Footsteps

by Umm Zakiyyah

  “She was going to throw it away?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievable,” he agreed.

  “She has dozens of them.” Sarah carried her drinking glass to the table and sat down before taking a sip. “But still.”

  “Is that what you did the whole time? Look at vases?”

  Sarah shook her head as she grinned at her husband. “You men don’t ever change, do you?”

  “I guess not.” But he meant more than she understood.

  “Of course we did other things.” She shook her head again and drank more water. She exhaled, from exhaustion, and relief that she was home.

  “What’d you do today?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “The usual. Wonder if I want to keep working for Uncle Sam or if it’s time we try those cardboard boxes on the street.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve been eyeing them myself. Now that it’ll be only you and me soon, it won’t be such a tight fit.”

  “Well, it’s a good incentive to lose weight. What do you think?”

  She laughed. “I think you need a vacation.”

  “Really?” He sat down, smiling.

  “Yeah. Go visit your mom or something.”

  His smile faded. “My mother?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  Ismael furrowed his brows. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I know it’s farfetched, sweetheart.” Sarah managed to keep a smile on her face, and Ismael could hardly believe what he was hearing. From the sound of her voice, he knew they had been talking about their mothers at Faith’s.

  “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

  “That’s even more reason to try and find her.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m not.” She met his gaze, apparently in an effort to soften the blow of her words. “Think about it. You have no idea. Maybe she wants to see you after all these years.”

  “She has Alzheimer’s, Sarah. She doesn’t even know herself after all these years.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I don’t think my aunt would lie.”

  “I didn’t say she would. I’m just saying, it’s what you heard.”

  “And I suppose I just heard her say she doesn’t want me in her life.”

  Sarah pursed her lips, studying Ismael momentarily. He turned away from her, upset that she would even bring up the subject.

  “Sarah, I know in your world people don’t abandon their children, but—”

  “You know that’s not true. My family practically disowned me when I became Muslim.”

  “Practically.”

  “But still, I know how it feels.”

  “You do not know how it feels, Sarah. Everyone has family feuds.”

  “Yes, but no one else in my family has become Muslim.” She paused, and Ismael read in her eyes what she would say before she said it. “Or married a Black man.”

  He groaned. “Marrying a Black man is not the same as being one.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “And certainly not the same as being a Black man with a White mother who left him to reunite with her so-called family and pretend he doesn’t exist.”

  “What I’m suggesting has nothing to do with Black or White. It—”

  “It has everything to do with Black and White.”

  “—has to do with Islam.”

  At that Ismael grew quiet. He exhaled in frustration and stood. He walked over to the cabinet to retrieve his own glass. He knew, at least on some level, his wife was right. He had an obligation to reach out to his mother. But he couldn’t get over that he was, in essence, reaching out to her by honoring her request—to leave her alone. She had remarried, had children, and she was enjoying the comfort of her White family who, although were aware of her previous marriage to a Black man, had no idea she had a Black son.

  “That was almost thirty years ago, sweetheart. Certainly, things have changed.”

  “I’m sure things have changed, but not this.” He pushed the glass against the dispenser and was silent as he listened to the thin stream of water fill his glass.

  “You’ll never know unless you try.”

  “And if I don’t want to know?” He met his wife’s gaze as she turned in her chair to face him as he carried the glass to the table.

  “That’s not your decision to make.”

  A minute later she sighed. “Sweetheart, you’re almost fifty years old.”

  “Forty eight. You’re almost fifty.”

  He saw her grimace despite her effort to suppress it. She hated when he reminded her that she was his elder by almost two years.

  “Okay, forty-eight. A grown man, old enough to move on and leave the ghosts of the past.”

  “There’s no such thing as past in matters like these. Anyway, what’s the present except the past plus now?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you’re saying.”

  “Ismael, what’s so wrong with calling your aunt?”

  “My aunt isn’t in touch with them. You know my mother would never let any of my father’s family in her life.”

  “I didn’t say she was in touch with them. She told you about your mother being in a nursing home. She must know something.”

  He leaned back in his chair, defeated. He drank from the glass of water, his wife’s words settling over him as the liquid cooled in his stomach. What could it hurt to find his mother? If she were in a nursing home like his father’s sister had said, then there would be little risk involved in locating her.

  He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking about this.

  “Pray on it.” Sarah stood, placing a hand on his shoulder then kissing him on the cheek. She picked up her vase and gazed at it momentarily before starting for the stairs. “And I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, bi’idhnillaah.”

  “Abi?” Ismael heard Aminah call from upstairs.

  He sighed, too exhausted to think about Zaid right then. “Sweetheart, can you log Aminah into my account?” He picked up his glass and let his gaze fall momentarily to the water left there. “She wants to e-mail the brother.”

  There was a long pause, and Ismael didn’t turn to meet his wife’s gaze. He sensed she was feeling too sorry for him to have the energy to get offended at the reminder of their daughter using his account to communicate with the brother.

  “Sure,” he heard Sarah say casually, a weight of emotions behind that word. Then he heard her slow retreat up the steps, the same thoughtful footfalls he had heard from Aminah less than thirty minutes before.

  “But don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?” Tamika asked Sulayman from where she sat across from him at the dining table of their apartment. They had just finished eating, and Sulayman was mulling over what she had asked.

  “It may be,” he said slowly, and Tamika studied his expression and tried to read beyond his words. She wondered if a part of him wanted Tamika to dress like that. Maybe it was common for Muslim men to prefer their wives to dress like Sister Nusaybah and Khadijah did. Tamika had worn the black jilbaab only once before, and that was for the less than fifteen minutes it took her to ride from Aminah’s house to the apartment she would share with her husband after their marriage that day. Even then it hadn’t been her idea, and perhaps if there had been another option that Tamika had thought of, Sarah and Aminah would not have suggested she put it on to cover her hair and elegant gown she was wearing. But it had been a spontaneous decision, and in that brief moment, Tamika had studied her reflection and couldn’t help feeling a bit awkward, as if the full black outer garment was too much, like wearing a large dark sheet. “In the eyes of Americans,” he added. “It’s not something we’re used to.”

  Just then Tamika remembered his graduation speech she had watched on the VCR at Aminah’s house. Sulayman had mentioned the all-black attire as something Americans should consider as an acceptable choice of a free-thinking American who chose to dress as she
pleased.

  “You prefer that?”

  Sulayman wrinkled his forehead and met his wife’s gaze. “Why would you think that?”

  “I just remembered you mentioning it in your graduation speech.”

  His forehead softened, and he nodded. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I prefer it. I just felt like using an extreme example to make them second guess how they view Muslim women’s dress in general.”

  “So you think it’s extreme?”

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean extreme in that sense. But in the way a non-Muslim would think of it.”

  “But don’t a lot of Muslims see it as extreme too?”

  “Yes. They do. But that’s a bit hypocritical, I think.”

  Tamika considered that momentarily.

  “How can we ask non-Muslims, especially in America, to be open-minded to a different lifestyle or dress if we’re close-minded ourselves?” He added, “Amongst ourselves.”

  She nodded. “Maybe Muslims feel it just makes it harder for Muslims to answer questions on things like that. It’s hard enough explaining hijab by itself.”

  “True. But that’s not our decision to make, just like it’s not their decision to rule any Muslim dress un-American. Yes, it’s difficult explaining hijab, but we can’t think from the position of ease on a non-Muslim. We have to think from the position of Muslims themselves, and that necessitates us being open to other views, even if they’re not our own.” He paused. “Unless they are truly extreme.”

  “But how do you measure extreme? It seems a bit extreme to drive in all of that, even if you want to wear it.”

  “Yes, but true extremity is exceeding the limits set by Allah. And, Islamically, going to extremes is a sin. So we have to ask ourselves, can a person potentially go to Hell fire for this? If the answer is no, then it’s not extreme.”

  “Then what would count as extreme?”

  He forced laughter. “Terrorism for one.”

  “That’s an extreme example though.”

  “But that’s my point.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.”

  “Or let’s say someone says they’ll never get married,” he said. “Or that they’ll fast and never break their fast, to use an example from the time of the Prophet, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam.”

  “So basically if it’s haraam, it’s extreme?”

  “Uh,” he thought aloud, “I guess you can say that. But I’m not sure if the examples I gave will count as sins. But they are exceeding the bounds set by the Prophet, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam.”

  “So not everything that’s extreme is a sin?”

  “I really can’t say, but in general extremes are sinful. But then again, some things just may not be preferable, like never marrying.” He added, “But obviously something like harming innocent people is sinful.”

  “I just can’t see myself wearing that.” Tamika shook her head at the thought. “Especially while I’m driving.”

  “It’s hard to imagine.”

  “To say the least.” She laughed.

  “But you see it differently once you travel to places where it’s common.”

  “You’ve traveled?”

  “Once.”

  “Where?”

  “Saudi Arabia. For ‘Umrah. My parents took us once during Ramadan while we were in high school.”

  “Did you like it?”

  He smiled in reflection. “Yeah, I loved it.”

  Tamika could only imagine the opportunity to visit the Ka’bah in Mecca, let alone perform ‘Umrah or Hajj. She had never traveled outside the United States. Her mother’s financial situation barely afforded the opportunity to travel within the country, and even then Tamika had never been to the West coast, or to Hawaii or Alaska.

  “InshaAllaah, I’ll take you one day.”

  A broad smile formed on Tamika’s face. “Really?”

  “I hope to.” He smiled. “But first I have to put you through graduate school like I promised.”

  Tamika frowned. “Graduate school?”

  “Yeah, to at least get your master’s.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t even want to think about school right now.”

  “Who does? But that’s life. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “No, maybe there’s nothing a man can do about it. But for a woman, I think a bachelor’s is plenty.”

  “But you never know what can happen tomorrow.”

  “If I think like that, I’ll miss today.”

  “Yes, but my mother always told me that education is a must for a woman.”

  “But how much education?”

  “I know, but, unfortunately, a bachelor’s is becoming like a high school degree was before.”

  “So? And people survived then, and they’ll survive now, inshaAllaah.”

  Sulayman’s gaze grew distant and he was silent momentarily. “But I put it in our contract.”

  “Yes, but that isn’t on you unless I decide to go in the first place.”

  “But it is on me, Tamika. I promised your mother and aunt that.”

  She met his gaze with her forehead creased. “My mother and aunt?”

  “When I went to visit before we got married.”

  Tamika didn’t know what to say. Part of her was inclined to get upset. But she couldn’t. She had come to respect the trip he had made without telling her. If he had made that promise to her mother and aunt, well, she was flattered. How couldn’t she be? But, still, it was not her promise to keep.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to find a graduate school that teaches Qur’an, Arabic, and Islamic studies. Because that’s all I want to focus on right now.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll find that anywhere. In the U.S. anyway.”

  “Then we can just move overseas.”

  He laughed. “Not a bad idea, except I’m in the middle of medical school.”

  “Then I guess we’ll just have to wait until you’re Dr. Sulayman Ali, M.D. before I have anything more than a bachelor’s,” she teased with a grin.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” He grinned in return. “Considering I won’t have any money to pay for your school until then.”

  “Deal.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake, and when he did, she said, “Now I have two more years to think of another excuse.”

  He laughed. “I love you.”

  She started to let go of his hand out of shyness, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “I’m serious, I do.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t look at him as she felt her cheeks grow warm. “And I love you too.”

  Sarah tapped the back of her knuckles on the open door to the guest room before entering. Aminah sat with her back to the door, surfing the Internet as she waited for her father to log her into his e-mail. She turned quickly at the sound of the knock, and for a split second Sarah saw the anxious excitement in her daughter’s eyes as she hoped her father had finally come upstairs. It died as quickly as it had come, and Aminah turned back to what she was doing online.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum,” Aminah said mechanically, unable to conceal her lack of enthusiasm for finding her mother at the door instead.

  “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam.” Sarah walked over to the bed and sat on the edge so that she could see Aminah’s profile.

  “InshaAllaah, I’m going to log you into your father’s account,” Sarah said to avoid beating around the bush. Aminah turned to her mother with a look of confusion and surprise. Apparently, this was the first she heard of her mother knowing about the e-mails. “But first I want to make a suggestion.”

  Sarah observed her daughter’s expression, and she could tell Aminah didn’t know what to make of her mother’s last words. She turned her attention back to the computer screen, but her mother understood it was not out of disrespect. Aminah didn’t know how to meet her mother’s eyes right then. She was paying no attention to the words and icons on the glowing monitor in front of her fa
ce. She was bracing herself for the worst, and Sarah felt a tinge of guilt for playing a part in her daughter’s pessimism and uncertainty.

  “Before you make a final decision,” Sarah said. “Before you give your father, or me, your final answer, I want you to ask the brother something for me, for yourself,” she corrected.

  Aminah’s hand stilled on the mouse and she glanced at her mother, turning slightly to face Sarah. But she still couldn’t meet her mother’s gaze completely.

  “Ask him what it is that attracted him to you, what makes him certain that you, and only you, are the one he wants to marry.”

  After a minute of silence, with Aminah listening with her eyes distantly on her stilled hand, Aminah brought her hand to her lap to join the other, and she turned her body to face her mother.

  “But isn’t that…” Aminah paused to gather her thoughts. “A lot to ask before you’re married?”

  “No, it’s not inappropriate if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “But what if he says something about how I look? I thought we shouldn’t talk about that.”

  “You won’t be talking, Aminah. You’ll be listening. And even if he does talk about how you look, then that’s something.”

  Aminah brought her eyebrows together, apparently puzzled by her mother’s words.

  “What I mean is that it’s something to consider before making a decision.”

  “I don’t see how knowing how I look to him can help me decide.”

  Sarah smiled gently, knowing it would take more than one conversation for her daughter to understand. Sarah was not rushing. She was grateful to Allah that He had even given her this opportunity. “I’m not saying it would. I’m saying that whatever his reason, whether it’s your appearance, your family, or your religion.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Or all of it. It will help you understand who you’re marrying, how he thinks, and if this is someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

  Aminah’s expression softened, and Sarah could tell she was at least considering the suggestion. “Can’t you and Dad ask him that?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Even if we did, we wouldn’t hear what you’d hear if you asked him yourself, even if we were sitting right there.”