They’d already had their first disappointment today. For most of the drive from Seville, they’d enjoyed seeing the white towns of Andalusia across the countryside, cozily nestled at the foot of a hill and guarded by a towering Moorish fortress on the crest. Joy had feasted on what she had read about and imagined for so long—plains crisscrossed by glimmering olive trees, hilltop cathedrals, and ruined castles, fields of strawberries and buttery sunflowers. She’d devoured Washington Irving’s travelogue, Tales of the Alhambra, when studying American romantic literature and had fantasized that a visit to Granada would be a life-changing experience. And, since arriving in Spain, she’d had a sense that something remarkable was about to unfold for Richard and her.
Irving’s nearly two-hundred-year-old account of winding through hedges of aloes and fig trees to arrive at the gates of the fabled Spanish city amid a glorious sunset had, for years, intrigued Joy. She had expected Granada to similarly reveal itself to her from a distance, postcard-like, the lofty red walls and turrets of the Alhambra crowning the horizon.
Instead, on her approach to Granada itself, the bucolic landscape of olive groves and tidy farms had given way to a tangle of overpasses and confounding road signs that resembled the cluttered outskirts of Trenton more than the majestic town she’d envisioned. She was beginning to dread being confronted by a glut of Starbucks and Burger Kings as they had in Madrid.
After driving through several industrial-looking neighborhoods, they’d finally located the historic district of Albaicin, a far quainter part of town, and down an alleyway so narrow that cars were parked on sidewalks, they eventually came to the whitewashed, nineteenth-century former mansion where they had reserved a room.
At first glance, the hotel had looked as appealing as the brochure depicted—a vibrant Moorish lobby with tiled walls of blue and green, beveled glass windows, and an interior courtyard filled with orange trees and blooming jasmine. Their bedroom, however, was shockingly drab. A faded curtain covered the small window, and a frayed sofa looked as though a cat had recently gone at it with sharpened claws.
To Joy, hotels were like temples, refuges to house her spirit away from home, and she needed to feel comfortable with the room before she could enjoy the outside city she was visiting from the same prism of satisfaction. She’d ruthlessly researched hotels with local character for this trip and had expected at least some semblance of the historic city to be reflected inside this restored villa’s bedroom. Instead, the rumpled gold bedspread and ochre-painted walls made her cringe.
She watched in dismay as Richard stretched out on the bed, obviously unfazed by the dreariness of the furnishings, when what she wanted was to march back down to the front desk to demand a better room. Although he was usually content with whatever accommodations they were given, his indifference this time seemed to indicate he was totally missing the point of this trip.
“Maybe they’ll change our room if we pay them something,” she suggested from the bathroom, unable to dismiss her own expectations, much as she wanted to for his sake. After all, he had lost a baby, too, and this was supposed to be his vacation as well as hers, a trip to help them heal.
She ran the water from the tap for a moment to let it warm, then rinsed her face and blotted it dry with tissues from the box on the sink, not wanting to soil the towels in case they changed rooms. She slipped off her blouse and bra and, wetting more tissues, rubbed them over her neck, chest, and arms rather than mess up the actual shower.
“Honey, the receptionist said all the others are taken,” Richard called back.
She fanned herself dry with her hands and shook her head, loosening her blonde, shoulder-length hair from its ponytail. “They always say that unless we make a fuss,” she said.
“There are only nine rooms, Joy. Anyway, this one’s clean. It’s not like we’ll spend much time in here.”
“But we should be able to enjoy it.”
There was a pause. “It’s fine, honey. Really. The bed’s comfy.”
She brushed her teeth. She knew she’d be better off adopting his attitude of making the best of the mediocre surroundings. He was usually less affected by the lack of the little touches that she seemed to need to complete her enjoyment of a vacation, but she was baffled by how easily he could settle for so much less than what they’d paid for, given the hotel rates. She’d been looking forward to being happy on this trip. Happy and relaxed. That was the whole reason for their coming, to shed some of that sense of loss, a loss far deeper than any she’d ever known. She already doubted it was going to happen in this room.
She wasn’t sure why she was so irritated with Richard and suddenly so intolerant of their differing opinions on a subject they’d almost always differed on. She knew she was being petty on one level, but then again, she resented him being so lackadaisical about something he knew meant a lot to her.
She examined her breasts in the mirror. Their recent fullness due to her pregnancy was finally completely gone, although they still felt more tender than usual.
She stepped out of the bathroom. Richard was already undressed and tucked beneath the bedspread, watching television in a language he barely understood.
She sighed. “As long as there’s a TV, Rich.”
He flipped the dial of the television remote. “I’ve been driving all day, honey. I need to relax.”
“I need to relax, too, but this room is . . .”
He turned to look at her, and seeing her nude from the waist up, he grinned. “Come on over here, sweetie. I’ll help you relax.”
She ignored his invitation. With a TV and her half-naked, he’d be happy in a coffin.
“Come on,” he prodded, his eyes twinkling.
Although she still found his gaze disarming after five years of marriage, she resisted his attempt to lure her to the bed, bothered that he wasn’t taking her concern seriously. Instead, wrapping a towel around her chest, she crossed the room and opened her suitcase just enough to slide out the shirt and skirt she planned to wear to dinner, still unwilling to unpack in case they moved to another room.
A Marriage in Four Seasons Page 1
