“She’s at a fun age,” Alison said. Then a spark of panic shot up, and she blurted, “I don’t know how I’m going to do graduate school with a toddler!”
“People do it all the time.” The woman stopped at a building and walked up the stairs. “I’ll show you a two-bedroom model. It’s already furnished to give an idea of the place.” The woman pulled out her keys and stopped before one of the front doors. “Remind me. How many people will be living in the unit?”
“Just me and my daughter.”
“You’ll have plenty of space then.” She unlocked the door and gestured Alison in. “In this model you’ve got two bedrooms, kitchen, living area, one bath, and a utility closet.”
Alison stepped into the center of the living room and slowly turned around. The generic yet cheery display furniture filled the space. She imagined herself studying at the dining room table at night, under the beam of the light fixture, books on Ottoman history and the Arab-Israeli conflict spread out before her, the baby monitor next to her, and Eman sleeping in her room nearby.
Then another image: Eman awake and needing attention, Eman awake and crying. Being a single mother had proven more grueling than expected. Alison dreaded the long stretch of the week, taking Eman to the doctor alone, making decisions by herself, and the worst part— having no one with whom to experience Eman’s milestones, like crawling and sitting up for the first time.
And yet Alison had managed so far. What other choice did she have? She and Eman were plodding along. But this was easy part. No work or study. What would the next two years look like? Alison still couldn’t quite picture how she would shoulder both classes and parenting. Of course, she still had time to change her mind.
After the walk-through, the woman gave Alison information on move-in dates and the children’s center, which would provide full-day care for Eman. Alison thanked her, and before driving home, she decided to walk to the hall where her classes would be held.
The walk was invigorating, past sports fields, over a bridge, and into the university grounds. The late summer day was mild, the air fresh. She inhaled and took in the familiar brick buildings washed in warm sunlight. The campus glittered with possibility, and her thoughts raced with images of her future: academia, research, a life of scholarly studies. Somehow this excited her more than anything else had, including travel, marriage, having a child, and even falling in love.
Whenever she looked back, Alison remembered their fights first. Khalid refusing to listen, she hoarse from yelling, he storming out of the house, and she home alone. Occasionally, a happy time came to mind, and finally those qualities that had drawn her to Khalid: his good looks, his family background, his seductive manner. She had not merely been attracted to him. She had been possessed by him.
Alison reached the hall where she would spend most of her time over the next two years. She looked up at its arches, bricks, and engravings, and she felt suddenly small. How was she going to pull this off?
Later, as Alison drove northward back home, her thoughts turned to the past months, all that had happened, and how people had surprised her. Some of Alison’s old college friends, abandoned for Khalid, were now back in her life. Khalid’s mother, whom Alison sometimes saw with Khalid, was still surprisingly kind to her, calling Alison habibti and patting her hand.
Her own mother had seemed genuinely relieved when Alison announced she would be working on a master’s degree in Middle Eastern studies.
“Of course,” her mother had replied. “It’s meant to be.”
Her parents had offered to pay her tuition. Even Grandma Helen offered a financial gift. And with a few student loans and support from Khalid, Alison and Eman would be set for the next two years. Khalid continued to surprise her in small ways, too.
She neared home, and her thoughts jumped ahead to him and the trajectory of their marriage, how they couldn’t sustain what they had started. For months after he left, Alison had tried to unravel the question of where things had gone wrong.
Beyond the Pine View sign, the rows of apartment buildings spread before her.
She pulled into her parking space, ascended the stairs, and opened the front door. On the floor sat Khalid, who had left work early that day to cover for Alison. Eman sat across from him, toys spread out between them. Eman was laughing hysterically at some voice Khalid was making. When Alison entered, the two of them looked up.
“Hi,” Khalid said. “She’s really sitting up by herself now.”
“I know.” Alison reached down and caressed Eman’s chubby cheek. “Did you have fun with Baba?”
“She said baba so many times,” Khalid said, “and she knows her own name.”
“How did she do?” Alison asked.
“She was crawling around; I had to watch her every second. She ate half a banana and a bit of rice with yogurt.”
Alison collapsed onto the couch.
“How was the apartment?” he asked as he got up from the floor.
“A bit old, but I like the children’s center—Montessori.”
Khalid sat down next to her. “That’s supposed to be good, right?”
“Very good. But it’s going to be so hard to leave her there.”
“She’ll be fine,” he said with firm confidence.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Honestly, I’m starting to feel freaked out by the whole thing.”
“You’ll do it,” he said. A calm smile spread over Khalid’s handsome face, and Alison experienced a splintering of pain and affection for him. They had never talked about Alison’s ugly meltdown outside the apartment building—or any of their past fights. No discussion, no apologies. What brought Khalid around was Ahmed, who served as mediator. And then Eman; he couldn’t stay away from his daughter for long. With Ahmed’s help, they had agreed upon a parenting schedule and financial arrangements.
“When exactly do you move?” he asked.
“Supposed to be middle of next month. Before fall quarter begins.” She spoke in a detached manner despite her burst of tenderness for him. She looked away and then down at Eman, babbling to herself.
Alison blinked. She had a beautiful daughter, masha’Allah, and she had learned something about herself: her passion for the Middle East was best sated through study and travel—not love. But what about Khalid? What had drawn him to her? Had it been love?
Alison now understood what drove Khalid. Over the past months, the signs from their early relationship shifted into focus: Khalid sleeping over, his sudden proposal, and the lies about Eman’s due date. It all pointed to guilt. Guilt over premarital sex.
And what about her? Yes, there had been love, but fear had pushed her headlong into marriage—fear he’d choose another, maybe a Palestinian girl his mother had picked.
Khalid picked up Eman and bounced her on his knee, causing a cascade of giggles. “Are your parents still planning to come out?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be able to move without them.”
“As soon as you get your stuff cleared out,” he said. “I’ll move back in the following weekend. I’m sure Ibrahim and Salim will be happy to be rid of me.”
“I don’t blame them.” She tilted her head. “It’ll be better this way—easier when we each have space for Eman.”
“Inshallah,” he answered.
“When are you leaving for Jordan?” she asked.
“In two weeks.”
“Your mother must be thrilled.”
“She’s happy,” he said. “But I really want to bring Eman with me. Everyone wants to meet her. There’s still time to add her to my ticket.”
“I already told you—she’s never been away from me for that long.” Alison’s shoulders dropped. “It will be too hard on her—and you, too. Besides, Jordan’s not exactly the safest country for small children.”
“I’ll keep her safe.”
“How?” Alison asked. “I saw Fatma’s house, and most cars don’t even have seat belts.”
“I think I’ve proven myself,” Khal
id said. “I can keep her safe.”
Alison brought a hand to her forehead. “Have you forgotten I’m still breast-feeding?”
“Maybe you can use that pump thing?”
“You’re kidding, right? Pumping for ten days while she’s passed around Jordan, exposed to God-knows-what. We’ve already discussed this!”
“But they really want to see her.”
“I don’t care!” Alison threw up her hands, exasperated once again. “It’s not the time!” She shook her head, freshly confirming to herself that she was never meant to be with Khalid, that she would never go back to him. “Look, maybe one day I’ll travel there,” she said, “and bring her along. Then everyone can meet her.”
Khalid rolled his eyes. “That’s crazy.”
“Why? Why is that crazy?” When he didn’t reply, she said, “I think you’d better go.”
“Fine.” He got up from the couch and gave Eman one last hug. “See you this weekend, habibti.” He passed her to Alison and walked to the door. “If she needs anything, let me know.”
“Thanks,” Alison said without looking up.
With that, he was gone.
Chapter 30
The rocky hillside was dotted with old Jordanian villas, boxy and randomly placed. A lone minaret rose up to the sky. Margaret was next to Ahmed in the rental car, their children restless in the backseat. They had just arrived at the Amman airport, where no family members had been there to receive them. Ahmed had told them not to come. He said they would meet up at Fatma’s, and just like that, he changed the ritual of the Amman airport welcome.
They were headed to the same hotel where they had stayed the summer before. Ahmed had made reservations early this time and had shown Margaret the confirmation in advance. They checked in and made their way through the lobby. She glimpsed the restaurant, the site of their argument about Ahmed’s job interview in the UAE. With a shudder, she recalled the disbelief and pain that had stung her that day, almost one year before.
She glanced at Ahmed, who strode by her side. He looked at her and smiled, his mood upbeat, practically exuberant. It had been months—years—since she had seen him this happy—the effects of being around his family, no doubt, and knowing Nadia was finally getting married.
After dropping off the luggage in their room, they drove to Fatma’s. Nadia, the cheerful bride-to-be, greeted them at the door. She embraced Margaret. “Auntie Margaret! Welcome!”
Next were formal greetings in the salon, overflowing with visiting family members. Huda and Yasmine had travelled from the West Bank. Mona and her family had arrived earlier from Seattle along with the mother. Fatma circled the room offering tea while Nadia, lovely and talkative, seemed to relish being the focal point of the family’s attention. For Margaret, it was strangely pleasing to see all five of Ahmed’s sisters in one room.
Then there was Khalid—restless, stubborn, not-knowing-what-to-do-with-himself Khalid. The family had given up advising him and had resigned themselves to his separation from Alison. Now in Fatma’s salon, Margaret looked at Khalid and felt a stab of sympathy.
Meanwhile, the mother was finally together with all of her children. She seemed pleased, yet she had a wistful, longing look in her eyes. Perhaps this was because her brother Waleed would not be coming to the wedding. Apparently, he and his wife were unable to celebrate with both of their sons in prison.
Nadia took Margaret’s arm and guided her to the back room, where they sat on the floor and talked about the celebrations ahead; first the henna party, then the wedding. Nadia seemed more mature and self-assured than she had just the summer before. She slipped an envelope into Margaret’s hand. “Open it.”
Margaret took out a card embellished in Arabic script and motifs of Palestinian cross-stitch embroidery. “What is it?”
“My wedding invitation.” Nadia explained there would be a surprise at the wedding.
“What is it?” Margaret asked.
“I can’t tell you.” Nadia laughed, and her expression was that of a young girl again.
The morning of the henna party, the women in the family arranged an outing to the local hair salon. A car was borrowed, a taxi called. The vehicles waited outside for the women to cover themselves in abayas, jilbabs, and scarves. Then the ten of them, from older women to teenaged girls, all squeezed into the two cars. Each had her head covered except Margaret and Jenin.
Margaret braced for one of them to comment on her lack of hijab. Yet none of the women mentioned it. Margaret’s bare head was simply no longer the issue that it once was. They did make comments to each other, though. Wedged in the backseat, Mona nudged Huda with her hips and told her she was getting fat.
“It’s true,” Huda replied. “But I’m not as big as Fatma.”
At this, Fatma feigned shock from the front seat and gave Huda an affectionate swat.
When they arrived, Nadia was the recipient of the full bridal treatment—hair plucking, makeup, hairstyling, and henna designs on her hands and feet. She basked in her role, the focus of so much admiring attention. As Margaret waited her turn with the stylist, Fatma approached Yasmine, inspected the crown of her head, and announced that Yasmine’s hair was turning white.
With a deadpan expression, Yasmine said, “The occupation is turning it white.”
Fatma then pointed to Yasmine’s crow’s feet. “Is the occupation causing your wrinkles, too?”
“Khalas!” Huda said. “Leave Yasmine alone.” Huda poked Fatma and reminded her that she was the oldest and most wrinkled among them.
At this, Fatma threw her head back with a howl and winked at Yasmine.
A realization struck Margaret: Ahmed’s sisters didn’t make brutally blunt comments only to her. They made them to one another. It was their own direct way of interacting.
When it was Margaret’s turn, she sat in the chair and stared at herself in the mirror. Under the harsh lighting, she looked older, and her hair—her hair! Totally neglected. And she had worn it the same way for years: long and shapeless.
The stylist asked in English, “How style?”
Margaret took a deep inhale. “Can you cut it?”
The stylist ran her hand through Margaret’s long red hair. “How much cut?”
Margaret touched her neck to indicate the desired length. “And add some layers.”
It was time for a change.
That evening, Margaret led Jenin and Leena up to Fatma’s roof, where the henna party was underway. The rooftop was fully enclosed within a festive tent, where some women were already dancing. Margaret scanned the scene, and her eyes fell on Nadia sitting on an elevated seat. She wore a glittery gown that revealed her neck and bare shoulders. Margaret approached and complimented her dress and her beauty.
Nadia beamed back. “You look beautiful, too.”
Margaret touched her new shorter hair and smiled. Her daughters had joined their cousins, and Margaret settled herself in the corner, content to observe. The young women on the dance floor sported revealing backless and strapless dresses with plunging necklines. With scarves tied around their hips, they danced in front of Nadia to the loud Arabic pop music. It was a women-only celebration and their chance to show off.
After Anysa arrived with her entourage, the celebration began in earnest. Nadia’s mother started the time-honored dance for the bride. Clapping and swaying as she danced, she gazed lovingly at Nadia, still seated. Margaret couldn’t help but feel an unexpected tug of affection for the mother, who, at long last, seemed to accept this marriage. Granted, it helped that the groom was finally divorced from his first wife.
The first to join the mother was Hajja Zarifa—the grandmother to both the bride and the groom. Then, one by one, Nadia’s sisters joined them, creating a rotating circle of female joy.
From the dance floor, Mona noticed Margaret and rushed over. “Yallah!”
“No, no,” Margaret said as Mona tried to pull her into the circle. The trills increased, a call for her to join in, but Margaret
held firm. She preferred to watch rather than make a spectacle of herself. Mona finally let go and slithered off in her purple dress and matching heels.
Finally the chants began. Mona played a drum, and the rest of the women sang while looking adoringly at the radiant bride. It seemed everyone—except Margaret—knew the words to these traditional Arabic songs of love and loss, marriage and joy. Naturally the crying started. First, Nadia, then her sisters and mother, and finally all the women were overcome with tears. Margaret viewed this show of emotion and longed to experience the same release.
But she simply didn’t feel it. She found herself bringing a finger to her eye, making a display of wiping away a tear that wasn’t there.
The next day was the wedding—no vows, which had been completed months before, but a celebration and ritual sendoff.
Margaret, Ahmed, and their children set out in early evening through the congested streets of Amman. The prelude to the festivities was to begin at Fatma’s. Ahmed wore a suit and Margaret, a Palestinian thob, as instructed by Fatma, who had loaned her the dress. It was the traditional black floor-length caftan with red cross-stitching across the front and down the sides. In the backseat, Jenin also wore a borrowed thob, hers a soft beige with red embroidery. It suited her.
Margaret ran a hand over the stitching on her thob and touched the three gold bangles on her wrist, the gift from Ahmed’s mother so many years ago when Margaret had been newly married herself. She stared at the bangles, and images came flooding back: her first trip to Jordan, the crowded house of Ahmed’s family, the eager faces of his sisters, and that moment, so long ago, when the mother gently slid the gold pieces onto Margaret’s wrist.
They reached Fatma’s house. Inside, male relatives milled about, filling the courtyard. Margaret, Jenin, and Leena were ushered into the salon, where the furniture had been pushed back. The mother, sisters, and nieces swayed slowly as they advanced in a circle around the center of the room. The women, striking a different tone from the night before, wore cheerless faces and traditional thobs. They chanted and swayed to the stark sound of a drum.
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