Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Ahmed pressed money into his mother’s hand. Then he gave some rolled bills to Alison. “This is for Eman.”

  “Thank you.” Alison took the money. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  The front door opened, and Khalid entered carrying a box from the bakery, which he handed to Alison. “Can you put the water on?” he asked.

  She handed Eman to Nadia and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Alison returned to see Khalid opening his wallet, full of crisp new money. He handed each child a twenty-dollar bill and two for Jenin and even more to Nadia. Alison’s eyes widened. Khalid gave a hundred dollars to his mother, and then the tea kettle whistled. As Alison was measuring the Turkish coffee and thinking about their finances, Khalid came to her and handed her two hundred dollars. She took the new bills and stared at them.

  He kissed her cheek. “Happy Eid.” He pointed to the money. “That’s for last Eid, too.”

  “Happy Eid,” she mumbled, remembering the horrible holiday several months before.

  Khalid asked, “Can you help me with these cinnamon rolls?”

  “Sure, babe.” With care, Alison took out their crystal platter, a wedding gift not yet used. She arranged the rolls on it.

  “That looks good.” Khalid poured the coffee into tiny cups while Alison assembled them on a tray. It had been a long time since they had been in the kitchen together, speaking kindly to each other. Together they served the coffee and food.

  “Bless your hands,” Khalid’s mother said.

  “And your hands, too.” Alison sat and took Eman in her lap. Everyone was in good spirits, laughing and talking. Alison relaxed and found herself enjoying the get-together.

  Then the men looked at their watches, and everyone stood. Khalid turned to Alison and whispered, “See, I told you they wouldn’t stay long.”

  “What’s the rush?” she asked.

  “We need to go to Mona’s to wish her happy Eid. Then we’ll all meet up at my brother’s—Margaret’s expecting us. Then we’ll go to the prayer.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  Alison bit her lip, and her thoughts flashed ahead to the Eid prayer. She could wear the beaded jallabeyah that Khalid had bought her in Jordan; Eman could wear one of her frilly dresses. Alison was curious to see the community prayer and all the women dressed up for the holiday. Even if she didn’t pray, they could at least go as a family. Alison could be with Margaret, Khalid’s mother, and his sisters in the women’s section.

  The family filed out the door, leaving only Khalid. Alison opened her mouth to speak, but Khalid spoke first. “I don’t expect you to come.”

  The baby in her arms, she stepped toward him. “I think I want to go this time.”

  He frowned. “Don’t force yourself to do something you’ll complain about later.”

  “I think I’ll go.”

  “I want to enjoy myself. I don’t want you rushing me.” Khalid slipped on his jacket and straightened his tie.

  She wanted to insist on coming—yet she couldn’t bear him to refuse one more time.

  “Fine,” she said, and a seed of hurt rose up in her.

  “I won’t get back until tonight.” He went to the door. “Probably late.”

  For all her attempts at self-control, her eyes moistened and she turned away. “If I’m asleep, don’t wake me.”

  During the next month, Alison gradually regained her energy. She started leaving the house for brief errands, always taking the baby with her, strapped in the car seat. Each week she was able to accomplish more. Between the laundry and dishes, she nursed Eman. As the breast milk flowed in a satisfying surge, Alison would admire her baby’s face and pick up something to read. She put aside her books of Arabic literature in favor of manuals on infant care.

  Having Khalid’s mother in the house turned out to be only mildly annoying, and Nadia helped serve as a buffer. Now that her English classes had ended, Nadia arrived each morning when Ahmed dropped her off on his way to work. She helped her mother prepare meals—but mostly, mother and daughter talked for long periods while passing the baby back and forth. They prayed in the afternoon and watched Arabic television on the satellite channel. They also chatted with Alison, whose colloquial Arabic was improving.

  All of this, however, meant Khalid and Alison were rarely alone. When he came home from work, the four of them ate dinner together. As soon as the mint tea was finished, Khalid drove Nadia back. By the time he returned, Alison was in bed, pretending to be asleep.

  When Eman was exactly forty days old, Alison’s recovery period was officially over. Khalid’s mother packed up her slippers, thobs, and prayer carpet. That night after dinner, Khalid drove his mother and Nadia back to Margaret and Ahmed’s house. It was Nadia’s last week in America before her visa expired and she flew back to Jordan.

  The next morning, when Alison woke to the sound of Eman’s cries, Khalid’s space in the bed was empty—he had already left for work. While she nursed the baby, Alison relished the silence and solitude of the apartment. Khalid’s mother had predicted correctly—forty days after giving birth, Alison felt better. She was able to slide into her prepregnancy jeans and a fitted blouse. As the baby slept, she styled her hair and applied makeup. She put her wedding ring back on her finger and looked at herself in the mirror.

  That evening, Khalid came home early. “You look good. How do you feel?”

  “Like my old self. Well, almost.”

  They ate a simple dinner of ful, salad, and bread while taking turns holding Eman. They cleared the table and did the dishes together. They sat in the living room, alone for the first time since the baby was born. Khalid switched back and forth between CNN and Al Jazeera, following Israel’s release of Palestinian prisoners, as well as President Bush’s push for more US troops in Iraq. No longer transfixed by international news, Alison turned her attention to Eman, who was starting to smile.

  That night, after Alison nursed the baby to sleep and laid her in her crib, she readied herself for bed. As soon as Alison lay down, Khalid was next to her, kissing her neck. She had already put him off several times that week by saying she wasn’t ready.

  This time, she turned to him and closed her eyes. He kissed her mouth and touched her breasts, tender from nursing. She winced and lay motionless while he was instantly aroused. The smell of baby powder hovered in the air, and her thoughts moved to Eman sleeping a few feet away. Khalid pulled her nightgown over the top of her head and pressed his body against hers. In her mind, she conjured the right image to help herself along. She settled on her usual fantasy, which began with a handsome Arab man in a long, pristine-white kandura leading her into a majlis, lavishly decorated with floor cushions.

  “I’ve missed you,” Khalid said.

  She was about to answer, but his cell phone rang. At first, he continued his attempt to rouse her, which was becoming a hopeless endeavor. The ringing kept on, playing a popular Arabic tune. Alison sighed, and he pulled away. “Sorry.” He silenced his phone and turned back to her.

  Any thread of desire had vanished. Alison reached for her nightgown. “I can’t.”

  He pressed himself against her. “Come on.”

  She pulled away and slipped her nightgown back on. By then, Khalid had moved to the foot of the bed and was sitting there, sulking. Alison knew by the set of his jaw that he would soon storm out the front door. Finally, he stood, slipped on his jeans and T-shirt, and grabbed his jacket. “You never think about what I want.”

  He went to the living room. Next came the slam of the front door. The blinds rattled in the window—she was waiting for the sound this time.

  At two months of age, Eman’s smiles became genuine. For Alison, all else faded into the background, including the housework, her academic aspirations, even Khalid and his family. After Nadia had returned to Jordan, the family visits occurred only on weekends. This suited Alison, as it left the rest of the week to concentrate on Eman, who was growing bigger and more adorable. Alison and Khalid fawned over her, thril
led with each new gesture and expression.

  Early on, sex had been the glue that held them together. Now it was Eman who held them in their places, keeping their marriage intact. Alison focused on nursing, diaper changes, and infant safety. As for lovemaking, how could she lie down and relax? There was always a vague mental pressure, a perpetual risk, some unforeseen harm just about to happen.

  When Eman was two and a half months old, Alison’s own parents came to visit. They stayed at a nearby hotel, and for five days Alison and Khalid wore the happy faces of new parents. Alison’s father was a doting grandfather but oblivious to the tension in his daughter’s marriage. He and Khalid bonded over news from the Middle East, the two of them gesturing at the television. Meanwhile, the earlier friction between Alison and her mother lingered. Alison longed to confide in her about the growing loneliness in her marriage but knew she could not. She couldn’t bear to hear dismissive remarks or more attempts to get her back home.

  But on their second day there, when the men were transfixed by Al Jazeera, Alison’s mother pulled her aside. “How are things? Everything okay?”

  Alison smiled. “Everything’s fine, Mom. Isn’t Eman adorable?”

  Another question, about a different marriage, gnawed at her. The following morning when Khalid was at work, she asked her parents about her Teytey Miriam and Grandpa Sam. Alison knew her grandparents’ mixed marriage had never been celebrated within the family but eventually accepted. Yet for Alison, the couple always held a certain mystique, these two people who had broken the rules, a Greek Orthodox woman marrying a Muslim man.

  “Were they happy?” Alison asked, looking at her father.

  “What do you mean?” Her father grimaced at the question. “They were like regular people, like everyone else.”

  Alison’s mother raised her eyebrows, a little smirk playing on her lips.

  Alison turned back to her father. “How did they deal with their differences?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. How does anyone deal with differences?”

  Her mother interjected, “They bickered constantly.”

  “Not exactly.” Her father glanced at his wife. “Maybe they argued—but they were working it out. They didn’t run away from their troubles or sweep them under the carpet.”

  “But what were they like?” Alison asked. “Together, I mean.”

  A smile passed over her father’s face. “They laughed a lot. They had a good sense of humor—the stories they told.”

  Alison nodded, mulling this over.

  Later, when her mother was settled on the couch, the baby asleep on her lap, her favorite talk show on television, Alison and her father retreated to the back room. He sat on the bed and gestured for Alison to do the same.

  “About your grandparents …”

  Alison sat. “Yes?”

  “Don’t believe your mother,” he said. “Your grandparents were happy. Despite everything, they were good together.”

  Alison leaned in, soaking up her father’s words.

  “It’s true, they argued,” he said, “but they always forgave. Your grandmother sacrificed a lot to be with him—family support, her standing in the community.”

  “I always imagined they had a big romance.”

  “They loved each other.” Her father looked down, his eyebrows squeezed together. “I don’t know if you know this, but before he died, your grandfather started praying again, reading Qur’an, that sort of thing. When his eyesight began to go, your grandmother would sit and read his holy book aloud to him.” Alison’s father looked up, an unfocused gaze in his eyes. “And when he died, she never got over it—the laughter, the bickering, she missed it all.”

  Alison blinked and wrapped her arms around herself, an unexpected loss filling her chest. If only her Teytey Miriam were there to tell her own stories. If only she could tell Alison what to do.

  When May arrived, Alison still had not returned to her work at the International Programs Office. She requested an indefinite leave. That job would barely pay enough for childcare, anyway. What’s more, she was not ready to leave Eman in anyone’s care.

  On the first Saturday, clouds gave way to a bright, spring afternoon. It was Khalid’s day off, and his mother was spending the day with them. Alison was at the dining table, writing the week’s grocery list. His mother held Eman on her lap and jiggled her until she laughed out loud. Khalid gave his mother an update on Eman’s latest milestones: sitting up with support and sleeping through the night.

  Alison announced she and Eman were going to the supermarket.

  “Why don’t you leave her here?” Khalid asked.

  Alison looked at the baby in his mother’s arms. Eman was staring at her own chubby little hands, having just discovered them. Alison thought for a moment, weighing the risks and the benefits. Granted, it would be faster not to deal with Eman in the store.

  “Fine. I just fed her. I won’t be gone long.”

  Outside, the sky was unusually clear and shone a brilliant blue. Alison got in the car and glanced at the empty back seat. It was odd to push the cart through the supermarket alone. When Alison’s cart was nearly full, she looked at her watch and thought of Eman. The distant cries of a baby drifted from the other side of the store.

  Alison felt the familiar sensation of her breast milk letting down. Because she was unable to nurse, the feeling was sharp, almost painful. She looked down. Two wet patches announced themselves on the front of her shirt. She crossed one arm to hide the wetness and stop the milk flow. With her cart filled with groceries and disposable diapers, she headed for the checkout.

  Driving home, she imagined nursing Eman, and her breast milk let down a second time. She arrived, parked, grabbed two bags of groceries and hurried toward Building F, past some neighbors sitting out on the lawn enjoying the warm sun.

  She opened the door and sensed at once that no one was there. The apartment was quiet, and Khalid’s mother’s slippers were by the door. Alison paced the living room and looked out the window at Khalid’s parking space—empty. She reached for her cell phone.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the department store.”

  “Why?”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Just come home.” Alison could hear the faint voice of his mother talking in the background. “Bring Eman home. I need to nurse her.” This triggered the beginning of another uncomfortable letdown. “Bring her home now!”

  “We’re almost done.” With that, he hung up.

  Alison redialed, and Khalid answered. “Look, I’m almost done.”

  “Come home now!”

  “Stop calling me.”

  The line clicked, and she tossed the phone on the couch. She sat and crossed her arms. It was an unsettling feeling, being separated from Eman. Alison went to the parking lot to get the rest of the groceries. Arms laden with bags, she kept her eyes on the Pine View sign, expecting to see Khalid pulling in. She passed the sunbathers on the side lawn and carried the bags up the stairs. After she put everything away, she went to the window to check Khalid’s parking space. Still empty. She paced and switched the television on and then off. The room appeared cluttered, so she tidied it until the appearance of control was restored. She looked at her watch—only ten minutes had passed. She glanced around the room for something to put away. Anything.

  Then she saw it. How had she missed it? Eman’s car seat was on the floor behind the dining table. The implication hit her, a renewed rush of anxiety. She picked up her phone. Her fingers were clumsy, and she had trouble dialing. The ringing started and she heard her own breathing. She looked at the car seat, knelt next to it, and touched its strap. The phone rang on and on. Her heart raced. How could he be such an idiot?

  He answered.

  “That was dumb to take the baby without a car seat!”

  Khalid hung up. She hit the redial button again and again.

  She dropped the phone. Her thoughts raced, disconnected, jumping from one
worry to the next. She frantically twisted her wedding ring on her finger and pictured a slideshow of graphic images: a car crashing, a baby flying toward a windshield, crushed against the dashboard. The images continued until her ring finger was pink and irritated. She left the apartment in her bare feet and ran down the stairs.

  The blue sky was vibrant and cloudless. Alison walked back and forth in the parking lot. The air was warm, and sweat formed under her clothing. As she paced, she became aware of her neighbors sitting on the grass. She wondered why Khalid was so careless, so out of touch.

  How did she come to be in this situation? Why did she choose him? There was something besides love that had propelled her toward him. From the beginning, he had seduced her with his smooth finesse and his Palestinian saga of suffering. When he had suggested marriage so early on, she had been flattered. Too flattered.

  Standing there in the parking lot, Alison decided that as soon as the baby was older, she would leave Khalid for good. She would suck it up and move back to her parents. Alison would finally let them help her. She would start her life anew—orderly and predicable and safe. That’s what she wanted, what she and her baby needed. None of this craziness!

  Khalid’s car pulled into the parking lot and drove toward her.

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked through the windshield at Khalid and his mother in the front seat. He slowed and parked. Then Alison rushed to the passenger side, where Khalid’s mother loosely held Eman on her lap. Alison sucked in her breath and tried to open the door, but it was locked. She looked at Eman and frantically tapped the window. The baby was smiling and wearing a jacket that was all wrong for the weather.

  A renewed surge of adrenaline rose in Alison. When the car doors opened, she screamed, “I can’t believe this!”

  Khalid got out of the car. “She’s fine! Nothing happened!”