If Hoda was contemplating going back to Johns Hopkins for a stint during her time home—she had no way of knowing whether she would have to fulfill her Afghanistan tour—she was rudely disabused in a few days. Somebody leaked that she was being considered for a very high decoration, and her status as a woman graduate of the Ranger school and an active-duty Muslim soldier made the story a natural, together with her fashion model beauty. It “got legs” as the expression went, causing a media frenzy. She and Jake awoke one morning to see satellite trucks on the street in front of the condo building, and their front door and phone blew up completely. Calmly, Jake fielded all comers, never losing his temper. He was her knight, again.
Ordinarily, there was no pressure for a decision in such cases, but Hoda’s was very different; everyone wanted to weigh in, and everyone wanted it decided the way they saw things. The essential difference was between the DSM and Medal of Honor: did her deeds in the field that fateful day reach the level of the highest bravery?
In the end, they did not—to Hoda’s intense relief.
Word came by way of Major Holman that the investigation committee in the Department of Defense had determined the Distinguished Service Medal was the proper award. Hoda would have been happy to have none of it, but she was ordered to be present for a Rose Garden medal ceremony at which another soldier’s parents would be presented with his posthumous Medal of Honor, while she and two others would received their awards personally from the Commander in Chief.
And that was how Jake Holman and Marwa joined Maryam and Abdul at the White House, proudly applauding as the President of the United States handed Hoda her medal. Despite precedent, he would not pin it on, he said, in deference to Hoda’s Muslim faith and the prohibition of male-female contact. Thus it was that Jake, himself, pinned it on, to the accompaniment of thousands of electronic strobes.
There was one silver lining to the embarrassing episode, Hoda found: by special order of the President, she was free from returning to finish her tour in Afghanistan. Better still, she was released from active Army duty and returned to Reserve status. As she had been given an early certification in psychiatry to send her in-country in the first place, she was now board certified in psychiatry, and could “hang her shingle” in private practice.
Which is exactly what she proposed to do.
Gradually, her practice grew, and she was able to be home each night when Jake arrived, adorned as befitted a Muslim wife for her husband. It was again an idyllic life. But inevitably one day she announced to Jake she planned to accept an offer from a publisher to print the story of her Afghan exploits. An astonished Jake asked why his modest wife would do such a thing.
“We need a house, Jake,” she said earnestly. “And the advance will be a down payment.”
“Why? We’re happy here.”
“No, Jake,” Hoda said, a secret smile spreading on her beautiful lips. “We need more room.”
Jake Holman swept his gorgeous wife into his arms and kissed her. He wouldn’t be fooled again.
Epilog
Her grandparents and all their friends were aghast, but Marwa Holman didn’t care: she was going to the senior prom.
She could barely contain herself. Her mother, Hoda, lavished attention on the daughter who inherited her ravishing beauty. Proud parents had purchased everything she needed, outfitting her from beautiful head to demure toes. She would attend the prom as a proper Muslim lady—together with several Muslima friends.
Hoda and Jake had talked it over a long time before assenting. Ironically—or perhaps not—it was Marwa’s American father who was leaning against it. Hoda had never had anything like a social life, so common in America, and wanted her daughter to slowly integrate into the American way. Slowly, and judiciously. Of all the controlled situations, none seemed to Hoda to present the best opportunity as senior prom. It stood alone as the social event of a young woman’s girlhood.
Several factors came together to clear Marwa’s prom path. First, through the years the idea of formal dates had receded, and groups of friends merely attended as just that: groups. So it was that Marwa and several friends—Muslim girls all—would be together.
Next, and equally crucial, would be the secret chaperone. Little did the girls know, but the maitre d’hotel of the Carlton, where the prom would take place, was Egyptian. So was his wife. And they would attend prom, where the couple had arranged a place for the girls to pray isha, the night prayer, undisturbed or observed. Furthermore, the chaperones would discreetly watch over the festivities. Even the music, though that was something the maitre’ knew enough to finesse; conservative parents would not approve of it all, but modern music was what it was.
Hoda was as delighted as Marwa. Not until her wedding to Jake had Hoda had the opportunity to bond with her mother over the details of a formal affair. Mother and daughter shopped, mostly online though occasionally in person, endlessly for the hijab outfit, the right combination of color and conservatism. However much western girls might display themselves, the Muslim girls would hew to the dictates of Islam, albeit with as modern adjustments as could be reasonably tolerated.
From time to time, Marwa balked at the relentless barrage of admonitions, especially from her father, who worried constantly.
“Baba,” Marwa said finally, “you just don’t understand. We won’t be dancing with the boys. We’ll be dancing with each other! The boys won’t get near us.”
“Well,” Jake sniffed, “see that they don’t.”
Contrary to what most men thought, Jake Holman well remembered the first time he saw his wife in hijab. It was in the hospital after she’d been wounded on a mission they shared, and Jake was instantly smitten. He never knew why; it was just something about it. Mystery, something. But contrary to putting men off, the hijab attracted some men, and Jake knew better than most. Still, there would be the secret chaperones, and Jake knew well enough the care that would be taken.
Hoda took prom day off from her private psychiatry practice, and Jake, who worked at home, didn’t do any. He spent the day instead with Marwa’s brother, Ahmed. They hit the sporting goods stores and a gun shop or two, before burning a few rounds at the local range. Marwa didn’t have her mother’s gun eye, but Ahmed did. He was a pleasant kid, and Jake couldn’t fault him for being a basketball and track star instead of football.
By the time they got home it was almost show time. A limousine nosed into the driveway, and three young women climbed out, in colorful abayas, Muslim smocks, all. They came to the door and rang the bell, where Hoda took pictures and everyone could barely contain their excitement. Jake tried to be objective, but couldn’t: Marwa was far the most beautiful of the four, a stunning vision. And all his doubts resurfaced. He had to swallow them back down. He’d promised.
Marwa and her mother exchanged the cheek-cheek, kiss-kiss, and she hugged her father—and brother! That surprised Jake.
“Sis, you look gorgeous,” Ahmed said softly. This surprised Jake even more, and he was proud of the young man, reaching maturity. Not long ago he would have been resentful of all the attention focused on his sister.
Jake watched the girls head out to the limo. He knew they were excited, but they didn’t show it; it wouldn’t be in keeping with Muslim feminine modesty. They didn’t walk, they glided, in their ballet slippers. How did they do that? Jake wondered for the umpteenth time. One by one they disappeared into the car, which vanished from the yard in a surge of red tail lights.
And then came the long, for Jake and Hoda, tortuous wait.
The countless thoughts that passed through Jake’s head were not all productive. Were this a mission, he could see it through. But it wasn’t, and it was his darling Marwa at stake. Nothing could make him rest easy. There were enough Muslims in the city so they weren’t a novelty, and enough time had passed since Nine-Eleven that that insanity had mostly passed. But one never knew, and kids could be so cruel. Not to mention any mixture with alcohol… Stop it, Jake told himself ruthles
sly. This isn’t helping.
Hoda watched Jake wrestle with his demons. She was wrestling, too, but her demons were less aggressive. She didn’t discuss Jake’s discomfort with him; it wouldn’t be a wife’s place. Besides, she didn’t need to. They had been married long enough for her to read his mind.
Midnight approached: curfew. Jake was under the headphones at his ham station in the basement, playing morse code with other hams. It occupied his mind. Hoda was reading case files. The telephone rang. Hoda let it ring twice, deliberately, before picking it slowly up.
“Yes?…That’s nice. Yes, we understand. Thanks for calling. See you in a few minutes.” And she hung up. Jake was hovering over her.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What’s the sitrep?” Situation report.
“They’re running a few minutes behind. They’ll be home about 12:15.”
“I knew it,” Jake said vehemently.
“Jake, don’t be a baby,” Hoda said tartly. “You’ll spoil it for Marwa.”
Jake Holman took a deep breath. He looked at his wife and saw the woman he married, the glow that always melted his obdurate heart. He went to her, bent, hissed her fragrant hair. She touched his cheeks, lifted her face and he kissed her lips. Barely, at first, a whisper. Then gradually stronger until he began to tremble. Hoda always made strong men tremble. And Jake, her Jake, was the strongest of men.
Sure enough, in less than 20 minutes the lights of the limo in the driveway shone on the living room walls. Jake took up a studiously casual position in the den, where he could see out to the front of the house. Hoda was at the door when Marwa opened it.
“Oh-my-God!” Marwa gushed, trying to say myriad things at once as her synapses all seemed to fire at once. She looked at her mother, tried to speak, and then just hugged her tightly, tears pouring from her eyes.
But Marwa’s tears were joy. It was only then her parents—for Jake had joined his wife in the foyer—noticed the tiara.
“Baba!” Marwa shrieked. “I’m the queen! They made me queen! Of the prom!”
Typically contrarian, Jake’s analytical mind told him: Well, apparently diversity is the new order of the high school day.
Marwa produced a folder of pictures, paid for by the school, of her and her friends in Muslim attire; and, later, of Marwa by herself as prom queen, and another of her with her king. Jake knew the boy, he played basketball with Ahmed. Good shooting forward. Decent family, both parents married and in the home: all the things Jake respected. Not that it was his decision, he reminded himself. But he was entitled to an opinion, and they’d chosen well. After all, it was his daughter in the picture with him.
But, he noticed, the boy wasn’t touching Marwa, the way a traditional date would in a posed picture. He wondered whether Marwa insisted—or did the boy just know?
For the next hour, Hoda and Jake were treated to a blow-by-blow account of the evening. Eventually, even Marwa’s energy and excitement began to dim.
“Time for bed?” her mother asked.
“I guess so,” Marwa said. “I just hate to let this day go.”
“You will have many more, insha’Allah,” her mother said softly.
“Baba,” said Marwa. “Mama. I can’t thank you enough for having faith in me.”
Hoda and Jake exchanged glances, then looked back at their daughter. They said enough with their eyes. Marwa climbed the stairs, hugging her brother as she passed.
Proud parents embraced.
“Things have changed in twenty years, haven’t they?” Jake said with a contented sigh.
“Not everything,” Hoda said, leaning over to him.
“No?”
“No. I still love you like the first time I saw you.”
“Is that how you remember it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It must be so. Because I love you just as much, too.”
And they kissed, just like their first time.
The End
Hoda & Jake • 182
Hoda and Jake Page 20
