A Good Wife

by Samra Zafar

  As soon as we sat down, I could tell that something was wrong. Ahmed’s gaze flashed to me repeatedly, menace darkening his eyes. Sure enough, after dinner he grabbed my elbow. “Come upstairs. I need to talk to you,” he said in a harsh whisper.

  Away from the party, Ahmed pushed me into the bedroom and locked the door behind him. Then his hand smashed against the side of my face—so hard that I was knocked off my feet. “You whore! Why were you showing your ass to your uncle?” Ahmed was now kicking me in the side as I lay on the floor gasping in pain. “Bending over in front of him like a randi!”

  Kick after kick landed on my stomach and ribs before Ahmed stepped away from me. “Don’t make any drama when you come downstairs,” he spat. And then he turned and left the room.

  His fury took me, yet again, by surprise. I lay on the floor trying to catch my breath, trying to reach through the pain to figure out how badly I was hurt and whether or not I could sit up.

  Eventually I pulled myself up and walked gingerly into the bathroom. I couldn’t believe what I saw in the mirror—the bright red handprint across my cheek, the expression of pain, the ravaged hair and makeup. And yet I realized that I might have predicted this. My coolness towards him, my own outbursts, my chattiness, my loose hair, my party clothes. All of these were “provocations.” They had not gone unnoticed or been accepted. Instead Ahmed had been stockpiling these insults until there was a safe time to light the match. And then he found himself in a house full of people, in the midst of a celebration that he knew I didn’t want to ruin. And he let himself explode.

  This was the most sustained violence I had ever suffered—and it was timed perfectly. Ahmed knew I wouldn’t leave him just days before the wedding. He knew there was time for me to calm down, for the memory to fade, for the bruises to heal, the sting to diminish.

  I leaned forward over the sink. After a decade of these attacks, I was practised at “recovery.” As bits and pieces of music drifted up from the first floor, I let the tears fall for a few more minutes. Then I pulled myself together, washed my face, covered the marks with makeup and fixed my hair. I told myself to breathe deeply, to push the incident out of my mind, to pretend that it hadn’t happened, to rejoin the party with a big smile. And to keep smiling until my portrayal of a happy wife was accepted by everyone—even myself.

  * * *

  A few days later, I walked my sister into the garden for her nikah ceremony. Her husband-to-be, Junaid, was waiting on the dais, looking at her with an expression of such love and joy that I felt the breath catch in my throat. I was so, so happy for her, yet my happiness was tinged with heartache. I knew that no one had ever looked at me like that.

  Saira and Junaid had been a love match. They had met through work, become friends and then fallen for each other. For weeks now, I had watched as they moved in and out of each other’s orbit with an ease and intimacy that spoke of true connection. I noticed the way my sister’s eyes brightened when Junaid walked into a room, and the way he broke into a smile whenever Saira spoke. It was a closeness that I could only imagine.

  Ever since arriving in Abu Dhabi in the fall, I had been living vicariously through Saira. I hadn’t been involved in my own wedding preparations at all, so I shared her happy excitement as she picked out her flowers, chose her dress and chatted about the coming celebration. But now, as much as I tried to focus on the beaming bride in front of me, I could no longer stand in her shoes. I was just feeling sorry for myself.

  For so many years, driving around Mississauga, trapped in a back seat while the blue-and-white University of Toronto signs flashed by, I’d thought that if only I could get an education I would be happy. But I had been doing just that, and yet I wasn’t content. I was beginning to realize that I wanted more. I wanted a life. I wanted the freedom to go where I pleased and stay as long as I liked. I wanted to meet new people and make new friends without hiding them from anyone. I wanted to trust and be trusted. I wanted to spend my days with people who respected me. I wanted to love and to be loved. This was the weight I’d been carrying around for months back in Canada.

  When Saira and her husband left the rukhsati party and the banquet hall later that evening, everyone was crying. It had been an effervescent, magical day.

  I was crying too, but not sentimental tears. I was crying because my respite was over. Soon I would be flying back to Canada with Ahmed, returning to a life that was as confusing as it was bleak. A life that I knew I needed to change.

  * * *

  Before we left my family in Karachi, I decided we would have one last party—a surprise for my uncle. I wanted to thank him for making us so welcome in his home for the previous couple of weeks. He loved barbecues, so I bought and marinated a huge amount of meat and spent the day cooking side dishes and getting everything ready. My uncle was delighted by the unexpected treat. After dinner, he stood up to say a few words. He thanked everyone for coming, and he praised the food. Then he looked over at me.

  I was smiling at him in anticipation of his words of gratitude to me—a much-needed salve for my sore ribs and aching heart.

  “I just have to say . . .” he began, “no one in this family is as lucky as Samra. She has such a wonderful, loving husband!”

  * * *

  In the early years of our unhappiness, I had dismissed the pushes, the pinching, the slaps and kicks, just as my mother had, just as Amma might have. This wasn’t the same as being “hit.” This wasn’t the same as broken bones. But Ahmed’s attack on me in Karachi had exposed the lie in that faulty logic. I was being hit. Ahmed, I now understood, thought of this violence only as a sign of his passion. He was intent on keeping us together. I was becoming more determined to separate. And yet I hadn’t left. Despite what I thought all those years ago, perhaps being hit didn’t make leaving any easier.

  We arrived back at the salmon-coloured house in the early days of a cold and dreary Canadian February. A miasma of conflict and disquiet came with us.

  But the tension was not limited to Ahmed and me.

  Once we were settled, he and I both noticed something curious. It was very quiet. The house had been put up for sale in the fall, just as Ahmed had promised me. When he arrived in Abu Dhabi, he had told me that there had been a flurry of showings but so far no offers. Now that we were back, however, the doorbell was not ringing and the house was not filled with the hushed conversations of prospective buyers. Ahmed asked his parents what was going on.

  “Oh,” said Amma coolly, “we took it off the market. I was sick of cleaning and having to have the house look so nice. It was just too difficult.”

  Ahmed was taken aback. He insisted they call the real estate agent and get the process started again. Amma and Abba were incensed.

  “What kind of son are you,” Amma cried, “putting your parents out onto the street? All you care about is money. You’re a pig. I wish I never had a son like you!”

  She and Abba stormed off towards their bedroom. Ahmed disappeared into the basement.

  When I got downstairs, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping. I sat down and wrapped my arms around him. I had never heard him fight with his mother before. I felt a flutter of pride and a wave of sympathy for the pain he was in.

  “Let’s just leave,” he said after a few minutes. “Let’s just forget about the money and move out.”

  “What do you mean?” My heart was suddenly pounding. “All of our money is in this house! We’ve paid the mortgage for ten years. It’s our entire life savings!”

  “I’ve done all I can do,” said Ahmed. “I don’t want to hurt my parents. Allah will take care of us. If you love me, you’ll do this for me.”

  Our equity in the house now amounted to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Ahmed’s credit cards were maxed out, as were all the cards and loans he had taken out in my name. We had planned to pay off our debt when we sold the house and use what was left as the down payment for a new home. Giving up our investment would mean financial ruin.

&
nbsp; “That’s our children’s money,” I said. Now I was crying, too.

  “It’s just money,” Ahmed said. “We’ll earn it back.”

  Over the next few days, he returned to this idea over and over. He pointed out that we would likely be stuck for months arguing with his parents if we didn’t just walk away. And we might never convince them. What’s more, once I finished university, I could get a good job and our combined income would help us recoup our losses quickly.

  I was both amazed and chastened. It appeared that Ahmed was willing to make a real sacrifice to get out from under his parents’ influence—to save our marriage. If he were willing to do this for us, how could I refuse?

  * * *

  In early May, Ahmed, the girls and I moved into a dilapidated two-bedroom apartment in another subsidized building. This apartment was smaller than our first, so small that we didn’t bother to bring all of the furniture from my basement living space.

  Everything about our new life was a faded repeat of our earlier attempt at independence. Ahmed came back from visits to his parents stretched thin by their resentment and criticism. And we were both brittle from the constant financial strain. For the first few months, as well as rent we continued to pay the mortgage on his parents’ house while Abba arranged for new financing. When that obligation finally concluded, our debt had swollen even further and hovered like a brimming storm cloud over everything we did. Tutoring several children in the building brought in a few dollars, but not enough to make any real difference.

  After several months of being unable to make even the smallest payment on our credit cards, I saw an ad on TV for debt help. Ahmed agreed we had to do something. We applied for a consumer proposal—in my name—to consolidate and reduce what we owed. This arrangement, one tiny sliver away from full bankruptcy, would be on my financial record for eight years. (Ahmed had argued that because I was a woman I didn’t need a good credit rating and he would always take care of me.) But it was the only way to make a fresh start.

  And while I couldn’t stop feeling bitter about our financial state, Ahmed couldn’t curb his possessiveness, which had been re-energized by his expectation that I would be compliant in response to the big sacrifice he had made for us. Even a short trip to the grocery story was seen as an opportunity for me to indulge in wantonness. Our fights were frequent, and now that I was no longer turtling each time, now that I would oppose his opinions and decisions and on one occasion had fought back physically by slapping him in the face, some of them stretched for hours and became darkly histrionic. After one particularly nasty brawl I escaped in a cab, spending the night in a nearby hotel.

  Almost as frequent as the arguments were Ahmed’s tears and apologies, those emotional reversals that kept me in such a state of uncertainty.

  * * *

  For three months, it felt as if we woke up each morning and smashed a bright, promising day to pieces. And then, just as it seemed as if the future would hold nothing but ugliness and confusion, a burst of light broke through.

  Ahmed heard from his insurance company. The claim he had made nine years ago after his car accident, a claim we had all but given up on, had been granted. They had an $80,000 cheque for us. Our very first phone call was to a real estate agent.

  House hunting lifted our spirits almost immediately. And when we found our home—a three-bedroom, semi-detached brick house that backed onto a lush, green golf course—well, it was as if both Ahmed and I had been transported to another dimension. A place where we would never fight about money again, where the girls could have their own bedrooms, where we could host our own dinner parties, a place where we would make new friends. Most important, this house would be a place where the past could stay in the past.

  As I packed up the bits and pieces of rickety furniture from our apartment, I was suffused with euphoria. I remembered a day following my nikah, before I had come to Canada. I had earlier told Ahmed that I loved Dairy Milk chocolate bars—and not long after, a surprise arrived in the mail for me. He had shipped a huge box of them all the way from Canada. It was one of the moments that made me think I was falling in love—and for days after, I floated around, tingling with giddy pleasure. Being in love made the whole world look different. My family’s roach-infested apartment seemed cozy not crowded. My dull shalwar kameez felt sophisticated and elegant. Even the gritty streets of Karachi seemed like verdant promenades.

  Here I was, so many years later, experiencing the same thing. I was in love.

  But this time, my heart had been given to my brand-new family home—and the future it seemed to promise.

  CHAPTER 14

  TALAQ, TALAQ, TALAQ

  I was in Aisha’s bedroom, putting the final coat of paint on the walls. The shade she had chosen was a funky, bright purple—the colour of cartoon flowers and party balloons and little-girl excitement. After the last sweep of the roller, I looked around the room with a small shiver of pure pleasure. The house was beautiful—and it was mine.

  Since moving in on the Labour Day weekend, Ahmed and I had thrown all our spare time into turning the place into the family home I had been longing for. We painted every room in warm, rich colours that delighted me. And went together to furniture store after furniture store, choosing couches and recliners, a new dining-room suite and bedroom sets for each room. I spent hours arranging it all while Ahmed cheerfully hung the paintings. The girls’ bikes were in the backyard, cozy pillows festooned the family-room sofa, my china and spices filled the ample space of the kitchen cupboards.

  It really did feel as if this time, our house would be a home. Ahmed seemed truly happy and hopeful, and I began to look forward to the end of each school day, when we would both walk through the door to start our evening. We often stood side by side in the kitchen, cooking together, just as we had in the early months of our marriage. After supper, Ahmed or I played with the girls or helped them with their homework. Then, once the girls were both in bed, we’d meet again on our new living-room couch, snuggling together in front of a movie. In the mornings, we would chat and laugh as we all flew about the house, getting ourselves ready for another busy day.

  Amid all this domestic bustle, the rest of our new life had gotten underway as well—Aisha was enjoying grade four at her new school, Sonia had started junior kindergarten and, for the first time, I was enrolled full time in university. Unlike all those years in Amma’s house, where the neighbours were as much strangers to me by the time I left as when we first moved in, I was joining my little suburban community. I was introducing myself to people and making friends along the street. I had even been invited to a ladies’ lunch at a house a few doors down.

  And we were opening our doors too. We had a big housewarming dinner party in September. In October, my mother would be arriving to spend several months in our new guest room.

  Finally, finally, we had the space and the independent family life I had wanted ever since Aisha was born—a home that was comfortable, sociable, serene.

  And yet, of course, it didn’t last.

  * * *

  After only a few short weeks, stress began once again to thrum through the air. Now that I was taking a full course load, the better part of my day was spent on campus—a fact that drove Ahmed wild.

  One day, I left my laptop open on the couch. When I returned, Ahmed had it in front of him and was reading my emails. One was from a new female friend. We were going to meet at the campus pub for a lunch of half-price chicken wings.

  “So now you’re going clubbing?” he snapped as I reached over to retrieve my computer.

  “It’s just a restaurant,” I said with a sigh.

  “A restaurant with liquor. So you can drink, too?”

  “No, just eat wings and chill.”

  “Sure, you have time to chill, but you don’t have time to text me.”

  Ahmed was now asking me to check in with him multiple times throughout the day. He told me to text him as I went into class and as soon as I exited. If I went to th
e library, he wanted to be notified—and he expected that I message him at frequent intervals while I was there. The tone of these conversations was friendly, but if I failed to let him know where I was every second of the day, my cell buzzed in my purse like a jar of angry wasps.

  Things were no more relaxed when I was at home. Ahmed wanted me beside him at every moment.

  If I was studying, he would pester me to watch movies with him. If I was too tired to stay up until the last scene, he said my sleepiness was proof I didn’t love him enough. When I ran a bubble bath for myself, he sulked, saying that I was only doing so to avoid him.

  “You have time for everyone but me,” he said again and again.

  Once my mother was with us, this churlish clinginess only got worse. While Mom’s presence made our lives somewhat easier—she helped with the housework and took care of the girls when they got home from school—Ahmed was jealous of the time I spent with her. It was a strange change from all those years when he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with me.

  * * *

  Of course, Ahmed’s behaviour was not restricted to petulant moodiness. There were shoves and insults, too—often in front of my mother. And yet the domestic fantasy world I had created with the new house allowed me to minimize the friction and the violence. It was as if my infatuation were blinding me to the stark truth that nothing had changed.

  And then one late fall evening, I was forced to stop deluding myself.

  We had finished dinner and my mother had disappeared upstairs into her room. I was clearing the table and putting the uneaten food into the fridge. Before the meal, Ahmed had been once more complaining about how little time I had for him. Now he entered the kitchen and began in again.

  “Samra, this isn’t right,” he said bitterly. “Your school work is taking too much time away from your family.” He meant away from him.