by Umm Zakiyyah
And what if she exercising the same poor judgment with Larry? That was the question that had haunted her even before the argument with Jamil.
But it had taken her all the way until this morning to realize that she’d never know the answer to that question. And she was okay with that. Marriage is an issue of the ghayb, the unseen, she herself would often say. That was why seeking advice and making Istikhaarah were the best you could do after taking an honest look at who was in front of you, or at least at what you could see of them.
“You’re trying to play God,” Carletta had told her. “And you can’t. What-if questions are useless, so just deal with what is.”
“What if I don’t know what is?” Salima had said, inciting a fit of laughter from Carly.
“Do you hear yourself?” Carletta said. “You said ‘what if’ again. Come on, Salima, what are you really afraid of here? That Larry is a bad person? Or that he’s a good person that you’re about to let go?”
Salima nibbled at her lower lip and glanced up at Larry hesitantly. “I texted you…” The words got caught in her throat as she realized the enormity of what she was about to say.
If she hadn’t known before, Salima knew with certainty right then. Carletta was right. What scared Salima most wasn’t that Larry was a horrible person lurking behind a façade of goodness. It was that Larry was a sincere, goodhearted person that the world couldn’t see because they were so distracted by the flaws that they could see. And Salima was afraid to be the person to show them.
“…because I wanted to…” She faltered, dropping her head in self-rebuke, frustrated that it was so difficult to get the words out.
“Because you wanted to what, Salima?” Larry said, impatient annoyance lacing his words.
Salima recited a silent prayer that Allah would guide her words and make this easy for her. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, offering Larry a weak smile. “This isn’t easy for me.”
Larry folded his arms. “I’m here,” he said, and it was obvious he was trying hard not to be brusque.
“Thank you,” she mumbled gratefully, trying to gather her thoughts.
Salima had always been the golden child, not only in her family but also in the Muslim community. Her parents enrolled her in hifdh school when she was only five years old, and even there, amongst children from predominately Muslim and Arabic-speaking countries, she was the star. She not only memorized more quickly than the other children, she also recited with such proper pronunciation that she implemented the Tajweed rules with the ease and precision of one who’d formally studied them for years.
Students and their parents envied her. Her Qur’an teachers praised her. And from what her teachers said of her, Qur’an scholars oceans and continents away took a special interest in Salima, an interest that eventually led to her attaining her ijaazah, the honored certification that her style of recitation could be traced back to Prophet Muhammad himself.
Even when Salima had gone through her own spiritual crisis and removed her hijab, at some moments even coming close to giving up Islam, no one took notice. Because she was the golden girl, the pride of the African-American Muslim community, no one saw Salima as the flawed, sometimes broken human being that she was. It was a painful, terrifying, lonely experience, that invisibility. To have no one see you even as you stood at arm’s length, to have no one hear you even as you spoke from your heart, to have no one see your tears even as they fell from your eyes.
I know when the cruelty is coming, Salima had said to herself once. Right after the praise. I have no idea why, but many people feel you owe them for thinking well of you.
“Because I need you,” Salima said, the words dislodging themselves from her heart and settling, finally, upon her tongue. But she couldn’t look at Larry as she spoke them. These were words she’d never even spoken to Mikaeel. Because there had been no occasion to.
Mikaeel, she knew now, was one of the people who had been blinded by his admiration of her. He often second-guessed himself in her presence, thinking her knowledge of Qur’an gave her a better understanding of everything else. He rarely openly disagreed with her, she realized in retrospect, probably because he didn’t feel he had a right to. Even when she, in hotheaded female jealousy and insecurity, had insisted that he keep his own sister out of their home because of Salima’s fear that polygamy was somehow contagious, he had acquiesced. But there was often this underlying frustration and resentment from him that would surface at the most inopportune times.
The last night she’d seen Mikaeel alive he had planned a surprise weekend trip for her and the children, as he loved spontaneity and surprises. When he announced the trip and told her to pack her things, she had to fight a wave of annoyance. He hadn’t even taken time to research her schedule before making the plans. She’d been asked by a women’s shelter to lead their Muslim residents in Taraweeh each night in Ramadan as part of an interfaith community service initiative.
“But, Mickey,” she said in as calm a tone as she could muster, “you know Dr. Forester asked me to lead the Muslim prayers this Ramadan.”
“Ramadan doesn’t even start until Sunday or Monday,” Mikaeel said, frustration in his tone.
“But I have to spend this weekend reviewing my hifdh, Mickey,” Salima said as if this should have been obvious.
A shadow of genuine confusion had come over Mikaeel’s face then. “Review your hifdh?” he said. “But you memorized the Qur’an when you were like eight years old.”
“Nine,” Salima corrected, trying to keep from getting upset. “But I still have to review so I don’t forget.”
“You have to review your memorization?” he said as if it was the oddest thing in the world.
“Of course I do,” Salima said, her face contorted at the ridiculousness of his statement. “You know people who’ve memorized the Qur’an are constantly forgetting it.”
“Yes, of course,” he’d said. “But I didn’t know you needed to review. I thought it just came to you naturally.”
That was the first time that Salima realized that Mikaeel had never really seen her. It cut deep to realize that she had been married to her husband for nearly a decade and they had three children together, yet he still didn’t see her as fully human. Even when he, upon her suggestion, went ahead with the trip and took their eldest two children and left her home with Haroon, who was nursing at the time, Salima had difficulty concentrating on the Qur’an. She just couldn’t get his words out of her mind. It hurt that even after she’d explained herself, she could tell he resented her for ruining his weekend plans for the family.
Too much admiration breeds contempt, she’d written in her journal that night, furious at having to feel bad for being human. It is better, I think, she wrote, to be understood.
Larry coughed laughter, a grin of disbelief creasing one corner of his mouth. “Because you need me?”
“Yes,” Salima said, feeling more confident in speaking her truth, even as she felt self-conscious and exposed.
“And why’s that?” he said smugly.
“Because you see me, Larry.” Salima heard the plea in her voice. But something inside her broke, and she didn’t care if she sounded desperate and foolish, so long as he could hear her. “And I see you.”
He huffed. “But not enough to be honest with me, huh?”
“I wasn’t trying to be dishonest with you, Larry,” she said. “I was really confused and didn’t know what was right to say to you.”
“How about the truth?”
“But what does that even mean, Larry? How can I tell the truth when I don’t even know what it is?”
“Well, you knew our little friend Jasmine drove three hours to slander me. And you knew your brother Jamil was egging her on. Maybe you could’ve started with that.”
“Larry, I know seeing clearly might come easy for you, but it takes time with other people.”
“Other people?”
“Well, with me.”
He nodded. “I can
certainly agree with that.”
“And I’m sorry,” Salima said, and meaning it.
He huffed and shook his head. “Well, that’s a good start,” he said. “At least you know you’re wrong.”
“I do,” she said, perhaps too eagerly.
There was an extended silence. “Is there anything else?” Larry said, impatience in his tone.
Salima hesitated momentarily, her heart racing in nervousness. “Just one more thing…”
“What now?” he said in exhausted impatience.
“I just wanted to ask you a quick question.”
“Shoot,” he said, gesturing for her to go ahead. “I’m listening.”
“Will you marry me?” Salima cringed, realizing that the words had come out all wrong. But it was too late to take them back.
In any case, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Even if she could somehow find the right words for what she was trying to say, the meaning wouldn’t change. She wanted to marry Larry, and there really weren’t many politically correct ways to put it.
The silence fell between them, and it was as if a boulder hovered on a ledge above them, threatening to crush all hope. The threat extended for so long that the silence became like a stubborn impasse that neither could navigate, Salima because she’d already surrendered, and Larry because he refused to.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking myself,” Larry said finally, and Salima was relieved to hear the annoyance gone from his voice and thoughtful reflection in its place. “And I realize that…” He pursed his lips as if finding difficulty formulating his thoughts. Salima held her breath, apprehensive about what he was about to say. “…I don’t know if I like you all that much.”
Salima opened her mouth to speak, but Larry turned abruptly and walked away. She heard his angry footsteps retreating down the stairs. Seconds later, the front door closed with a finality that was followed only by the boulder easing ever so furtively over the ledge.
Chapter 36
The Big Day
Pleased with herself, Deanna grinned as she stood in the dining hall of the masjid amidst the waleemah decorations. Shimmery teal tablecloths lay over each table, and shimmery black chair covers clothed each seat and were adorned by large teal bows, all Deanna’s own handiwork. Teal and black helium balloon centerpieces sat atop each table and were accented with silver ribbon.
Deanna had pushed herself through her conflicting emotions and had done the interior design for the women’s section of the wedding party for Aliyah and Jacob simply because it was a nice thing to do. The author of the self-help book was right, Deanna thought to herself. Selflessness was indeed therapeutic. Helping with the waleemah hadn’t erased her feelings of resentment altogether, but it did help her realize that anger could only stunt her healing.
But don’t mistake therapy for healing, the author had cautioned. Just because something helps you in the path of healing doesn’t mean it will ultimately heal you. More than anything, being a better person is a journey that has no final destination, except the journey itself.
Deanna doubted her journey would ever lead her to fully forgive Jacob and Aliyah for what they had done, but she would be remiss to deny that she herself was in need of forgiveness.
“Well, what do you need me for?”
Deanna turned at the sound of a voice and saw Juwayriah standing near the entrance, hands on her hips as her gaze swept the length of the room. “It looks like you did everything yourself.”
“We still need to lay out the napkins and silverware,” Deanna said, nodding her head toward a large cardboard box on the floor near her feet. “And the cups and plates need to be put on each table so everyone can—”
“Why are you doing this?” Juwayriah interjected, disapproval in her tone, causing Deanna to stop mid-sentence.
Frowning in aggravation, Deanna rolled her eyes. The last thing she needed was someone criticizing her organizational skills an hour before the guests were scheduled to arrive. “Because it’s easier than having everyone stand in line looking for the plates and cups.”
Juwayriah flipped her hand dismissively. “I don’t mean all this silly Martha Stewart stuff. I mean, this.” She gestured a hand, moving it to indicate the span of the room. “It’s too much. Aliyah doesn’t deserve this.”
Deanna’s nose flared as she fought a wave of irritation and reached into the cardboard box. “Did I say Aliyah deserves this?” she said as she took out a package of black plates and tore into the plastic packaging. “I’m doing this for me.”
Walking over to the box herself, Juwayriah lifted her upper lip in disapproval as she reached into the box and withdrew a large package of silver-gray napkins. “I hope you’re joking, girl,” she said as she ripped open the top and began laying out the napkins in front of the chairs of the nearest table. “How can celebrating someone stealing your husband help you?”
Right then Deanna was reminded of something her psychiatrist had said to her: “I like that you want to remain friends with your husband’s new wife, but I think it’s too soon to be actively involved in anything that is a direct reminder of your pain.”
“Can you just shut up and set up the tables?” Deanna snapped, letting the loose plastic packaging from the plates drop back into the open cardboard box. “I asked you to come help, not tell me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you what to do,” Juwayriah retorted, wrinkling her nose. “I’m just asking a question. I really don’t get what would possess you to do something like this.”
Holding a stack of plates, Deanna glowered at her. “Look, are you going to help or what?”
“I am helping,” Juwayriah said, slapping napkins on the table as she spoke. “I didn’t know helping meant keeping my mouth shut. I’m only asking because I care about you.”
“What’s so wrong with doing a good thing?” Deanna said as she carefully placed a single plate in front of each seat at a table near her.
“You call this a good thing?” There was humored disbelief in Juwayriah’s tone. “I don’t see how your husband sleeping with your best friend could ever be good.”
“We-are-divorced,” Deanna said through gritted teeth, keeping her eyes on the plates she was arranging as she tried to keep calm.
“But you didn’t have to be,” Juwayriah said. “You should’ve never let Aliyah come in and sweep him up when you weren’t looking.”
Deanna halted her arrangements, a plate suspended midair as she turned to glare at Juwayriah. “You think I let this happen?”
“Of course you let it happen,” Juwayriah said, not bothering to look at Deanna. “You are way better than Aliyah, but you’re practically pushing Jacob to be with her.”
Deanna opened her mouth to respond when she was overcome with an odd sense of déjà vu. It was if she were standing in Aliyah’s apartment berating her for being so stupid as to have let Matt marry Nikki. Except, in the recollection, she found herself the recipient of her own tongue-lashing.
“Stop trying, Ally, and do,” Deanna had scolded her friend. “I don’t sit around saying I’m trying to stay married. I stay married…You look way better than Matt’s new wife. There’s no way he would’ve chosen her over you without you egging him on.”
Deanna hadn’t suffered an involuntary screaming episode since she’d thrown herself into sewing tablecloths and chair covers and buying waleemah decorations. But right then, despondency settled over her as her legs weakened, and there was a restlessness clawing at the back of her throat.
“When you feel the screaming about to happen,” her psychiatrist had told her, “separate yourself from the trigger immediately, and find a quiet place to sit where you can catch your breath.”
“I have to go,” Deanna said suddenly, her voice clipped as she snatched up her purse from the seat of a chair and pulled the straps over her shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Juwayriah’s tone was merciless in its rebuke. “I didn’t come all the way here to do this by mys
elf.”
“Nikki should be here any minute,” Deanna said as she walked swiftly to the door, her back to Juwayriah.
“She better be,” Juwayriah grumbled as Deanna pulled the door open and let it close behind her.
Do not judge so that you will not be judged, the Bible verses her mother often quoted resonated in her mind. For in the way you judge, you will be judged. The voice spoke in time with the pounding in her head. And by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you.
It did not escape Deanna the irony of being reminded of verses from the biblical chapter entitled Matthew, the same name of Aliyah’s former husband, when only a moment before Deanna felt a sense of déjà vu at being Aliyah herself.
The cold air slapped Deanna’s face and ripped into her arms, a harsh announcement that she’d left her coat in the masjid. But the keys to her car were in her purse, so she could sit in her car until the threat of a screaming episode passed. You should’ve never let Aliyah come in and sweep him up when you weren’t looking. Deanna clamped her mouth shut, biting down rage as she pulled the car door open and lowered herself onto the ice-cold seat. She fumbled in the stiff cold as she pushed the key into the ignition and turned on the engine before pulling the driver’s door closed.
“Islam teaches us that God is the foundation of all our relationships, so when you understand this, life isn’t so difficult...” In her head, her own voice mocked her as the vent blew cold air in her face. “Only people without a proper understanding of God and the sacred bond of marriage have serious problems in their lives and marriages.”
Then came the words, the lyrical invasion, falling upon her like an avalanche of rock, a stampeding reminder of the glumness of qadr, her own divinely decreed fate.
Your tongue cannot stop qadr. But it can certainly complicate yours.
