Without warning, Khalid’s mother began to clap and sing a traditional chant.
Alison’s mother whispered, “What’s the song about? The baby?”
Alison paused to listen. “Yes, she’s wishing us well. I’m sure you can understand some of the words.”
Her mother leaned in. “Their accent is different from ours. It’s a village dialect.”
By then, everyone was clapping. A drum appeared, and Mona put it under her arm and beat it rhythmically. The others joined in with trills.
Alison’s mother said, “I never knew a bunch of Muslim women could be so loud.”
Alison looked at her. There are a lot of things you don’t know.
Margaret pushed back the coffee table. Nadia was up first, her arms raised, flicking her hips. Lateefa was next, dancing as well as any Arab woman. Even Khalid’s mother danced to the drumming, and finally, Margaret and Liz, who danced in their own almost-Arab way.
After several rounds of this, they sat, and Alison opened her gifts: minuscule onesies, sleepers and sweaters, and from her mother—little dresses, ridiculously frilly. Alison looked at each piece and tried to picture a baby inside. She couldn’t. She simply could not see a baby, nor see herself as a mother.
There were bigger gifts, as well: a swing from Mona, a car seat from Margaret, and a gift certificate from her parents. When the living room was littered with ribbon and paper, Margaret presented one more gift, a large white baby album. Alison turned the pages. Baby’s Bath. Watch Me Grow. Baby’s First Steps. It all seemed so impossibly unreal.
At last, the shower ended. As they were driving away, Alison’s mother said, “Such a sensuous dance for such modest women.”
“It’s a complicated culture, Mom.” Alison turned out of the cul-de-sac. “That’s why Khalid’s so aggravating.” She laughed, but her mother did not.
“With this baby,” her mother said, “it might get worse.” She turned to Alison. “If things get unbearable, you can always come home.”
Her mother’s words calmed her at first. She could always go home. A vision formed: Alison and her baby, together on an airplane, then back at her parent’s home in Chicago. She could start a new life, maybe apply to graduate school out there. Another image: a crib and changing table crammed into Alison’s childhood bedroom—and she, a single mother, living like a child back at home. Then came the flush of anger. “Mom, would you stop!”
“I want you to know you can always come home.”
“You think you’re being helpful, but you’re not.” Alison gripped the steering wheel and drove home in silence.
The next day, Alison’s mother departed. That week, Alison went into labor.
Khalid paced the living room. “Are you sure?”
“The contractions are regular, babe, just like they said.”
“It’s too soon.”
“The midwife said it could be any time now.” Another contraction arrived, and Alison closed her eyes and performed her breathing exercises.
Khalid scratched his head. “First babies don’t come early.”
She waited for the contraction to pass. “Why don’t you time it?” She slid the notepad and pencil across the coffee table. He timed the contractions, six minutes apart, then five.
“They’re getting stronger,” Alison said.
He continued to pace. She could see he was mulling over the situation, perhaps figuring out how to explain it to his family. She bit her lip and wished her mom were still there.
Finally, she said, “Get my bag.” She gestured to her small suitcase, ready and waiting.
Outside, Alison clutched Khalid’s arm. He opened the car door and helped her in. As they drove to the hospital, he periodically patted her knee. From his cell phone, he called his mother. Alison concentrated on her contractions, marveling at how rock hard her belly became.
At the hospital, Alison was admitted and led to a room. So far, everything was going according to her plan: no complications, a natural birth, and the baby to be delivered by midwife. As Alison’s contractions intensified, she focused on the face of the midwife while Khalid faded into the beige walls. The midwife asked Alison if she wanted to sit in the bathtub. Alison agreed, and the midwife led her to the adjoined bathroom and helped her in. As Alison slipped into the water, she glimpsed the henna design on her belly.
The midwife knelt close to Alison and guided her breathing. Between contractions, Alison maintained her zone of focus. She handled each wave of pain and readied herself for the next one. At once, she was seized by a sensation of power. Her body was preparing for childbirth and she was coping, just as she had laid out in her birth plan. With discipline and planning, she could do anything. She could even raise this baby by herself if she had to.
Alison turned to the midwife. “I’m ready to push.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Alison said, and they waited through one more contraction. The midwife helped her out of the tub, dried her off, and guided her back to the bed. Khalid was in the room, pacing and chatting breezily in Arabic on his cell phone. Before Alison could arrange herself on the bed, another contraction came. This time, her attention was elsewhere, and the contraction hit her like an ax cleaving through the center of her body. She screamed and thrashed about. The midwife tried to calm her. When the contraction finished, she checked Alison’s cervix.
“Oh my. You’re ten centimeters. You’re ready.”
I told you so. The words would not come.
Khalid came to Alison’s side and patted her absentmindedly, his phone still at his ear. “It’s okay,” he said.
Shut up and get off the phone. Again, the words floated in Alison’s head.
She was aware of a flurry of activity in the room. At the next contraction, she winced, and the midwife told her to push. Alison tried to follow the directions, but her pushing had none of the precision of her earlier breathing. Her screams were loud and guttural. Each push brought no satisfaction, but rather a sense that her insides were ripping apart.
This went on until the midwife announced that the baby’s head was crowning. A renewed surge of strength came over Alison, and finally the baby slid out of her body. Alison opened her eyes. Sunlight filled the room. Was it morning already?
Alison was conscious of only one thing: across the room was her baby, pink and screaming, her arms trembling.
Then the midwife brought her to Alison. “Here’s your daughter.”
Alison sat up, took the bare infant and held her against her breasts. She drew the baby’s face into focus, acquainting herself with the delicate features, so tiny, so striking. The baby was unmistakably Khalid’s, the same eyes, chin, and lips. But her coloring was all Alison, shockingly fair with a fuzz of blond hair.
The baby stared back at Alison. They locked eyes until the midwife said, “See if she’ll latch on.” Alison performed the breast-feeding technique she had learned. The baby gradually began to suckle.
“Excellent,” the midwife said.
As the baby nursed, Alison studied her newborn fingers, her nose, the shape of her head. She whispered, “You’re the one who’s been inside me.”
“Have you decided on a name?” the midwife asked.
“Eman,” Khalid said from behind Alison’s shoulder. The name, which meant faith, was the only Arabic name they could agree on from the dozens—hundreds?—of Islamic names they had considered.
“Can I hold her?” Khalid asked.
Alison stroked the baby’s head. “She’s nursing. Can’t you see?”
He leaned in closely. “She looks like my mother.”
Annoyed, Alison pulled away. When the baby stopped nursing, he insisted on holding her. The midwife took the baby, bundled her in a receiving blanket, and handed her to Khalid. He looked at her tenderly. Then he raised her head to his and began reciting Arabic in her ear.
He said, “The first words she hears should be the call to prayer.” He shifted the baby to his other arm.
Alison called out, “Be careful!”
“What? She’s my daughter.”
Later, when Baby Eman was bathed, dressed, and swaddled, Khalid held her in his arms and studied her face. Each time he shifted the baby in his arms, Alison’s heart beat faster.
The nurse came in and told Alison it was time for her to take a shower. Alison preferred to keep an eye on Khalid and the baby. “Later,” she said.
“Your family’s in the waiting room. I think you’ll want to clean up now.”
Alison closed her eyes. Khalid’s family. She yearned to have her Teytey Miriam there to comfort and reassure her. As this was not possible, her focus shifted to her mother, the only other person Alison wanted to see. She allowed the nurse to help her off the bed. Before going into the bathroom, she turned to Khalid. “Put her back in the bassinet.” She waited until he did so.
Baby Eman was only six pounds, smaller than average, so Alison planned on a disciplined routine of breastfeeding. But what preoccupied her most was how vulnerable the baby was. Anyone could hold her improperly or drop her. It was utter torture sitting in the hospital bed watching Khalid’s relatives pass Eman from one to another. Mona brought her four boys to the hospital and allowed them each to hold the baby, which was agonizing for Alison, who imagined Eman slipping from their arms and onto the tile floor.
The only one who didn’t hold the baby was Margaret. Instead, she gave Alison encouraging words: “You’re doing a great job nursing” and “I heard you were awesome during labor.” Alison wondered why she had been so critical of Margaret before.
By the time the family had left, it was evening. Only Khalid’s mother remained, cuddling the baby as if she belonged to her. Alison told Khalid enough was enough; the baby needed to go back in her bassinet. But Khalid shook his head. Eventually Alison convinced him that it was time for another feeding. With the baby back in her arms, she felt a rush of relief. Then Khalid’s mother asked to be taken home, and the show was over.
Alone with her baby at last, Alison brought her in close and felt her first moment of peace. The baby latched on—a prickly tingle followed by a pleasing flow. Eman clenched a tiny fist next to her cheek as she nursed.
Chapter 26
The baby’s head fell to one side in her car seat. Alison double-checked the straps to make sure they were protecting her undersized body with the right tension. She sat next to Baby Eman in the backseat as Khalid drove up the freeway to their white apartment. Before being discharged from the hospital that morning, Alison had filled out the form for the birth certificate. Eman Khalid Mansour. The middle name sounded wrong—too masculine, too weird.
Alison took in the other cars on the freeway and eyed the drivers going about their days. Of course, for Alison there was nothing usual about her day. She looked at her baby and for once in her life felt perfectly blessed. She had a new purpose, one bigger than academics. Alison turned back to the window. The other cars speeding along gave her a panicky feeling. She put a protective hand over her baby, who was wearing a simple sleeper, a practical item that Alison had bought herself. Newborn, the tag had read. At the time, the idea of it had been unimaginable.
It was a relief to see the Pine View sign. Khalid carried the suitcase while Alison transferred Eman in the car seat—ever so carefully, so as not to jostle her. Alison and Khalid went up the stairs to their apartment; she stood behind him as he unlocked the door. They had only been gone a day and a half, but it seemed much longer.
Khalid opened the door and greeted someone—the voice of the reply triggered a sinking feeling inside Alison. She stepped into the apartment and held her breath. To Khalid’s mother, she said, “As’salaam alaikum.” His mother set down her tea and got up from her place on the couch. Alison attempted a smile as his mother embraced her.
“Alf mabruuk!” A thousand congratulations. Khalid’s mother turned to the baby. “Masha’Allah.” She knelt and fiddled with the car seat straps but couldn’t figure them out.
Alison unstrapped Eman while Khalid stood by. He took the baby from Alison’s arms and handed her to his mother. Alison went to her bedroom and sat on the bed, her coat still on.
Khalid opened the door. “Are you all right?”
“Why’s she here?”
“I told you she would come.”
“Yes, but so soon?”
“She’s my mother. Of course she’ll be here.”
Tears filled Alison’s eyes. She was exhausted and her body was sore. She yearned to crawl in bed and hold Eman. She took off her coat and handed it to Khalid. “Bring me my baby.”
Alison undressed and reached for her nursing gown. Her breasts were swollen and her hennaed stomach loose and soft. She got into bed and slid under the covers.
Khalid returned. “I’ll bring the baby when my mother’s done.”
Alison sat up. “What’s she doing?”
“Giving the baby a massage.”
“What?” Alison strained to get out of bed.
In the living room, Khalid’s mother knelt on the floor, leaning over the baby, nude on a towel. She worked her wrinkled hands over Eman’s little body, which glistened. His mother looked up, clearly pleased with herself.
Alison pointed. “What’s she’s using?”
“Olive oil,” Khalid said. “She does this for all her grandchildren.”
Eman, alert and aware, was not protesting. Yet something seemed wrong with this scene—the baby on the floor, her naked, oily body. Alison’s eyes again filled with tears. Without a word, she went to the bedroom and cried quietly into her pillow.
For the next week, Alison breastfed every four hours. As she did so, she stared at Eman’s fragile face and couldn’t help but envision the various accidents and injuries that could befall a newborn. When Eman slept, Alison checked for her inhale and exhale. At night, she went to the crib and brushed her fingers against the baby, looking for a sign of life. She kept detailed records on diaper changes and feedings. Meanwhile, Khalid had taken the week off; his mother was there, too, sitting on the couch during the day and sleeping in the spare room at night.
The worst interruptions were when Mona and Nadia came. This was a new form of torture. Their visits were always too long, and Mona typically passed the baby to one of her boys, which made Alison cringe.
It was different when Margaret visited. The first time she came, she brought food just for Alison, lasagna and Caesar salad, something familiar and unlike what Khalid’s mother prepared. Margaret did not bring her children nor did she sit and drink tea. Instead, she ran a load of laundry and gathered up dirty dishes, all the while chiding Khalid for not doing more. After the place was tidy, the washing machine and dishwasher both running, she sat down and asked to hold the baby. Margaret held her carefully and told Alison what a fantastic job she was doing. Then she handed the baby back and gave Khalid a small lecture.
“Don’t let the dishes pile up. You’re home to help.” Margaret seemed to be enjoying herself. “Do laundry every day. Don’t wait until there’s nothing for Alison or the baby to wear.”
During that first week, Alison and Khalid were able to set aside their differences and focus on Eman. They expressed their love for her in different ways. Khalid was mostly interested in getting the baby’s attention through nursery songs in Arabic, while Alison thought about breastfeeding practices and sudden infant death syndrome.
If Alison found herself arguing with Khalid, she stopped. His mother was always nearby. Even when they were alone in their bedroom, their voices carried to the next room. Granted, his mother prepared chicken and mountains of rice, but it seemed unnatural having her there. Besides, seeing his mother every day, every hour made Alison yearn for her grandmother Teytey Miriam, who would have known what Alison needed. She didn’t long for Grandma Helen, though, thinking of her latest words: I know how these Muslims are.
The next time Margaret came, she asked Khalid to make tea. Then she sat on the couch next to Alison, who was nursing, and inquired about the ba
by and how Alison was coping. Finally, Margaret asked, “When’s Khalid going back to work?”
“In a few days, after the Eid holiday.”
Margaret sipped her tea. “It’s good the mother’s here. She can cook and help with the baby.”
Alison didn’t answer but glanced at Khalid’s mother who was praying in the corner.
Margaret kept talking. “You should take a nap when the baby sleeps. Otherwise you’ll be exhausted.”
When Khalid was in the kitchen, Alison leaned toward Margaret and whispered, “Do you know how long she’s staying here?” She eyed his mother.
Margaret laughed. “Just enjoy the help. Soon enough you’ll be home all alone.”
That was exactly what Alison wanted.
Two days later was Eid al-Adha, the second of the Muslim holidays. It seemed the other Eid had just occurred, but that had already been two months before. Alison again told Khalid she would skip the Eid festivities. She planned on a day alone with her baby while Khalid and his mother attended to family visits and the community Eid prayer. But early in the morning of Eid, Khalid, freshly showered, woke Alison to tell her that Ahmed and his family were on their way over.
“What?” she asked. “Why?”
“He needs to wish his mother a happy Eid.”
Alison rolled over. “Can’t Ahmed do that in his own house?”
“No.” Khalid stood at the closet, selecting a white dress shirt.
Alison sat up. “This is stupid. I just had a baby.”
“Get dressed.”
“I’m not ready for this.”
“I’m sorry.” Khalid buttoned his shirt. “They won’t stay long.”
He left the apartment to buy some pastries. While he was gone, Ahmed and his children came to the door. Alison put on a robe and let them in. Ahmed, who wore a suit and tie, shook her hand and said, “Eid Mubarak.” His children and Nadia walked in, all dressed up, as well.
Alison stood back as Ahmed approached his mother. Wearing her velvet thob reserved for special occasions, she stood formally to receive him. Ahmed leaned over and kissed his mother’s hand. Nadia and the children did the same. Alison remembered Hajja Zarifa, Khalid’s grandmother back in the West Bank, and how the family had greeted her.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 26
