Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  The car was hot and she couldn’t unroll the window. That fool. Why hadn’t he left one open? Zainab opened the back door partway. Alone and perspiring, she tried to get comfortable as her thoughts turned to Abed. How she needed him now. Still, she felt a flicker of anger toward him. He had never bought a house in Jordan but chose to rent an apartment for years, a decision Zainab now nearly cursed. He’d said it wasn’t his country. Instead, he had poured his earnings into Ahmed’s studies in America. The plan was never for Ahmed to stay there. Not at all. Zainab had always expected she would grow old in her son’s house—in Palestine. She hadn’t imagined this fractured life, flying from one country to another. She could see now what they had really lost. Her grandchildren by Ahmed were foreign speaking, and Khalid’s wife was carrying a child who might turn out the same.

  Mohammed returned to the car and got in the front. “Sorry, Auntie. Only people with appointments can go in.” He unrolled his window and said, “I wrote a letter for her, too.”

  “Bless your hands,” Zainab said automatically and without sincerity. She stared at the back of his head, the same shape as his mother’s. She wondered about the true reason he had divorced his first wife. Then she remembered: they weren’t divorced yet. She sighed and fanned herself, no longer sure why she had been in such a hurry for Nadia to marry. She was barely twenty. There were still years before people would talk.

  An hour passed. A cool silence had formed in the car. Finally, Nadia appeared on the sidewalk, gliding toward them in her pink jilbab. She was smiling, her eyes revealing her shock and joy as she reached the car.

  “I got it!”

  That evening, the women gathered on cushions in Fatma’s courtyard to celebrate Nadia’s visa. Anysa attributed the visa to her son Mohammed. “Thank God he wrote that letter. He gave her permission to go.”

  “Alhamdulillah. It’s a blessing from God,” Zainab corrected, as she offered a tin of baklawa pieces arranged in circular rows.

  “Masha’Allah. His letter worked on the Americans.” Anysa selected three pieces.

  “All grace and thanks are due to God.”

  “It was God’s will that he wrote that letter.” Anysa popped a pastry in her mouth.

  Zainab and her sister went back and forth like this while Nadia sat nearby. Anysa’s words didn’t spoil Zainab’s good mood, though. She handed the tin of baklawa to Nadia. “Take it to the men.”

  Nadia got up and crossed the courtyard to where the men were sitting. When she returned and sat once again, Zainab put her arm around her, wishing she could sweep Nadia off to America at that very moment. Unfortunately, it would take time for Nadia’s visa to go through security checks, or some such thing.

  Zainab squeezed Nadia’s shoulder. “Alhamdulillah. You’ll be with me in America, my love.”

  Nadia didn’t respond. She was distracted, focused on something across the courtyard. Zainab turned. It was Mohammed. The couple had locked eyes, oblivious to everyone, mouthing words to each other, some secret lovers’ language, a display that was completely unacceptable.

  “Nadia? Nadia!” Zainab gently shook her.

  “Yama? What?”

  Zainab stared hard at her daughter. Where was the shyness and innocence that Nadia’s older sisters had demonstrated during their engagements? This show of affection did not look good. How to explain something so obvious?

  Zainab leaned toward Nadia, scrutinizing her. “Are you wearing makeup?”

  “Yama!” She pushed Zainab’s hand away. “Of course I’m wearing makeup.”

  Zainab stiffened and scanned the other family members to see if anyone had seen Nadia’s behavior. Zainab’s eyes rested on Anysa who was leaning back, laughing, her round belly jiggling, as though she were intoxicated from the baklawa.

  Zainab turned back to Nadia. She had neglected her daughter long enough. Truth be told, Zainab had been absent and inattentive ever since Abed had died. Perhaps there was a way to correct the damage. Inshallah.

  Two days later, Mohammed and Anysa received their well-wishers before travelling back to the West Bank. The male guests sat in the majlis while Zainab joined the women in the salon, that horrible room where she had been humiliated weeks before.

  Zainab sat next to Anysa in the ring of armchairs. On Zainab’s other side was Nadia, restless and disengaged. Each time the door opened, Nadia twisted around.

  “What are you looking for?” Zainab whispered to her.

  “Mohammed.” Nadia craned her neck. “I want to talk to him.”

  “You’ll say good-bye with the rest of us.”

  “Yama, I’m not going to see him for months.”

  Zainab put her hand on Nadia’s arm. “You can’t be alone with him.”

  Nadia rolled her eyes. “He’s already been married.”

  “It’s you I’m thinking of,” Zainab said. How could she explain? Sometimes it happened: an engagement fell through and a girl’s reputation was compromised.

  “Yama, that’s the old way. No one does that anymore.”

  Zainab’s heart pounded. If only Abed were alive! One word from him, one look, and Nadia would listen.

  “No one cares,” Nadia said, “if I’m alone with my fiancé.”

  Zainab glared at her daughter. “They notice. They care.”

  The taxi arrived, and everyone moved to the street. As the driver loaded the luggage, family members bid salaam to Anysa and Mohammed. Zainab kissed Anysa’s cheek and said, “God protect you and keep you safe.” She squeezed her sister’s hand.

  “Forgive me for anything I’ve done wrong,” Anysa said with a glint of tears in her eyes.

  “And forgive me,” Zainab said, then added, “Nadia will be a good wife to Mohammed.” The words tumbled out. “She speaks excellent English.” She wasn’t sure why she added that last point. Zainab didn’t even understand English herself.

  “Alhamdulillah he wrote that letter.” Anysa clicked her tongue.

  Zainab opened her mouth, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Nadia and Mohammed across the street, holding hands and laughing together, their faces nearly touching. Zainab elbowed her way past the family toward the couple. With one hand she grabbed Nadia’s arm a bit too firmly, and with the other, she moved Mohammed away. “Enough!”

  On the other side of the street, the visitors turned in unison, and a laugh rose up. Zainab’s eyes swept over their faces. Anysa gave Zainab a reassuring look, Fatma nodded knowingly, and the other relatives had similar expressions. Zainab stepped back, crossed her arms, and felt a heat rise up in her cheeks.

  Nadia touched her arm. “Yama, take it easy.”

  Later, Zainab sat alone in Fatma’s courtyard. The stalks of meramia drying in the sun reminded her of Palestine. The red suitcase in her bedroom reminded her of America. Zainab reached for a stalk of meramia. Holding it in one hand, she gently pulled off the dried leaves and gathered them on a tray. It would be used to flavor the tea of three households in America: Mona’s, Khalid’s, and Ahmed’s. Dar Mansour.

  Nadia walked outside and reached for some meramia, too. Zainab tried to imagine what she and Nadia would do together in America, and all that Zainab would teach her.

  After all the leaves had been gathered, she and Nadia stuffed them into plastic bags, which would travel in Zainab’s red suitcase. Zainab got up from the floor, her creaky joints betraying her more than ever. She reached for a prayer carpet and stood at its edge. Her prayer was long and heartfelt. Then she settled herself for supplications that featured all of her longings. Just as Zainab was thanking God for Nadia’s visa, there was a disturbance behind her. She tried to concentrate on her du’a but became aware of the surprise in Fatma’s voice.

  Attempting to focus, Zainab held her eyes shut. The gate clanked and there was another voice, the unmistakable accented Arabic that belonged to only one person: Alison.

  Zainab turned and stood as quickly as her body would allow.

  “Alhamdulillah as’salaam. You’re back early,” she
said.

  By then, Nadia and Fatma’s daughters had come to the door. Fatma took Alison’s bag and guided her into the courtyard, where everyone gathered around her. Zainab sat directly across and took a long look at the girl. Her face was gaunt, her eyes tired, and the rosiness drained from her cheeks.

  Fatma fluffed the pillow behind her and instructed her daughter to bring tea.

  Zainab leaned forward. “Why did you return early?”

  Alison closed her eyes for a moment and then explained that she was tired.

  “Ya haraam,” murmured Fatma and Nadia.

  Alison took a breath. Speaking in slow, childlike sentences, she related two encounters with Israeli soldiers. Sorrow appeared on Alison’s face as she described how the soldiers had fired at young boys.

  Zainab gasped, as did the others. How foolish for a pregnant woman to be roaming around looking for trouble. Why had Khalid let her go? Curse his father! She never should have gone. Zainab then realized she was cursing her own dead husband and tried to take it back. How reckless of Alison to be so bold. Still, the image of her shouting at the soldier gave Zainab a shiver of pride.

  “But why did you come back early?” Zainab repeated.

  Alison brought a hand to her face. For a second, it seemed she was about to cry, but she held herself together. Each time she tried to speak, she stopped herself.

  “Say it in English,” Nadia said.

  When Alison finally spoke, the tears came. Nadia translated. “She said she hadn’t slept for four nights. She was afraid she would never sleep again.”

  “Miskeenah,” they murmured. Poor girl. Nadia and Fatma patted her arm.

  Zainab was overcome with a sudden surge of sympathy. “Take care!” she said, “By the grace of God, take care of yourself and your baby.” She reached over and touched Alison’s hand.

  The tea was served, and everyone was quiet.

  Zainab asked, “Did you see Huda? How is Yasmine? And my mother?”

  “Alhamdulillah,” Alison mumbled but had little else to say.

  Zainab stared at her and wondered what the girl was holding back. For the first time, she noticed what Alison was wearing: pants and a shirt that looked like a man’s. Zainab wondered once again what Khalid saw in this strange, skinny girl.

  Chapter 21

  At Sea-Tac Airport, the US immigration official handed the five passports back to Margaret. “Welcome home,” he said.

  On the drive up I-5, the midday sky was bright blue. Mount Rainier was visible, rising majestically beyond the city. Margaret gazed at the Seattle skyline, Lake Union, and the Space Needle. She ticked off the exits they passed: University of Washington, Green Lake, Greenwood, Northgate, Shoreline, Lake Forest Park. They slipped by like lost archaeological sites until finally the van turned into their cul-de-sac.

  Home.

  Margaret slid open the van door and breathed in the scent of freshly cut grass coming from the neighbor’s yard. She stood in the driveway and looked up at her imperfect house. It needed a paint job, new windows, and an overhaul of the yard. Margaret knew by heart the collection of defects inside: the shabby carpets, broken light fixtures, cracked hearth, and the woefully outmoded kitchen—all things that could be fixed. It was her home, after all, where she was meant to be. Imperfect, yes, but it was familiar and known.

  The next morning, Margaret woke at daybreak after a restless night of jet-lagged sleep. Suitcases cluttered the living room, begging to be unpacked. While the rest of the family slept, she went outside and stepped onto the lawn where dew coated the long blades of grass. Grass invaded the walkway, weeds filled the flower beds, dandelions sprouted everywhere, and the jasmine was nearly dead. Meanwhile, the neighbors’ yards were at their peak, a portrait of summer beauty.

  Margaret returned to the house and put on some old jeans and a T-shirt before gathering her gardening tools from the garage. First, she started on the dandelions, plucking them out one by one with a tool that released the entire root in one satisfying pop. As she gathered the discarded dandelions in a bucket, she calculated when the mother would be back.

  Ten days. Ten splendid days. This thought energized her. She worked rapidly, plucking and gathering the weeds one after another. If she had no control over anything else in her life, damn it, she could at least conquer the dandelions.

  Next, she mowed. Margaret jerked the mower back and forth until the front lawn was smooth. At last, she trimmed, working along the edge of the pathway. Her mind drifted back to Jordan and to Cynthia, whose garden Margaret had admired from the sunroom window. Manicured hedges, frangipani, and cascading bougainvillea made up Cynthia’s desert garden—so far removed from Margaret’s plain suburban plot. It wasn’t just her garden that was immaculate, but the villa, too, with its polished tiles and zero clutter. Margaret scooped up a handful of cut grass and tossed it in the bucket. That house of Cynthia’s was more like a gallery than a home.

  Margaret wiped the sweat from her neck. Across the cul-de-sac her neighbor Jackie waved and walked toward her. “Welcome back!”

  Margaret rubbed the dirt off her gloves. “Thanks.”

  “How was your trip?”

  Margaret opened her mouth but stopped herself from launching into a series of complaints. This was her neighbor Jackie she was talking to, not Liz.

  “It was good.”

  “I bet you have a lot of photos.” Jackie clasped her hands together. “We’re getting together tomorrow night. My house. Can you come?”

  Margaret shrugged. “Sure.”

  The next evening when Margaret arrived, the women had already spread out their albums and photos. Jackie served a sparkling water to Margaret and wine to the others. The topic of discussion was the first day of school. Each woman reeled off which school supplies and clothing she had bought. It was their standard conversational fare—exhaustive reports on their children, tinged with one-upmanship. They itemized what was left on their back-to-school shopping lists. Margaret wondered why these matters needed to be discussed in such detail.

  The women didn’t ask about Margaret’s trip until she spread out her photos. She didn’t know how much of the story to spill. Her marital problems had made her more subdued and private. What could she tell them about Nadia, barely twenty, getting engaged to a man—her first cousin—who was already married, and their mothers—sisters, actually—fighting over whether their children should marry or not. This scenario would surely make Ahmed’s family—and Margaret— look like lunatics.

  She gave the highlights of the trip: how relaxing the hotel was, how fun the engagement party had been, and how wonderful it was to go overseas.

  Then Margaret said it: “Ahmed wants to move to the Middle East.” She didn’t know what made her blurt it out. Her voice was relaxed, like the whole thing was no big deal. She continued to focus her attention on the photos in front of her, those taken during a meal at Fatma’s house. Margaret glanced up; her friends were staring back at her.

  Jackie’s mouth was open. “You mean to Jordan?”

  “No,” Margaret said. “Have you heard of the United Arab Emirates?”

  “In Saudi Arabia?” Josephine asked.

  “It’s a separate country,” Margaret said. Didn’t they ever look at a map?

  “There’s a war going on over there,” Jan said, as though privy to some secret information.

  Margaret wanted to reply, Again, separate country. But that would’ve been bitchy, and the three J’s never used bitchy tones with one another. Instead, she said, “No war in the UAE.”

  “You’re brave,” Jan declared.

  “What about terrorists?” Jackie asked.

  “What about them?” Margaret’s tone had turned impatient. “No place is safe. Look at New York!” Her voice was strident and her gestures too exaggerated for this gentle gathering. Perhaps she was being unreasonable. After all, she had the same concerns.

  “You’re right.” Josephine sipped her wine. “I’m sure you’ll be fine there.”


  “I didn’t say we’re moving.” Margaret was allowing her irritation to show. She turned to Josephine. “I’m sorry. I’m a little stressed. Ahmed wants to move, and I don’t.”

  “Ah,” the women murmured, relaxing back in their seats now that it all made sense. Margaret could guess their thoughts: That’s what you get when you marry an Arab man.

  The tone shifted back to sympathy, what the three J’s excelled at. “I hope you don’t have to go,” Jan said.

  “I hope he doesn’t make you,” Josephine added.

  Margaret looked around at the women. They were her friends, yet they understood so little of her life; they couldn’t grasp it if they tried. She imagined closing her scrapbook, packing up her photos, and leaving. The image lingered in her mind as the topic reverted back to school supplies and which was better, Walmart or Target. Margaret took a sip of her water and thought how empty the conversation was, how it rarely deepened beyond this mindless chatter. Her pleasure began to dissolve, but the three J’s noticed nothing.

  Margaret closed her album and began to put her supplies in her bag.

  “Are you packing up?” Jackie asked.

  “I’m tired.”

  “But you just got here.”

  “It’s the jet lag. It hits all of a sudden.” Margaret zipped up her bag and said good-bye. She walked back across the cul-de-sac to her house.

  She wasn’t tired at all.

  The following week was the first day of school. Margaret dropped Jenin off at the high school, and Tariq at the elementary school. Finally, she drove Leena to preschool for her first day. Her little girl’s good-bye was teary, and Margaret’s eyes filled as she left the classroom.

  Margaret went home, sat at the breakfast bar, and looked out the kitchen window. Outside, the summer weather of the week before had given way to a gray, drizzly sky, the beginning of autumn.

  The phone rang. Liz. “Come over,” she said. “Tell me about your trip.”

  “You come here.” Margaret glanced at the tin of baklawa on the counter. “The mother’s gone for the rest of the week. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”