PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2017

by Kelly Link

  I wouldn’t say that I am jealous of Sousan; no, not at all. But when I think about her and Ahmed, I feel a particular loneliness brewing inside my gut. Could marriage, the flood of love Sousan’s experiencing, drown this emptiness?

  When Elissa’s “Aa Baly Habibi” comes on, I shimmy my shoulders and sing as loudly as I can: My love, I want to; My love, I want to.

  My Amal, what is it that you want?

  A week goes by without a response from Omar.

  He is busy with his studies, I tell myself.

  Sousan does sit-ups at my feet. The wedding is two days away.

  You want him to do well, I think, so he can go to England.

  England.

  Amal, will you miss me?

  Sousan leans on me, her hands on my knees.

  I swallow the lump building in my throat, feel the tears pooling in my eyes.

  She dives onto the couch with me, nuzzles her head on my shoulder, laces her fingers into mine.

  My mother walks in with glasses of yogurt to find the two of us sniffling.

  Oh, my loves.

  She wraps her arms around our shoulders, rocks us back and forth with our temples close to one another’s as she did when we were small.

  My father joins next, kissing each of us on the tops of our heads.

  It is hard to be surrounded by so much love and yet feel so out of place.

  By the eve of the wedding, I have yet to hear from Omar.

  Surely if he were back in Mafrag, he would have messaged me. Surely Aunt Hanan would have brought him over this afternoon for coffee. Surely I would know he was near. So where is he?

  And then I realize: No, of course we didn’t hear from him. It is the day before a wedding! There have been so many details to align and organize before the big day that none of us have had a moment to relax. Omar was being polite, I tell myself, by not announcing his arrival. He wants us to focus our attention on the bride, on the last night we’ll have her in our home. And so I happily join my mother in an orbit around Sousan, painting her nails and combing her hair.

  But that evening, after my mother and father and Sousan have turned off the lights and fallen into their beds, I log on to Facebook. Tomorrow, Omar will be there, celebrating with the men. While it is true we will likely not see each other, we will be dancing, singing, celebrating at the exact same moment in adjacent rooms, all in honor of Sousan and Ahmed’s marriage.

  Marriage.

  I cannot keep my face from smiling.

  I have over fifty notifications, and thirteen messages. I pace myself, going through the notifications first. No need to rush, I say. If he’s written you, it will be there. Just be yourself.

  A friend from university has tagged me and thirty others in a pic of Queen Rania. The words Charm. Beauty. Confidence. Queen. float beside her smiling face. Nearly everyone has commented, offering praises to our royal family. Nour has invited me to play Bubble Witch Saga and CastleVille and Mall World, games I have always wanted to play but which never seem to load on my screen.

  I take a deep breath, click on my messages. Several from Nour, Sousan, Aliya. Nothing from Omar.

  I go to his profile page, scan through his feed. His last status update was over two weeks ago. No new pictures have been added. And while friends have seemed to write on his wall, he hasn’t as much as liked any of the posts. Where is he?

  I write him a message, hoping that he is online and will reply.

  Dear Omar,

  Are you in Mafrag? The wedding is tomorrow!!

  Before you go back to Amman, you must come over for coffee. My parents will insist.

  Love,

  Amal

  After I click send, I think about the word love and begin to regret having used it. Am I being too direct? Will he think that, because I mentioned my parents, I want him to formally discuss our relationship with them? (Do we even have a “relationship”?) I sit in the darkness for an hour, reading our correspondence over and over to look for clues, hints that he isn’t really interested in me—that he was just being nice. It can’t be the case, I tell myself. Why would he have said that it would be so nice to see me? And why would he write to me in English? I wait for him, but there is no response. I crawl into bed, unable to sleep. My feet shake under the sheets.

  Then I begin to get angry. Why is he ignoring me? Is he trying to torture me? And almost instantly, with these self-centered thoughts, the worst images come to mind: ambulances, a jail cell, the dead man in the road in downtown Amman. If only Omar had stayed here in Mafrag, I think, he would be protected by the clan.

  Amal? Are you awake? Sousan asks.

  I stop my turning, try to lay quiet, still.

  Amal?

  Yes, Sou Sou, I’m awake.

  I can’t sleep, she says. I’m too happy to sleep.

  After some years, after both Sousan and I have children, children who play at our feet while we sip cigarettes and tea, I’ll think back to this moment, to this last instance when we lay parallel to each other in our beds.

  Things are much quieter around our house now that the wedding festivities are over. In some ways, it is a relief; we don’t have any more crafts to complete, any more paper boxes to score and fold, any more makeup or hairstyles to experiment with. But in other ways, there is an aimlessness to our daily activities. It is strange how one can plan an event for months, look forward to something for years, it seems, just to have it end.

  My mother tries to occupy her time with little projects, with repairs and hobbies she has been putting off for ages. She has even bought a Learn English Today! workbook, but whenever she tries to read the short paragraphs or copy down the new vocabulary words, she falls asleep with her cheek on her fist, her mouth open. My father, when returning home from work, slumps on a cushion in front of the TV, perpetually flipping through the channels. News reports about protests in Amman flash on the screen, and while these cause my ears to perk up, he seems as uninterested in them as he is in soap operas and American films.

  I spend the bulk of my days at the university. It’s not that there is much for me to do there either, but now, with Sousan and Ahmed in their own apartment, our home feels too spacious, too dark. It is as if the building itself is grieving the loss of a loved one.

  Except when it is time for afternoon tea. Now, my mother and I have two guests to entertain: Aunt Hanan and Sousan. And for those few hours, it feels lighter, brighter inside.

  Oh, Sou Sou, our bride! my mother says, squeezing Sousan from the side.

  Really, habibiti, the wedding was perfect, says Aunt Hanan. And your jewelry is so lovely!

  Sousan brings her hand to her chest, fingering one of the delicate gold necklaces Ahmed presented to her at the reception. Each piece is adorned with tiny pink stones clustered to form the shape of a heart.

  It was really all I’ve ever wanted, she says.

  And this is how it goes. We light cigarettes, and brew sweetened tea, and reminisce over our favorite moments of the party. How Sousan and Ahmed sat on a gilded couch at the front of the room, the two of them radiating happiness. How the women joined hands to form a circle, smiling and dancing and celebrating our beloveds. How, before departing to the men’s party, Ahmed bowed to the crowd and whispered into Sousan’s ear. And how she smiled and floated in a cloud of white toward the center, where we surrounded her and danced, my mother and Aunt Hanan yelling to the beat: Yes! Yes! Sou Sou, yes!

  I have a memory of the wedding that I do not share with the others. After Sousan joined the women in the circle, she closed her eyes, raised her hands, and shook her hips. At that moment, I thought to myself, Maybe Omar was just kidding around. Maybe he wanted to make his appearance a surprise. And maybe, I thought, when Ahmed reenters the men’s party, Omar will be the one to clap him on the shoulder, to try to sneak a glance into our room. I moved beside my si
ster and followed her lead; the two of us held hands and danced, each smiling because of a young man in the adjoining reception.

  How foolish of me. Omar wasn’t there, I learned the next day, and he still hasn’t written me back.

  That night, once Aunt Hanan and Sousan have left, and my mother and father go to sleep, I decide to act. I cannot just wait here, hoping he will show up one day. And so, for the first time, I tell Omar a lie.

  Dear Omar,

  Keefik, habibi? We were sorry to hear that you didn’t make it to Sousan and Ahmed’s wedding. It was really so beautiful. But we know how busy you are with your studies. I hope that you are giving yourself at least a little time to relax!

  I am writing to tell you that I will be in Amman next Sunday. There is a book I need to buy, one that the stores in Mafrag do not have. Would you be able to meet me for coffee? I do not know the city at all, but if you know of a place near the city center, I will try to find it.

  With love,

  Amal

  

  I am restless after sending this, and become careless around the house. I begin to bicker with my mother over the tiniest things, blaming her for my own clumsiness. By the next evening, she suggests that I spend a few nights with Sousan, even though it would mean imposing myself on the newlyweds. I first scoff at the idea, but begin to consider it as I log on to Facebook late that night.

  I have one message; it’s from Omar.

  My dear Amal,

  It would be an honor to have coffee with you. I cannot believe that you will be here . . . or that your parents will let you travel alone! They must know how clever you are. Let’s meet at Jara Café on Rainbow Street, around 1 p.m. It will be wonderful to see you.

  Love,

  Omar

  I hear my father stirring in his bedroom, and then a particularly violent sneeze. I panic and quickly shut down the computer without logging off or closing any programs and rush to get into my bed. I lay in the darkness for a long while.

  The following Sunday, I wake and get myself ready as if I am going to the university. But I have a difficult time deciding what to wear. I put on multiple outfits, look in the mirror disapprovingly, then peel them off and toss them on Sousan’s empty bed. (I don’t want it to be too obvious that I am trying hard, but I am really trying hard!) In the end, I decide to go simple, conservative, with a splash of color: a taupe jilbab, one with shiny brass buttons and a belt that cinches at the waist, a watercolor hijab, and pale pink flats with roses on the toe. I fasten my scarf with pins adorned with tiny fabric roses, and wear the slightest smudge of mascara.

  I move through the house quickly, downing my coffee at the sink, and search for something clean and easy—a pastry, a piece of fruit—to grab for the bus.

  My mother watches me from the entrance to the kitchen, but I do not notice her presence until she speaks.

  What’s the rush?

  I drop a spoon. Mamma, I—

  You look nice.

  I avoid eye contact by rummaging through the fridge, where I find an orange. I have a tutoring session with a first-year, I say. Her English is horrible.

  She kisses me on the cheek as I walk past. Be careful, she says. And, here, take some money for lunch. You have to eat more than that!

  I had forgotten about the hills in Amman. I knew about them—of course I did—but it was as if my mind didn’t remember that it remembered until I saw them once again. As I walk from the bus station to downtown, I notice how the square white buildings planted onto the steep hillsides appear to be stacked atop one another, how the cedar trees reach like arms toward the sky.

  The air is cool and crisp and brighter here than in Mafrag, I think, and I am happy.

  In the distance, I can see the Citadel atop the hill to my right, and the Roman Theatre to my left. It’s curious to me how these landmarks look essentially the same as the picture in my mind, but ever so slightly shrunken. While it is true that I have grown, I wonder if, somehow, these images have bloomed in my mind, if they also have grown in the past thirteen years since their roots took hold in my memory.

  I pass a string of souvenir shops. Scarves hang from the awnings and, on the sidewalk, postcards sit in spinners. It is then I get the idea to look for the one that says Jordan: The Diamond in the Desert, and give it to Omar during our meeting. He’d think it so funny! I turn the metal rack, looking for the phrase. I see camels and bedouins—it is strange to me that tourists buy these pictures of people who look so much like my family members. There are pictures of Petra and the Dead Sea, places I’ve never been, of the beach at Aqaba and the king and queen. One postcard says, Jordanian and proud of it. Another has a picture of a camel in a niqab and says, Jordanian Princess. (I cannot tell if I am to laugh or to be offended.) I see the shopkeeper sweeping in the back, and I ask him for help.

  He leads me to the selection of English-language postcards. He picks one and hands it to me, but, to my disappointment, it is not the one I want. Instead, it reads, I’m famous in Amman. I tell him the phrase again, and he says, This is what I have. What else do you want?

  I apologize and leave quickly, a little flustered. Of course, it is silly of me to think that one postcard I saw thirteen years ago would still be there. I cannot even be certain that it is the same shop. As I walk toward the city center, I feel as if all the shopkeepers—the juice sellers and spice merchants—are watching me. I am grateful when I reach a busier portion of the block, where men and women peruse the stores and vegetables for sale on the side of the road. I check my mobile: I have just over an hour until I am to meet Omar.

  Prayer has ended, and people flow out of the mosque and onto the square. I ask a woman in a black abaya if she can direct me to Rainbow Street. She hesitates, and then asks a friend, who speaks so loudly that a pious-looking man nearby can hear, and they all debate for a few minutes which is the best way for me to go.

  Could I walk there? I ask.

  You could, the man says, but it’s a ways up. He points to a nearby hill, one that looks as steep as a mountain from where we stand. Take care, sister, he says.

  I begin my ascent. While I am not used to much exercise, it is difficult to tell whether the pounding in my chest is from a lack of stamina or from the excitement of seeing Omar for the first time in I-cannot-remember-how-long. By the time I reach the first landing, though, I most certainly am out of breath. I pause to get some rest, and turn to see the progress I’ve made, which is much more than I had expected. I can see all of downtown below me: the mosque and the Roman Theatre and the road that leads to the bus station. The Citadel is perched on a hill opposite me, and while I am not quite at its level, I feel elevated, amazed. To think that I took the two-hour bus ride here, by myself, without help or instructions from anyone! My parents would be furious if they knew. But, maybe, after they got over their initial shock and worry, they’d feel pride, confidence in what I am capable of. It is so wonderful to be here, to see these places that I remember from when I was quite young, to be in the same city that Omar lives in. I wonder if he lives nearby, if he buys his vegetables and meat from the market near the mosque, if he has greeted those same people who gave me directions.

  At the same time, the thought of my childhood trip and Omar causes a loneliness to creep inside my chest. What if it’s not the same between us?

  Dear Amal, why are you afraid?

  An ivy-covered path leads me to the next staircase, flanked on both sides by a rose garden. An orange cat lies in the sun, sleeping.

  Finally, I find myself on Rainbow Street. It is a beautiful street, much cleaner and neater than the city center or Mafrag, and the storefronts all have signage in English: cantaloupe, wazzup dog, waffle house, q. The street is less crowded than downtown, and every person is so lovely and chic, I assume they must all be foreign. Two women with flowing blond hair and high heels walk toward me with ice cream cones. They are s
o beautiful and stylish I can hardly stand to be near them. I have never met a foreigner, though I read about them all the time. Here is your chance, I say to myself. Tell them, Hello. But as they approach, I realize that they aren’t speaking English or French, but Arabic. I smile and nod as they pass, but I cannot tell if they can even see me from behind their large sunglasses. I am suddenly very aware of how small I am, how my jilbab—even though

  belted—hangs shapeless off my frame. I must seem so quaint to them.

  The café Omar has suggested is more wonderful than I could have imagined: an open rooftop overlooking downtown, with fountains and tiny tables surrounded by colorful embroidered pillows. A man stands at the front gate, nodding at customers as they walk in. He stares at me for several seconds before asking, Yes?

  Excuse me. I am meeting a friend here.

  He raises his eyebrows and calls over a waiter. I cannot hear what they are saying. What I can hear, however, is my rural accent, something I never even considered before.

  I interrupt: Sorry—can’t I go inside? I am early, but my friend will be here soon.

  The waiter leads me to a table, sets down two menus.

  He says, I’m sorry, miss, but we only have menus in English.

  And this is what I do not have the courage to say in response: That’s no problem, sir. I speak English quite well, actually.

  But instead I lower my head, mutter, Okay, under my breath, and study the menu until he leaves.

  Omar is late. I read and reread the menu over and over. How I would love to smoke argeela here while I wait, but I know I cannot. For one thing, I do not want to speak to that waiter again and, for another, I could never smoke in a place so open, so public.

  When he finally arrives, I am no longer upset or embarrassed. He walks in smiling, with his hands in the pockets of his light gray jeans. His eyes are just the color I remember them to be.

  I cannot hide my grin.

  We greet each other formally, as if we were strangers and not family. We do not hug or shake hands or touch at all. When we sit, the waiter returns. Omar orders us two glasses of honeydew juice. I try to take slow, steady breaths.