Zainab sighed, and her mind filled with renewed images from Palestine: Belal, now in prison, and his mother, broken. The poor woman! Zainab would have a breakdown, too, if her two sons were put in an Israeli prison. She would go to the prison every day and wail at the gates until the soldiers dragged her away or put her in prison, too.
Another bus stopped in front of her. She again shook her head and thought how odd it was that Khalid or Ahmed had not found her yet. Surely they would have noticed her missing by now. If Abed were alive, he would have missed her right away.
No one missed her now. She furrowed her brow and squeezed her imaginary prayer beads. The gap that Abed had left was growing. Each new event, each new conflict, announced that her life was incomplete and would never be right again. Her days were dictated by loneliness and a constant desire to coordinate the future.
Had Abed already been gone and buried for more than a year? It didn’t seem possible. And yet Zainab no longer looked for him upon waking, nor did she tremble when she prayed for his soul. The weight that had once been unbearable had now lightened. Of course, the grief would always be there, but—thanks be to God—it was now compact enough to tuck away when needed.
A flurry of wind sent a chill through her body. The trees swayed and rustled. She shivered. Where was Ahmed? He was such a good son, devoted but so unhappy. And where was Khalid? He was well-meaning but had much to learn.
Another gust swept in, scattering Zainab’s chamomile off the bench. She considered getting up and gathering what was left of the herb, but her body would not move. Zainab inhaled and looked up at the outline of trees; she cursed the wind rattling their branches. The sky began to darken, and the wind shot another chill through her. Zainab’s lips trembled, and her hands turned cold and clammy. She fidgeted and worried about what would happen to her. Was this a glimpse into her future self—cold, alone, and forgotten?
Zainab had piously followed the pillars of Islam. Yet she was plagued by loneliness, doubts, and a destiny not of her choosing.
By then, the sky was pitch black and the road empty. It was past maghrib prayer. She had been gone nearly three hours. She crossed her arms, but without a sweater, her entire body shook. Soon it would be even colder. An icy panic gripped her body—was she to die right there on that bench? She raised her eyes heavenward.
Only God knew her future. She would leave it in His hands. Wasn’t that true faith—what she had professed to have all along?
“Allah suffices us and He is the best guardian,” Zainab said aloud.
She told herself not to worry. God had protected her so far. He had always been there to hear her prayers. He had kept her healthy and free from disease. He saw everything and understood everything. If she walked to Him, He came running.
Another gust of wind, stronger this time. Zainab closed her eyes and prayed fiercely for patience and perseverance—for herself and her brother’s family. She thanked God for her health and that of her children and grandchildren. She did indeed have much to be thankful for.
Next she prayed for Nadia, her marriage, and her future. This prayer sent Zainab again reeling with worry—so much could go wrong. Then Zainab realized: there was no point in dwelling. Nadia’s future was in God’s hands. As was Khalid’s. And Ahmed’s. And Baby Eman’s. It was all meant to be. She wondered if her life’s purpose had been that—orchestrating the lives of her children. And in the end, what did her children do? They grew up and moved away. And now Nadia would do the same.
In that moment, Zainab decided if she were to survive this test, she would have faith. She would stop fighting the future. She vowed not to direct her sons’ lives anymore. Or the lives of her daughters. There was no sense going against what was written.
Finally, she said, “Subhan’Allah.” Glory be to God.
A tap at her shoulder. Which son had finally come to her, Khalid or Ahmed? She drew a breath, gathered herself, and opened her eyes.
Alison.
“Alhamdulillah,” Alison said and put her arm around Zainab. “I’ve been driving down every street looking for you.”
“Allahu Akbar.” God is great. Zainab stood, and Alison guided her to the car.
Inside, Alison looked at Zainab and repeated, “Alhamdulillah.”
As they drove, Zainab glanced behind her. The baby, bless her, was strapped into her seat, kicking her feet.
“I have something of yours,” Alison said as she reached into her purse and pulled out Abed’s string of beads. “I found these.” She handed them to Zainab, whose heart quickened as she took the beads into her hands. By the grace of God, she stared down at them, those reassuring amber-colored beads, their tassel long gone.
They had passed through Abed’s hands for years, and now they were Zainab’s.
Chapter 28
Margaret drove the minivan to the end of the cul-de-sac. She groaned at the sight of the cars parked in front of her house. The driveway was already occupied by Mona’s and Khalid’s cars.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Leena asked from the backseat.
Margaret parked in the street and looked up at her house. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”
The spring weather was bright, luminous, and achingly beautiful. Yet for Margaret, their home remained gloomy. Ahmed was slowly fading from her. Their argument by the fountain still haunted her—her threat, her demand that he never again mention moving overseas.
The week before, Margaret had googled Abu Dhabi out of curiosity. But as soon as images of the city popped up, she recoiled from the screen and snapped the laptop closed.
Now the idea of a separation seeped into Margaret’s thoughts. Sometimes, just before drifting off to sleep with Ahmed by her side, Margaret visualized a conversation. She would tell him how sorry she was, sorry she had lied about wanting to go back to university, sorry she had threatened divorce. She would tell him they could now discuss a possible move overseas. No promises. Just a discussion. Each time she rehearsed this scene in her mind, her breathing grew short. She had to switch her thoughts away, only then could she breathe normally again.
It wasn’t simply her and Ahmed’s marital troubles that cast a dark shadow over their home. There was also the problem of Khalid and Alison. The family had hashed and rehashed this issue, but found no way out of the couple’s rift. Yet the latest news eclipsed all of that. In the West Bank, Ahmed’s cousin Belal had been arrested and imprisoned; Belal’s mother was inconsolable.
“Mommy, come on!”
“Just a minute, Leena.” Margaret sat for another moment and stared at the house. It had been a week since Khalid had left Alison. Now, like a dog who had chewed up the furniture, he was finally showing his face again. Margaret still didn’t grasp what had happened.
After the incident, Alison had said simply, “I lost it.” When she started to explain more, Alison had stopped herself, squeezed her eyes shut, and waved a hand to avert tears.
At the time, Margaret told her, “Inshallah, you two will work it out.”
She got out of the van and helped Leena down. “Come on, sweetie.”
Margaret walked toward the house. Floating in her head was a clear idea of what was going on inside. The mother and Mona were praising Khalid for finally coming to his senses. The mother would have her matchmaking photographs out—those girls from Jordan and Palestine. She would be flashing their too-young faces at Khalid. Don’t lose any more time, my son.
With these thoughts, Margaret felt a fresh wave of annoyance. She opened the front door and let Leena in. In the entry was Jenin, her arms crossed, irritation stamped on her face. She whispered, “They’ve been here forever.”
“Why don’t you take Leena downstairs?” Margaret went up to the kitchen, past the Arabic conversation in the living room. “Salaam alaikum,” she mumbled. As she passed, she glimpsed the mother and Mona standing over Khalid, who was sitting in the armchair.
Mona was shaking a finger at him. “This is no good.”
In the kitchen sat a
tray of dirty tea glasses and an Arab coffee pot full of wet grounds. It seemed they had been at it for a while. The mother was talking now, her grating Arabic stretching all the way to the kitchen. Margaret took a seat on a stool and strained to understand.
“What’s wrong with you? She’s the mother of your daughter! When are you going to wake up?”
The words were coming from the mother. For a change, Margaret understood their Arabic, rather than just random phrases.
“How can you be such a fool?” The mother went on. “I didn’t teach you like this.”
Next came Mona’s voice. “Yes, you are a fool.”
Tariq came into the kitchen, and Margaret put a finger on her lips. He began rummaging in the pantry. She grabbed a package of cookies for him. “Take it downstairs.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
Margaret shooed him away and flipped her attention back to the exchange.
“When are you going to stop acting like a child?” It was Mona’s voice, loud and sharp.
Then the mother: “You must go back to her. You must.”
Margaret got off the stool, walked to the edge of the dining room, and peeked around the doorway. Khalid sat in the corner cowering like a trapped animal. Mona was next to him, arms crossed, face pinched. Meanwhile, the mother paced, gesturing at Khalid with one hand, prayer beads swinging from the other.
“You left your wife and your baby. Haraam!” The mother practically shouted the last word. Sinful! “It’s been a week. Khalas!” Enough!
Khalid stared at the cell phone in his hand.
“Leave the phone and listen to me!” the mother yelled.
He set the device on the coffee table and slouched in his chair.
“Yes, your wife made a mistake,” the mother said. “She said she was sorry.”
He looked up.
“Yes, I know. She told me. It’s time to go back.”
Khalid said nothing and the mother resumed her pacing. She turned, and at that instant, her eyes caught sight of Margaret, who jerked her head out of sight.
“Margaret!” the mother shouted.
Margaret winced at the sound of her name. She stepped out of the kitchen to find the mother standing there. Her eyes revealed a deep sadness, and Margaret felt bad all over again.
“You!” the mother said. “Talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
Margaret touched her chest and mouthed the word, “Ana?” Me? Taking a deep breath, she walked cautiously to the living room. The mother settled herself on the couch, content to be a spectator during this round. Margaret sat across from Khalid and tried to make eye contact.
“I can see you’re upset,” she said.
He crossed his legs and shook his foot furiously.
“I’m sure what Alison did made you angry,” Margaret said. “When is it time to forgive?”
The question hung in the air. Khalid began to play with his cell phone on the table, spinning it to the right, spinning it to the left. He probably drove Alison insane with this.
“It’s been a week,” Margaret said. “Don’t you think you’ve made your point?”
Refusing to look her in the eye, he said, “I can never go back to her.”
“You chose Alison.” Margaret picked her words carefully. “You two fell in love. You wanted her to be your wife.”
Khalid began to spin his cell phone again. Margaret put her hand over his. “Stop.” She gathered herself and said, “She didn’t cheat on you, didn’t spend all the family money, didn’t—”
“She’s crazy.” Khalid had his own crazed look in the eyes.
“She’s stressed out. It happens to new mothers.”
“I can never be with someone like that.”
“Let’s say she’s crazy.” Margaret gave a shrug. “You wouldn’t leave her if she were sick, would you?”
“I can’t be with her.” He pressed his fingers to both temples to show his pain.
“You’re angry.” She looked at his face. “You need to calm down so you can think clearly.” She waited for him to speak. Then something came to her. “Your anniversary. It’s this month.”
“So?”
“You love her, don’t you?”
He remained silent, his dull expression registering nothing.
“You remember when you first brought Alison here? You two were glued together—totally in love. You need to find that connection again.”
He crossed his arms, rolled his eyes, and looked away, suggesting that Margaret was probably crazy herself to say such a stupid thing.
“She’s the mother of your daughter,” she said, but he remained unmoved. She needed to dig deeper. “Look at Ahmed and me.”
He rolled his eyes again, and Margaret had an urge to shove him off his chair. She felt a renewed appreciation for Ahmed, who, in their entire marriage, had never behaved like this.
“You think I don’t drive Ahmed crazy sometimes?” There was a crack in her voice. “The point is we accept each other.” She searched Khalid’s face for some hint of understanding. When she found none, she continued, “There are good times in marriage and there are times that …” Her throat was dry, and she couldn’t say more.
Mona and the mother remained quiet while Khalid held himself stiffly, refusing to look at Margaret, who said finally, “Don’t be so afraid.”
He snapped his face toward her, anger flaring in his eyes. “Afraid of what?”
“Admitting you made a mistake?”
At this, Khalid stood up. Mona jumped up and pushed him back in his seat.
Margaret looked at him closely. His expression confirmed both his pride and vulnerability. She searched for something more to say.
“Just keep an open heart,” she said.
The phrase was familiar. It was strange that the words came back to her now, almost a year after she heard them in that sunroom in Amman, Jordan, sitting across from Cynthia.
“Khalid, you can’t always get your way.” How could Margaret make him understand? Marriage was about negotiations, deals, concessions. It was about give and take, meeting halfway, even giving in. But most of all, it was one generous leap into the unknown.
Margaret inhaled and said, “In marriage, you need to compromise for the one you love.” She noticed Khalid’s face softening, which encouraged her. Maybe her guidance was having an effect. She choked out one last piece of advice. “Sometimes you even have to make sacrifices.”
Khalid looked at her strangely. “Why are you crying?”
Margaret waved away his question. She wanted to say more but had run out of words.
He stood. “Some things can’t be fixed,” he said and headed for the stairs. Mona tried to stop him, but he jerked himself away and disappeared out the front door. His sister and the mother went to the window. As they watched him drive away, they shook their heads and clucked their tongues. They gave Margaret a look of sympathy, then shrugged and retreated down the hallway to the mother’s bedroom.
Margaret was left alone. Sighing deeply, she ran a hand through her long hair and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She stared at a sunbeam lying across the new Persian carpet. She didn’t know why she had cried.
She got up and stood in the center of the room, which in that moment felt like an alien place. Margaret fixed her eyes on the mother’s spot on the couch, then on the coffee cups scattered about, and on the mother’s prayer beads. A stale smell of cardamom hung in the air and merged with the cross-stitch pillows, the Palestinian pottery, and the photos of Jerusalem. The items all seemed strangely unfamiliar, even though Margaret had placed them there herself.
In the kitchen, she gazed with new eyes at the walls she had painted and the tiles she had installed. She returned to the living room and looked long and hard at the Persian carpet—too fancy for their home—the pair of lamps she had bought and bricks she had replaced in the hearth. She thought about the years they had spent in that house, her marriage to Ahmed, and the time that had passed.
&nbs
p; For the first time Margaret saw the house for what it was—a hodgepodge of isolated attempts at improvement. Each project had been a superficial patch, covering up the multiple defects but ignoring the bigger problems that lay beneath.
Chapter 29
Alison exited I-5, drove along 45th Street, and crossed University Way, past the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture on her right and the fraternities and sororities on her left. Her destination was beyond the U Village Shopping Center, the far corner of campus.
The December before, Alison had, without telling anyone—not even Khalid—submitted her application for the University of Washington Middle Eastern Studies Program. A fantasy, a lark, totally pointless—she had thought at the time. Still, she had done it.
But now she had an appointment with family student housing to see a two-bedroom apartment. Alison parked, got out, and approached the office. Inside, Alison told an older woman working there who she was. After checking the files, the woman grabbed a chain rattling with keys. “Please come.”
Alison followed her out of the office, down a tree-lined path toward a housing cluster. The three-story apartment buildings ahead were not that different from the suburban Pine View apartments where Alison had lived for more than a year. Still, a tingle rose up her back, a little thrill at the idea of what lie ahead.
Three months earlier, her graduate school acceptance letter had arrived—the week after Khalid had bolted from her life. Like a gift, the letter appeared—a promise of a new life. Alison immediately accepted the offer and, the same day, applied for family housing and on-campus childcare.
“The playground is over there.” The woman pointed through trees to a grouping of playground equipment. “Do you have kids?”
“A daughter,” Alison said. “Almost eight months.”
The woman turned to Alison. “Sweet.”
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 29
