Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Margaret remained with her back turned, her red hair falling past her shoulders. Even though she had been married to Ahmed for twenty years, she still seemed like a stranger. Zainab could no longer remember what Margaret looked like in hijab. It had been months since she had prayed with the family.

  Zainab’s side gnawed at her. She said to Margaret’s back, “Why don’t you move with your husband?”

  Margaret turned with a confused look.

  Zainab persisted. “Why won’t you live in an Arab country?”

  Margaret straightened up and crossed her arms. Her expression swung from confusion to defiance. It was clear that she understood perfectly well what Zainab was asking.

  Zainab returned the stare. “What’s the problem? Why can’t you move?”

  Margaret’s face reddened and her freckles darkened.

  Zainab yelled to another part of the house. “Nadia!”

  Footsteps came down the hallway. Zainab continued to stare back at Margaret, whose eyebrows were cinched in an expression of dread. Finally caught.

  Nadia entered the kitchen. “Yama? What?”

  “Translate for me.” Zainab leaned forward on the stool. “Tell her it’s selfish to refuse to let Ahmed take this job.”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Tell her.”

  “No.”

  “I am your mother and you must do what I say.”

  Margaret said something to Nadia, and thus began a new secret conversation. Zainab touched her tender side, wincing slightly, and asked Nadia, “What did she say?”

  Nadia sealed her lips and stared back.

  Zainab tapped the counter. “Tell me what she said.”

  “She said it’s none of your business.”

  Zainab opened her mouth to speak, but just then the pain in her ribcage jabbed her like a sharp stick. She jerked upwards and back, and the stool began to tip. Zainab felt her weight shift, and she swiftly reached forward to grab the edge of the counter. But it was too late.

  The stool headed toward the floor and the room spun around her. There was nothing Zainab could do but fall backwards. Nadia and Margaret reached toward her—each with the same horror-struck look.

  Chapter 24

  A chill hung in the fall air. Margaret stood at the edge of the driveway and shivered. She hugged herself and watched as Ahmed and Nadia settled their mother into the backseat of the car. Ahmed gave a grim wave, and the three of them drove off to the emergency room, where he had insisted his mother must go.

  When the car was out of sight, Margaret turned back to the house, as drab as ever with its peeling paint and lifeless yard. Inside, the silence startled her. She sat on the sofa in the spot normally reserved for the mother. Margaret longed for a cup of coffee but reminded herself she was fasting. In that strange silence, her mind filled with regrets. If only she had warned Ahmed earlier. Your mother’s going crazy. And so am I.

  Margaret should have phoned him when the mother had first summoned Nadia. “Never mind her,” Nadia had told Margaret. “She’s nervous from fasting.”

  Within minutes of their disagreement, the mother’s eyes widened and she jerked backwards. Together, Nadia and Margaret helped her to an upright position. Blood trickled from a gash in her forehead, where her head had hit the table. The mother looked down at Margaret’s hand on her arm and pushed her hand away. Margaret pulled back, dumbstruck.

  Now, as she replayed this scene while staring at the cracks in her hearth, she considered why the mother had pushed her away like that. Maybe she had been disoriented. Or maybe she truly hated Margaret.

  Margaret told herself the mother would be fine. Ahmed had taken her to the emergency room in a show of love and concern, not one of medical necessity. Right?

  Yet when she saw the blood, Margaret had said, “Asfa. Asfa,” Sorry. Sorry—so much to be sorry for: the mother’s fall, the gash, and the subject the mother had raised just before her spill.

  It was the first time anyone had brought up the topic of moving to the Middle East since Ahmed and Margaret’s dreadful argument by the fountain. Each time she reviewed that exchange with Ahmed, she obsessed over who had been right and who had been wrong. Where was this self-doubt coming from? She had gotten what she wanted.

  Still, Margaret wondered. Ever since Ahmed had first brought up his plan at their anniversary dinner, she had dismissed his idea. Deep down, she knew she should have listened.

  But she couldn’t undo that now. Her solution had been to turn her attention to the future. In the six weeks since that argument, Margaret had recommitted herself. She performed the role of loving wife, doubling all previous efforts. She made elaborate iftar meals and graciously welcomed Nadia into their home. She threw herself into household improvement tasks and took photographs for the restaurant website. She dutifully initiated sex—not euphoric sex, but the best she could muster. Above all, she stopped complaining. She didn’t say a word about lengthy family gatherings or exasperating political views.

  Over time, she and Ahmed settled into a truce. She released the grip on her anger and now floated along with her husband, who remained true to his word, never again mentioning the idea of moving to the Middle East. Admittedly their interactions were strained. Margaret tried to ignore this, but under the surface she recognized his barely suppressed resentment. On days when she couldn’t bear it, she would blurt out, “Are you angry at me?”

  His answer was always the same: “No.” But his denial only encouraged her more, and she was determined to make him realize that staying in Seattle was the only possible outcome, the sole choice, the best thing for their family.

  When the sound of the car came from the driveway a few hours later, Margaret peeked out the window. Ahmed and Nadia were leading the mother from the car, one on each side. Their assistance was more for effect, as the mother seemed to be walking just fine. The only sign of the ordeal was a small square of gauze on the mother’s forehead.

  They entered, and the mother moaned when she saw Margaret at the top of the entryway stairs. Nadia took her to the bedroom, and Ahmed came to the living room.

  “Well? How is she?”

  He sat down. “Four stitches. Nothing broken. No head trauma. Vital signs all good.”

  Margaret raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

  “The doctor said she had a cramp and lost her balance. It happens,” he said. “I tried to convince her to break her fast, but she wouldn’t.”

  “She must be fine then.”

  In the days that followed, Nadia and Ahmed hovered over their mother, bringing her tea and listening to her grumbles. Mona and Khalid came to see her every day. The mother recounted her fall to anyone who would listen, each time the story becoming a little more embellished. The mother recovered quickly—perhaps sooner than she would have preferred.

  The days moved forward, the air grew colder, and daylight savings ended. Margaret turned back the clocks, and life became abruptly gloomier. In the middle of Ramadan was Halloween, a minor blip on the calendar. She fulfilled the minimum requirements of the holiday—candy, a single pumpkin, store-bought costumes for Leena and Tariq.

  In the evenings, Margaret served tea to the family as they followed the news on the deteriorating health of Yasser Arafat, as well as the reelection of George W. Bush. On CNN, Bush outlined his plan for his second term and vowed to continue the war in Iraq. The bad news expanded. Al-Jazeera reported 165 Palestinians had been killed by Israelis the month before. A Palestinian suicide bomber killed three in Tel Aviv.

  The gloom grew thicker as the family speculated on how soon Arafat would die. They feared a power struggle would break out in the occupied territories and wondered who would take over. Margaret hoped it would lead to something good—a fresh start for the Palestinians.

  One evening after iftar, the topic shifted to where Arafat’s body should be buried. Margaret set out a platter of fruit and sat next to Alison, bloated from her pregnancy.

  Alison asked Khalid, “Why
do you care so much where he’s buried?”

  “Arafat’s a symbol. Like a flag.”

  Margaret peeled an orange, and Alison replied, “But you never liked him.”

  The television screen flashed photos of Arafat. First the black-and-white images: Yasser as a boy, as a young man, in his checked kufiyah, and another with dark sunglasses and military fatigues. Then the color photos: Yasser at the UN, as an old man, and, finally, sick.

  Khalid said, “He’s the father of our country.”

  Margaret threw her eyes upward and popped a section of orange in her mouth.

  Alison’s face was turning pink. “You said he was corrupt.”

  “No one heard of Palestine until him.”

  At that moment, Jenin, who was gathering tea glasses, spoke. “He did let his people dream of their homeland.”

  Homeland. It was Ahmed who had taught Jenin that word. As if she were a refugee like him. As if she didn’t have a country of her own.

  Khalid nodded. “That’s right, Jenin.”

  “Actually,” Alison said, “He gave the Palestinians a bad reputation.”

  With a sharp edge in his voice, Khalid said, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  At this, Alison glared back, her face fully flushed. “Just because someone’s dying doesn’t make him suddenly good.”

  Margaret lowered her voice and said to Alison, “These nationalistic views, they flare up sometimes. It’s best to ignore them.”

  Alison heaved a sigh and crossed her arms atop her massive belly.

  Margaret continued, “Khalid’s feelings will die down soon.” But then she wondered. Had Ahmed’s feelings died down? Naturally, he had been passionate about Palestine, but that passion became sidetracked over the years, as he raised a family and grew his business. Now he was just moody and bitter, blaming his unhappiness on his life in Seattle.

  Of course, it wasn’t the fault of Seattle, which had always been a welcoming place, tolerant and protected, far away from the conflicts of the Middle East. But when 9/11 struck, the country spun on its axis—a tidal wave of patriotism and security, paranoia, and Islamophobia. Even so, had their daily lives really changed?

  Margaret had to admit that a vague looming prejudice did exist, casting a shadow over their lives. She hoped it was a temporary condition, one that would dissipate soon. It had to.

  During the coming week, it rained daily, and the gutters filled with wet leaves.

  Margaret tried to cheer herself with plans for Thanksgiving and made a tentative guest list. Then she took up shopping. She bought a lens for her camera, a pair of lamps, and an overpriced Persian carpet. She waited for some positive feelings to come. Nothing.

  Finally, she drove to the U District and collected a copy of the University of Washington course catalogue. She had announced so brashly to Ahmed that going back to school was a reason she wanted to stay in Seattle. Now the catalogue sat on her coffee table, signaling to all who entered their home that Margaret’s life was moving forward. Granted, she had yet to open it. The mere idea of applying to university as a forty-something mature student filled her with dread. Besides, after all these years, the university probably wouldn’t even accept her back.

  Ramadan dragged on. At last, the end of the fasting month was in sight. The final days of Ramadan held increased spiritual significance, and Ahmed’s family experienced a second wind. They prayed with fervor, recited Qur’an, and attended the nightly tarawih prayer.

  As for Margaret, she had lost her momentum for the holy month, her enthusiasm gone. During the final week, she picked up the phone and called Liz.

  “So,” Liz said, “how’s the Ramadan-a-thon?”

  “Counting the days until Eid,” Margaret said. She named the tasks yet to be done: decorations, baking, buying Eid gifts and clothes. Simply listing these chores made her tired.

  The next day, CNN announced the death of Yasser Arafat. The entire family skipped tarawih prayer to gather around the television. Margaret took in the news and felt nothing.

  When the holiday Eid al-Fitr arrived, Margaret awoke early with one thought: coffee.

  In the kitchen, Ahmed gave a hesitant kiss to her cheek. “Eid Mubarak, honey.” They were his usual words, but now their sentiment rang false. Their game of avoidance did not sit well on Eid. The holiday was supposed to be light and loving—full of gratitude and fun.

  Margaret flipped on the coffee machine and began to push herself through the rituals of the holiday. She set out breakfast—a jumble of American pastries and Arab fatayer—and woke the children and wished them a happy Eid.

  Next was the obligatory visit to Mona and her husband. Mona wore her trademark outfit, a fitted jacket over a long skirt, but on this day, her hair fell in a cascade of curls, freshly highlighted. Their boys, dressed in little suits and ties, streaked wildly around the apartment. Khalid was already there but not Alison. The family gathered in the living room, where a plate of ma’amoul had been set out. The men distributed cash to the children while the television news alternated between Arafat and the war in Iraq. Margaret looked at the grim news on the TV screen, and any trace of holiday feeling drained away.

  She reminded herself that the highpoint of Eid—the community prayer—was yet to come. The family looked at their watches and left hurriedly in three cars. As they neared, Margaret slipped on her scarf and handed one to Jenin. The prayer hall was abuzz with hundreds of worshippers dressed in festive clothing. Normally this sight brightened Margaret’s spirits, but this Eid was joyless. What was wrong with her?

  The family split up into the men’s and women’s sections; Margaret followed Mona, her curls now hidden under her scarf. As they rolled out their prayer carpets, Margaret glanced across the room and spotted Lateefa entering with her two boys. She wore a gold-trimmed Saudi-style abaya and sparkly scarf, but she looked exhausted. She and Margaret exchanged waves. The last time Margaret had seen her, Lateefa had announced she was leaving her husband for good.

  Margaret’s mind leapt to her own marriage. Without warning, her head was flooded with thoughts of divorce. It was an increasingly tempting solution—the pressure to relocate overseas would be gone, along with so many other aggravations. Just thinking of it gave Margaret a profound sense of optimism. But could she pull it off?

  She told herself to halt this train of thought. It was not the day to decide the fate of her marriage. Still, the current situation could not continue. Left unchecked, their bitterness would take over their marriage, and they would grow to hate each other.

  On her lap, Margaret held Leena, who was lulled by the Eid chant rising up within the room: Allahu Akbar. La ilaha illallah.

  Suddenly Liz appeared behind them. “Happy Eid!”

  Margaret brightened at the sight of her friend. She set Leena down and embraced Liz, whose scarf was half on and half off. She wore a regular dress, not trying to fool anyone by dressing Arab-style.

  Liz tilted her head toward Nadia. “How’s it going with the latest addition?”

  “She’s nice. I like her.”

  Liz leaned in and whispered, “You should get a grant for working with refugees.” She pulled back and laughed.

  Margaret smiled weakly. The joke, which had been so funny before, now fell flat. “Actually, Nadia’s okay.”

  Liz raised her eyebrows skeptically. The imam’s voice came over the loudspeaker; the prayer was about to begin. Margaret mouthed a good-bye and turned back to her prayer carpet. She gave an affectionate squeeze to Jenin on one side and Leena on the other. Then she closed her eyes and prayed she would be happy again.

  After the prayer, the family met up at their Capitol Hill restaurant, where Ahmed’s staff had created a special Eid spread, featuring roasted lamb over rice.

  Last to arrive were Khalid and Alison, who looked hugely pregnant. “Eid Mubarak,” she mumbled as she sat down next to Margaret.

  Margaret asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “Khalid’s mad at me because I didn’
t want to come.”

  Margaret glanced at Khalid at the opposite end of the table, talking to Ahmed. “It’ll be okay,” she said lightly. “He’ll get over it. Wait till you see the cake.”

  When it was time, the staff cleared the table and Ahmed brought it out—five layers scented with essence of almond and garnished with lightly roasted almond slices.

  Margaret asked. “What kind of cake would you like for the baby shower?”

  “This one would be good,” Alison said, savoring a forkful.

  “When exactly is your due date?”

  Alison looked down. “It’s actually January.” She leaned in and whispered, “Early January. No one knows.”

  “Okay.” Margaret processed this latest confession. “We’ll do the shower earlier.” She patted Alison’s hand but asked nothing more. Margaret had enough troubles of her own.

  The days passed, one after another. After Eid came Thanksgiving. That morning, Margaret slid the stuffed turkey into the oven—twenty-two pounds—enough to feed the guest list: Liz’s family, Alison and Khalid, and Margaret’s parents coming from Whidbey Island.

  Liz’s family arrived first, then Margaret’s parents, Lois and Barry. The sight of her mother, a pecan pie in each hand, brightened Margaret. As she took the green bean casserole from her father, she glanced at the dish.

  “They’re imitation bacon bits,” her mother said.

  Last to arrive were Khalid and Alison. By then, Ahmed had taken the turkey out of the oven, and the house filled with its savory scent. Margaret moved cheerfully from the kitchen to the dining room, setting out last-minute utensils. She felt reassured to see her parents and Liz there and was comforted by the sight of Ahmed stirring gravy on the stove.

  He announced the meal was ready, and everyone made their way to the table. Spread upon the white tablecloth was the classic American meal, strictly traditional, without a single Arab dish —not even a Middle Eastern olive. As Margaret lit the candles, everyone sat and waited for Ahmed to bring the turkey.