Margaret felt a nudge and turned around. Ahmed flicked his head toward the dance floor. It was their turn. She knew some Arab dance moves; she had been through this before. There was no point in resisting. Ahmed would simply remind her that it would be impolite to refuse. The only choice was to do some shimmies and shoulder shakes.
Chapter 5
“There’s no room for all this.” Alison gestured toward the stack of Khalid’s boxes and his shoes piled by the door. He sat nearby on the sofa, pressing buttons on his cell phone. She fixed her eyes on him until he looked up and smiled at her. He set down the phone and patted the seat next him. Alison sat, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
“We can’t stay here any longer,” she said. “You’ve been here a month already.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “We’ll look this weekend.”
She leaned against him. He smelled of coffee and aftershave and was wearing his black crewneck that she liked.
“This studio is designed for one person,” she said, “Not a married couple.” She did like to think of herself as part of a married couple. Even more so, she loved being a college graduate—finally ready to step into adulthood.
Khalid’s cell phone beeped. She waited until he read his text message, then gently pried the phone from his hand and set it out of reach.
She turned back to him. “We’ve got to move out of here.” They did agree on one thing: moving off of Capitol Hill. For Alison, its flamboyant counterculture, its tattooed and pierced residents, had already served their function of shocking her mother.
“There’s a place up by my brother’s.”
“I’m not living out there, babe. You know that.”
He stroked her hair. “We’ll be close to my family.”
“Your family? I moved out here to be away from my own.”
“Don’t say that.”
“If I hadn’t moved,” she said, “I never would’ve met you.”
“So, you don’t like my family?”
Alison flicked her gaze upward. “It’s not that …” How could she explain? Families had a way of encroaching, judging, and messing things up. “Hey, what about living in Greenwood?”
He reached for his cell phone. “Just look for something we can afford.”
“What can we afford?” Her voice rose a little, and she stopped herself. She wouldn’t spoil the moment by bringing up their dismal financial situation.
Khalid snapped his cell phone shut and stood. “I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“The coffee shop.”
Her mind jumped to an image of its interior brick walls and the hissing sound of the espresso machine. She and Khalid could read the newspaper there while sipping cappuccinos from heavy cups. Just inside its alleyway entrance was where she’d seen Khalid for the first time.
She stood. “Give me ten minutes to get ready.”
“I’m meeting the guys.”
“So?” she said. “I like talking with your friends.” Actually, it was more than a casual pleasure; the discussions on Middle East politics energized her.
“Sorry, babe, I’m going by myself.” Khalid moved to the door.
“You’re going alone?” She pushed herself out of her seat. “Is it because of what I said about your family?” She stepped toward him. “Is it because I don’t want to live in the suburbs?”
Khalid fingered his car keys. “You shouldn’t be sitting around with my friends anymore.”
“So, I’m supposed to sit at home while you go out?”
“You’re my wife now.”
“I don’t see how—”
“They’re waiting for me.” He held up his hand. “That’s it. I’m done. Salaam.”
Alison’s thoughts froze as she stared at the closed door. Her heart pounded. She hadn’t even finished what she was going to say. She ran to the door and opened it, but he was already gone. She had an urge to run after him. Could she make him change his mind?
The moment had passed. She closed the door, stood there, and reviewed what had just happened. I’m going out. That’s it. I’m done.
She refused to cry. Instead, she turned and went to the kitchen. Her hands reached for the first breakable item she saw, a serving platter from the night before, resting innocently in the drying rack. Alison smashed it against the corner of the kitchen counter. She turned away and collapsed on the sofa.
In her mind’s eye, she traced the way to the coffee shop where their relationship had begun. It was off the Ave in the U District, a few minutes’ walk from Denny Hall, where many of her classes had been held. Soon after she and Khalid hooked up, Alison joined in with his friends and their coffee shop debates, which burned with intense political views—discussions she had assumed would continue.
Alison sighed. She got off the sofa and went to the kitchen, where she knelt down and picked up the pieces of her favorite platter.
The next morning, neither Alison nor Khalid brought up the matter of his visit to the coffee shop. They sat at their small kitchen table, which was stacked with graduate school printouts. The ones on top were from the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilization and the Jackson School of International Studies. The others were from similar programs in other states. Next to this was a pile of loose papers, which was Alison’s primary concern at that moment.
“Here, sign this.” She handed a cover letter to Khalid, who signed it without reading. “I adjusted your résumé slightly to suit this particular job.” She took the letter and handed him another printout, this one from online classifieds, with a particular IT job highlighted. “What do you think of this one? It relates to your field.”
Khalid smiled sheepishly. “Can we do this later?”
“Fine.” Alison’s shoulders dropped. “I have an idea. Let’s look at apartments.” She passed him another printout of classifieds. “I found a couple places closer to your family.”
“Wallingford? That’s not close to my family.”
“It’s ten minutes closer. Besides, it’s close to my work.”
“Your work? How long are you going to keep that campus job?”
“As long as I need it!” Alison stopped herself from reminding him that her job at the International Programs Office was their only income. Granted it wasn’t ideal, but it was something. “Let’s just look.”
“Okay, but let’s see the place I was telling you about.”
“Fine,” she said. “But we’ll see mine first.”
“Are you going to wear that?” Khalid pointed at her neckline. “It’s a little low.”
She looked down. “I wear this all the time.”
“We’re going to my brother’s.”
She looked at him closely, his solemn face and eyes. Was her blouse really worth the conflict? She remembered their day ahead and the apartments she wanted to see. “Give me a minute to change.”
The first apartment, in the ideal neighborhood of Wallingford, was old but classic. Khalid held Alison’s hand as they entered. She followed him into the living room and regarded the hardwood floors. Bright summer sunlight streamed in through the window, and she pictured her sofa there. As they admired the built-in china cabinet, a stale smell reached her nose. Everything about the apartment satisfied her, except the musty smell.
“We’ll think about it,” she told the manager outside. Alison was relieved to be breathing fresh air again.
The next place was near Green Lake. Alison liked the idea of being able to jog around the lake or hang out in the grassy areas, then walk to one of the local coffee houses. But the unit was in a fourplex built during an unfashionable decade; its boxlike structure held zero interesting features. They thanked the property manager and walked down the sidewalk.
“What do you think?” Khalid asked. “The price is better.”
Alison stopped in her tracks. “How could you even consider living there?”
“You chose the place. Now let me show you something.”
They headed north on I-5. By the time they exited, they were well into the suburbs, which held none of the charm of the previous neighborhoods. They drove into a large apartment complex, passing a wooden sign that read PINE VIEW.
Khalid parked in front of the office. “Let me see if someone’s here.”
Alison remained in the car. All around were identical, blandly oppressive buildings, all with the same generic landscape, each building marked with a different capital letter, bold and ugly.
Khalid returned. “They have a two-bedroom available. The guy will show it to us now.”
Alison got out, regretting this waste of everyone’s time.
They entered a second-floor apartment in Building F. The place was new and bright. One living room window looked out onto parking spaces and the other onto some old pine trees. Alison admitted to herself that the place had a clean appeal to it, but could she see herself living there? She turned to the manager. “We’ll think about it,” she said, and signaled to Khalid that she had seen enough.
“So what’s wrong with it?” He asked as they drove away.
“I can’t live in a complex.” She turned to the window. “I hate this area. Okay?”
“Just think about it,” he said. “Now let’s go see my brother.”
As they entered the cul-de-sac, Alison felt a vague sense of unease at the sight of the split-level houses all lined up, announcing a repetition similar to that of the apartment complex. They parked in front of Ahmed and Margaret’s house. Alison reconfirmed to herself that she would never live in a house like that, either.
Margaret welcomed them in. It was only the second time Alison had entered that living room, which smelled of cardamom and cooking odors. Palestinian plates decorated the walls, and embroidered pillows lined the couch; in the hallway were framed photographs of Jerusalem: the Dome of the Rock and Damascus Gate.
Sitting on the sofa was Khalid’s mother, who rose to greet them. Alison promptly brought to mind some Arabic phrases and approached her mother-in-law, whose kisses were wet on her cheeks. At that moment, Leena ran in with her brother Tariq right behind. They shook Khalid’s hand and kissed him, and to Alison’s amusement, they did the same for her.
Alison sat next to her mother-in-law and said in her basic Arabic, “We saw houses.” Khalid jumped in to explain to his mother that they were looking for a new place in order to be closer to her. Alison felt a ripple of nausea and realized the idea of the suburbs simply made her sick.
Margaret invited Alison to the kitchen and gestured for her to sit at the breakfast bar. Alison recalled the last time she had sat in that spot, more than two months ago. So many things had happened since then: the vows at the mosque, the graduation, the wedding. The mix of events swirled through her mind, landing on the unsettling memory of having to tell her mother about Khalid.
The tea kettle whistled, and Margaret asked, “How’s married life?”
“It’s great.” Alison smiled like a newlywed. “We’re job searching and apartment hunting.”
Margaret spooned loose tea into the teapot and added a handful of mint leaves. “How’s that going?”
“Khalid has another interview this week.” Then Alison thought of something. “I want to thank you and Ahmed for the gift. The money’s really helpful. The thank-you note is coming.”
“No need for a note,” Margaret said and pulled out the same brass tray as last time.
But Alison was thankful. She had insisted they save all of the wedding money for a deposit on an apartment, as well as first and last months’ rent.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you.” Margaret spoke as she poured tea into the glasses arranged on the tray. “Why did you choose Middle East studies?”
Before Alison could answer, Margaret picked up the tray and said, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared and left Alison to prepare her answer. Of course, the truth of it would sound crazy.
Margaret returned and sat. “Here.” She slid a tea glass to Alison.
“Thanks.” Alison had been making so much tea for Khalid lately that she had gotten used to its sweet taste. She cradled the steaming hot glass and began. “When I was a freshman at the U, I did a study abroad program. One quarter in Jordan and Israel—I mean, Palestine. It was spring of 2000, before the Second Intifada started.” She sipped the tea, and its minty flavor along with the photos in the hallway conjured memories of her trip to Jerusalem, a trip her parents had paid for but sent her mother reeling with worry. “It was a good time to be there,” Alison said. “I studied the history, the culture, the language … Basically, I was hooked.” Alison smiled, content with her explanation, which was general enough to be true.
When Alison had first announced her major, her mother had asked, “What on Earth would you do with a degree like that?” Alison had explained the various career options—researcher, journalist, diplomat, scholar—but her mother couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t even listen, and replied simply, “You’re obsessed with the Middle East.”
Later, when Alison announced her engagement to Khalid, her mother had said it again: “You’re obsessed!” No, Alison had explained, she wasn’t obsessed; she was in love. And no, he wasn’t religious or traditional—Americanized, in fact, with a college degree and a bright future ahead. Her mother’s face had showed she wasn’t convinced. “Probably just wants a green card.”
“He has one!” Alison had screamed back.
Her father—thank God—had been understanding and reasonable. “I’m happy for you,” he said, and at last her mother went grudgingly along.
“What made you go there in the first place?” Margaret asked.
“Curiosity about my background mainly. I’ve always been drawn to that part of the world. Plus, my job in International Studies. I wanted to do a study abroad trip. Later, in my junior year, I went to Cairo for intensive Arabic.”
“Have you ever thought about visiting Syria?” Margaret asked.
“Oh, many times,” Alison said, explaining that her grandparents had praised the food, landscape, and culture of Syria, but by the end of their lives, they had not been back to the motherland in decades. “I asked my grandmother why she stopped going.”
“What did she say?”
“Damascus is not how she remembers it. According to her, everyone she knew has either left or died.”
“How sad.”
“I know.” Alison looked down at her empty tea glass. Her grandparents were of that generation of immigrants who had assimilated and tried to drop all traces of the old country. “It’s easier to fit in than to stand out,” Grandma Helen liked to say.
“We looked at apartments today,” Alison said, changing the topic.
Margaret brightened. “Pine View?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“Not for me. I don’t like the suburbs.”
“I felt the same before I had kids. Now I love it here.” Contentment spread over Margaret’s face. “I know my neighbors. We feel rooted here. It’s our home.”
“We saw a nice place in Wallingford,” Alison said. “Great location, hardwood floors … except it had a smell.”
“How so?”
“It was sort of a mildew scent, even though the place seemed clean.”
Margaret set down her glass. “Weird.”
“Khalid couldn’t smell it, just me.”
A quizzical look appeared on Margaret’s face and then a sudden sureness. Nodding her head, she reached out and touched Alison’s hand. “I wonder if you’re pregnant.”
“No,” Alison said a bit too loudly. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s not?” Margaret raised her eyebrows.
“We use protection. There’s no way.” Alison twisted the wedding ring on her finger. Accidental pregnancies were for careless people, not her. Besides, she had plans. Grand plans, which didn’t include babies—not for a decade at least.
“When’s your period due?” A
little smile played on Margaret’s lips.
“I don’t know. I had my period … It was light.” Alison felt flustered and didn’t know why she was even answering.
“Light? How?”
“It only lasted a day or two.”
“I bet you’re pregnant.” Margaret sat back, clearly pleased with herself. The sound of her voice annoyed Alison, who had an abrupt urge to flee.
Margaret snapped her fingers in the air. “You know what?” She pointed at Alison. “I’ve got a pregnancy test.” Margaret jumped off her stool. “I had a scare a while back,” she said and rushed out of the kitchen. Alison crossed her arms; she didn’t want someone’s old pregnancy test.
Margaret returned, tapping the label on the box. “The expiration date is still okay.” She set it in front of Alison, who stared at the box sitting shamelessly on the counter.
“It’s fine. Really.” Alison slid the box back. “I can get my own.”
“Take it.” Margaret put it back in front of Alison. “Inshallah, I’m through with these.”
Alison slid it back. “I don’t think I’m pregnant.”
“Just take it!”
Alison could no longer argue and didn’t want to see the box another second. She slipped it in her purse, got off the stool, and walked to the living room. “Yalla, Khalid, let’s go.”
In the car as they drove back to Capitol Hill, Khalid talked about his upcoming job interview. “I have a good feeling about this one. The job’s perfect for me.”
Alison turned to him. “Do you love me?”
“What a question.” He put his hand over hers. “Of course I love you.”
He unlocked the door to their tiny apartment. They squeezed past the boxes piled by the door. He sat down on the sofa and took out his cell phone. Alison went to the bedroom and slid the pregnancy test under the foot of the mattress.
That night, she slept fitfully as she pushed away thoughts of the item under her feet. She dreamt she gave birth to a dark-haired baby boy who cried incessantly and looked like Khalid.
In the morning, Alison awoke with a weary, restless feeling. She busied herself in the kitchen, waiting impatiently for Khalid to leave the house. She made cappuccinos with her stovetop espresso maker. The newspaper editorials were of no interest, and her cappuccino tasted gross. For the first time, she suggested Khalid go to the coffee shop and meet a friend.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 6
