Alison swung open the passenger door. Her actions were involuntary, driven by panic and anger. She grabbed the baby from Khalid’s mother, who looked stunned.
Alison turned to Khalid. “She could’ve died!” Alison looked at Eman in her arms—crying now, her eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down her chubby cheeks.
Tears filled Alison’s eyes, too. In the back of her mind, she had a dim awareness that her tone was all wrong. She hadn’t properly addressed Khalid’s mother, from whom she had just snatched the baby.
Khalid moved around the car and came close to Alison’s face. He sneered, his upper lip curling. “Stop talking.” He led his mother, who seemed to be shaking, toward Building F.
Alison was behind them, Eman in her arms. She shouted at the back of Khalid’s head, “Stupid Arab!” The phrase had been preformed, floating in her mind all along. She felt justified.
Khalid and his mother went up the stairs. Alison remained at the curb shouting upward. “You could’ve killed her!”
Eman was shrieking. Khalid leaned over the railing.
Alison shouted it again. “Stupid Arab!” The phrase hung in the air. She had never called him such a thing before. The shock of it was sharp and disgraceful.
Khalid shot her a look, one she had never seen, a look of pure hate. Then he turned and disappeared with his mother into the apartment.
Alison stumbled toward the grassy patch next to the parking lot. Clutching her screaming baby in both arms, she fell onto her knees into the damp grass. She sat back and cradled the baby. Releasing all self-restraint, Alison cried uncontrollably, giving in to the cocktail of rage and anxiety churning inside her. Meanwhile, the baby was crying, too. Alison unzipped Eman’s jacket and pulled it off. With one hand she held Eman. With the other, she wiped her own tears.
In an attempt to soothe herself, she soothed the baby. “It’s okay,” she whispered. She grew conscious of her neighbors sitting on the grassy slope nearby. They seemed to be whispering to one another. She turned to them and they looked away.
Chapter 27
The baby’s head rested in Zainab’s open hand. She admired her face and whispered, “Masha’Allah.” By the grace of God. Each time she spoke, the baby smiled, kicked, and tensed her arms. Her tiny features evoked memories of Khalid as a baby. They had the same face, but Eman’s fair coloring came from her mother.
Khalid was on his phone, his wife was at the supermarket, and the apartment was calm without her there. Zainab’s mind wandered to Nadia’s upcoming wedding, a rare occasion, where, inshallah, Zainab would have all seven of her children and twenty-six grandchildren around her. She gave a silent thanks to God but felt a deep ache knowing Abed would be absent. She glanced at Khalid, still on the phone.
“What do you think I should give Nadia for a wedding gift?”
He didn’t answer. Zainab’s thoughts drifted back to Nadia. Her four months in America had gone by quickly. After Ramadan, her daughter had become swept up in her English lessons. Zainab had accomplished so little of what she had planned to teach her. The girl’s heart wasn’t in it. She was more interested in learning pizza over zataar bread, brownies over ma’amoul, and roasted turkey rather than mensef.
“What about a jewelry box?” Zainab spoke louder this time. “I saw some at that store.”
When Khalid finally set the phone down, she repeated her idea.
“The department store isn’t far.” He looked at this watch. “We can go now.”
“What about your wife?” Zainab asked.
“Let’s get the gift and be done with it.”
“And the baby?”
“Alison just fed her. She’ll be fine, inshallah.”
Zainab slipped on her sandals and grabbed a jacket for the baby.
In the parking lot, Khalid looked in the car. “The car seat.” He tapped his foot.
“Give me the baby,” Zainab said. “You go back.”
He opened the door. “The store’s not far.”
As they drove away, Zainab held the baby in her lap. “Bismillah,” she said. The sky was a dazzling blue and the trees, a vivid green. At the store, Khalid pushed the stroller, and Zainab looked for the jewelry boxes. His phone rang, and he spoke in English. He hung up and said, “We have to hurry, Yama.”
At last, they found them, exactly as Zainab remembered. She picked a wooden box, spacious with velvet lining and pull-out drawers. She imagined it filled with gold jewelry.
“Yalla, choose one,” Khalid said.
At the cashier, they waited in line and Khalid fidgeted. His phone rang and he abruptly ended the call. In the parking lot, he struggled with the stroller while Zainab held Eman. He cursed and finally folded it. He slipped it in the trunk, and Zainab put the jewelry box in the back seat. She was still closing the door when he pulled out of the parking space. They were halfway home when she remembered to say bismillah. She held Eman tightly, as Khalid was driving faster than before.
They turned into the apartment complex, and Zainab exhaled in relief. Khalid parked, and she moved to get out but was stunned to see someone at the car window.
Alison—her face twisted in distress.
Zainab asked Khalid, “What’s wrong?”
He ignored her, jumped out of the car, and yelled back and forth with his wife. Zainab could not understand the furious overlap of words, but the tone was hateful. The baby startled, and Alison seized her from Zainab’s arms once she pulled the car door open. Her hands, now empty, openly trembled. Alison continued to shout as Zainab got out of the car, and Khalid took Zainab’s elbow and led her away. Relieved, she leaned against him as they walked to the building. All the while, Khalid twisted his head around, screaming at his wife, the two of them creating a scene for the neighbors.
On the stairs Zainab told him, “Khalas! Don’t argue here.”
Inside the apartment, Zainab collapsed on the couch and brought a hand to her pounding heart. Khalid paced the room, rattling his car keys and talking to himself.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, only clenched his fists and flared his nostrils. Zainab clicked her tongue, stood, and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and pulled away.
At that moment, the front door opened. Alison entered, disheveled and teary-eyed. Khalid stepped forward and reached for the baby. She ignored him and went to the bedroom. He cursed and left, slamming the door behind him. Zainab eased back onto the couch. Let him calm down, she told herself. Let them both calm down.
Alison came out and looked around. “Did he go?” “He left.” Zainab raised her arms to take Eman.
Alison handed the baby to Zainab and sat down next to her. Covering her face, Alison sobbed. Zainab patted Alison’s leg but this had no effect, so she slid closer and put her arm around Alison, who leaned in and placed her head on Zainab’s shoulder. Zainab gently recited verses from the Holy Qur’an until finally Alison stopped crying and reached for her baby. Zainab pulled out Abed’s prayer beads and looked at the door, expecting Khalid to walk in any moment.
Zainab prayed asr. She made long supplications seeking patience and guidance. She put away her prayer carpet and suggested calling Khalid.
“No,” Alison said.
Zainab went to the kitchen. In the refrigerator were chicken and cauliflower to make maqluba that day, Khalid’s day off. It wasn’t too late. She rolled up her sleeves. “Call Khalid,” she told Alison.
“Please, no.” Alison got up and went to the back bedroom.
Zainab washed the chicken pieces, rinsed her hands, and grabbed the phone. She went to Alison’s bedroom and gave it to her. “I want to talk to Khalid.” Alison dialed and handed the phone back. It rang and rang. Khalid didn’t pick up.
Zainab prepared the meal and set the table the way Alison did: three plates, a glass for each, spoons, and one fork for Alison. When the food was ready, they ate in silence. Zainab gave the phone to Alison. “One more time.” Still, no answer.
It beg
an to turn dark. Zainab prayed maghrib. She sat on the couch and stared at the front door. Eman slept and Alison moved around nervously, rearranging things, making Zainab feel nervous, too. With a sudden realization, she remembered the jewelry box in the back of Khalid’s car. If only she hadn’t asked about that box.
Zainab turned to Alison. “Call Ahmed.”
It was late and Zainab was in her nightgown. She had just completed her final prayer for the day. Now she sat on the couch next to Alison, who was in a daze with the baby on her lap.
There was a knock at the door, and they both jumped. It was Ahmed, his face grim. “Salaam.” He entered, sat next to Alison, and patted her shoulder.
“You talked to Khalid?” Zainab asked.
A flicker of unease passed across Ahmed’s face.
“What did he say?” Zainab squeezed Abed’s prayer beads. “When’s he coming home?”
Ahmed’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not good.”
Zainab glanced at Alison, who seemed to be taking it all in. Then Alison spoke, her voice choked up. “He’s not coming back, is he?”
Ahmed looked at her. “Not tonight.”
Her lower lip trembled. She handed Eman to Ahmed and went to her bedroom.
Ahmed asked, “What happened?”
“It’s my fault.” Zainab’s eyes became teary. “I wanted to get a gift for Nadia—”
“Yama, nothing’s your fault.” He touched her knee. “Start from the beginning.”
She told him the story: the jewelry box, the yelling, the neighbors watching.
Ahmed shook his head. “He says he’ll never go back to her.”
“How is this possible? Just because he took his own baby to the store?”
“You know their problems are deeper than that.”
She knew this. And she knew Ahmed’s problems with Margaret were deep, too. But did he slam the door and leave when he was upset? No, he didn’t.
“You have to talk to him,” she said.
“He asked me to pick up his things.”
Abed’s string of beads was laced between Zainab’s fingers. She brought her hand to her cheeks. The beads were cold against her skin. She yearned for Abed.
Ahmed slid next to her and put his arm around her. “It’s not your fault.”
“I brought the evil eye to this family.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I thought she wasn’t right for him.”
Ahmed tilted his head. “Well, we all thought that.”
That night, Zainab turned back and forth on the mattress. She wondered about the punishment for breaking up the marriage of her own son. From the next room, she heard the baby stir and Alison’s sobs starting up again. Zainab lay flat on her back, held Abed’s prayer beads, and silently recited a du’a for forgiveness. She wanted to pray for Khalid to come back but hesitated. Was her son really meant to be with Alison?
She whispered under her breath, “Allah has decided and whatever He willed, He did.”
But was this the will of God? Zainab rolled over, wide awake. Or was this what she wanted? Did she know what was best for her son? She had always thought she held the answers for all her children. But look at what happened with Nadia. Mohammed was clearly not the best match. Yet Nadia was to marry him at the end of the summer.
The phone rang and nearly jolted her off the bed. It wasn’t even fajr yet. Her heart pounded, and she moved through the dark apartment. She bumped into Alison, also reaching for the phone. She handed it to Zainab. “It’s for you.”
“Allo?” When Zainab heard the voice of her brother Waleed calling from Palestine, her throat tightened.
“Salaam, Zainab,” Waleed said.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Belal.” His voice cracked on the name of his son.
Belal. The thin one, who smoked, the same age as Khalid. “What happened?”
“The soldiers took him. They came in the night.”
Pressure swelled in Zainab’s chest. “Bismillah.” She brought a hand to her heart.
“And it’s my wife.” Waleed’s words came out in a rush. “Now two of our sons are in prison. She cries all day. She can’t sleep. She doesn’t cook.”
Zainab moved to the couch. “Miskeenah.” Poor thing. “Have you read Qur’an over her?”
“Many times.”
“Have you taken her to the doctor?”
“We took her to the hospital when she fainted.”
Zainab tapped her chin. She thought of Abed. He would know what to say. Her hands reached for his prayer beads. She searched in the pocket of her nightgown. She patted the couch and slid her hand behind the cushions. Panic and dread rushed over her.
“I’m sorry, Waleed.” Zainab wiped her eyes. “This is a big problem. It’s in God’s hands.”
The next morning, Zainab awoke sick and heavy-headed. She hadn’t slept until after the morning prayer, when she had resolved to put everything into God’s hands, just as she had advised her brother. She looked at the time. Almost noon. Her temples pounded, and she strained to get up. Her eyes moved around the apartment, searching for a sign that Khalid had returned. The crumpled tissues from the night before had been cleared, the coffee table tidied, the furniture arranged neatly. And all signs of Khalid—his jacket, shoes, car keys, phone—were gone.
Eman was in her swing, cooing and kicking her feet. Alison was in the kitchen.
“Good morning. Would you like tea?” she asked.
“Thank you.” Zainab sat at the table and observed Alison. Her hair was styled and smooth. She wore a fresh, crisp blouse and her eyes were clear and bright, with no sign that she had spent the night crying.
Zainab reached into her pocket for Abed’s prayer beads. Still not there.
Alison brought the breakfast to the table. She poured two glasses of tea, exactly the right shade, sweetened precisely and with the correct amount of mint. She had finally learned.
Zainab cradled her glass. “Did Khalid call?”
“No.”
That afternoon, Alison was a bundle of energy, moving about, cleaning things that were already clean. Meanwhile, Zainab’s stuffy head grew worse. Her thoughts moved between Khalid and her nephew Belal. Her mind jumped to Waleed’s wife, who had to be suffering from shock and grief. Zainab combed the apartment for the missing prayer beads, her one small comfort. She paced the house, her symptoms undeniable: headache, sore throat, and body aches.
Zainab knew what she needed—chamomile, like what she’d seen on the side of the road in the cul-de-sac. She got up, slipped on her thob and shoes, and announced that she was going for a walk. Lost in her own thoughts, Alison didn’t look up. Zainab’s knees ached as she descended the stairs. The late afternoon weather was chilly and windy, unlike the sunny warmth of the day before.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. This was not the cul-de-sac but the parking lot of Khalid’s apartment. Being sick must have shaken something loose in her head.
“Bismillah,” she muttered.
Perhaps she could still find some chamomile. She circled the edge of the parking lot, imagining the infusion she would prepare. In her mind’s eye was the perfect sprig of chamomile, its compact yellow flowers and tiny petals. In Ahmed’s cul-de-sac, it grew at the side of the road next to mailboxes. But nothing wild grew around Khalid’s building, which was surrounded by tree bark and useless shrubs. No chamomile to pluck and set in a teapot.
Zainab walked to the main road, flanked by natural greenery. She turned right, the gravel crunching under her feet. Grasses, dandelions, and bramble grew next to the road. Still no chamomile. Cars whizzed in front of her. She was at an intersection, so she turned and kept walking. Various wildflowers dotted the brush. At the next intersection, a car stopped and waved her across.
At last, she found her chamomile growing in the gravel. When she knelt to pick it, she noticed it was dirty. A car had driven over it. She kept walking, looking so intently at the side of the road that
she accidently bumped into a parked car. At the next intersection, another car slowed and waved her across. It was funny, all these months with the fear of crossing the street. If only she had known the drivers would stop for her.
Then she saw it. A fresh cluster of the healing flower. She knelt, and the herb filled her hand—the scent familiar and reassuring. She inhaled deeply and turned to go back. On each side were houses she didn’t remember. After crossing a street, she noticed a gas station, which certainly wasn’t there before. She wondered how many intersections she had crossed. Two or three? Cars zipped past. At the next turn, she hurried along, sensing her illness getting worse. Zainab gripped the chamomile with one hand and reached for Abed’s absent prayer beads with the other. She circled back to the intersection. Left or right? Nothing looked familiar. She needed to sit, but where?
Finally, she came to a bench and collapsed upon it. Traffic passed in front of her. Tall evergreens rose up all around, towering over her. In one hand she held the chamomile, in the other, her imaginary prayer beads. She felt Abed’s presence, and his image flickered in front of her. She looked up the street. Where were her sons? How long would it take them to find her?
A bus pulled up to the curb directly in front of Zainab. It stopped and spewed black fumes. The driver opened the door and looked at her. She shook her head, and the bus drove on.
She glanced at the time, already past asr prayer, and carefully laid the chamomile next to her on the bench. She straightened, closed her eyes, and began her prayer in a seated position. Before she knew it, she had completed the prayer and four extra rak’ah.
For the next hour, her eyes followed the cars passing in front of her while her mind churned with thoughts. Memories flashed through her head. She recalled falling off the stool, the air forced out of her lungs, and the dizziness afterward. Then came the hospital and the foreign doctor who prodded her abdomen, flashed a light in her eyes, and stitched up her head.
Yes, Margaret had shown guilt. Well, she should have—saying it was none of Zainab’s business where her son moved. None of her business! These foreign wives had no sense of reality. Not only Margaret, but Alison, as well. Zainab supposed that Alison had had some kind of nervous collapse the day before. It was no surprise seeing that she had no family around to advise her, to keep her on a straight path.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 28
