“Once or twice,” she says.
She’s downplaying.
I sit up, grabbing the remote and hitting MUTE. In the background, the TV flickers.
“Why aren’t we religious?” I say.
Mom sits up straighter on the couch.
“I wouldn’t say I’m not religious. I consider myself spiritual,” she says. “Maybe ‘curious’ is a better word. I find religion comforting, even if I don’t buy into every last detail. I like the ritual of it.”
“So why aren’t you and Dad like the rest of the family?” I say. “We never do the stuff they do. We don’t fast. We don’t go to mosque. You both drink. It’s like the worst of both worlds: the stress of being Muslim and none of the benefits.”
“I suppose…” She scratches her head. “Islam isn’t like other religions. It requires absolute belief. It’s easy to feel if you’re not doing it all the way, you shouldn’t do it, period.”
“But … why did you convert when you married Dad?”
Mom leans forward, rubbing the scar running down the length of her arm. It’s an old injury, back from her days as head cheerleader of Key Biscayne Prep in the nineties—a car accident following a football game. I grew up poring over her photo albums, marveling over how young and preppy my mother looked, with her blond hair tied back in ribbons and her fists clenched at her hips, elbows out, like Wonder Woman. She displays the scar proudly, defiantly, wearing sleeveless dresses and short-sleeved blouses. Whenever she’s nervous, she rubs it absentmindedly.
“You remember how we met, right?”
She’s stalling for time.
“Your suitemate Susie was going on a first date,” I say. “A real date—with this guy from your James Joyce seminar. And he was friends with Dad, and Susie decided it would be more fun to double-date—”
“I don’t know if she thought it would be more fun, but Susie was quirky like that.”
“And so the guy invited Dad, who was his Pike brother from Columbia. And Susie invited you, and you all went to the West End for beers, and you ended up at the Heights for three-dollar margaritas at like two a.m.”
“On second thought,” Mom says, “I’m not sure if I like this story coming out of your mouth.”
“And you were immediately swept off your feet by Dad, and you thought he was, like, the most handsome guy you’d ever seen, but you also had this rule against dating frat guys—”
“Not a rule … a guideline.”
“A rule. And Dad walked you home, and you were living in a Columbia dorm that year instead of Barnard, and the two of you kissed outside Struggles.”
My mom bursts out laughing. “The dorm wasn’t called Struggles, Allie. That was just the nickname. Ruggles.”
“Whatever. And you woke up the next morning, and Dad had left you a message on the Columbia phone system—because this was the 1800s, and cell phones hadn’t been invented yet—and you saw him again that night at AmCaf, and you fell in love and got married after graduation, and have been together ever since.”
My mom smiles, looking pleased. “Memories.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question.”
She rubs her scar again.
“My family was shocked when I brought him home over Christmas,” she says. “My mom kept asking me if I was sure he was Muslim, since he drank, and he didn’t have a beard, and he was progressive—all these ridiculous bordering-on-offensive questions.”
I’m not close to my mom’s side of the family. Even though she also comes from a large family—I have five uncles on that side, Mom’s younger brothers—none of them keep in close touch. No family reunions. No phone calls. They barely send cards on birthdays. I’m friends with two of them on Facebook, where they post photos of their boats and the fish they’ve caught. My grandfather died before I was born, so the only person from my mom’s family who I’m even slightly close to is my grandmother—possibly the WASP-iest woman on planet Earth, though she’s Catholic.
“It’s hard to explain,” Mom says. “When I met your father, I just knew.”
“You knew what?”
“I knew he was the one. I knew we were meant to be together. I knew he would be kind, and would take care of me if I got sick, and would be my partner through the good and the bad. An equal.”
I’m not used to hearing Mom talk like this. She doesn’t typically get emotional. She clears her throat, shifting on the couch. “It obviously would have been easier if he were Catholic. Or if I were a Muslim. Your dad never asked me to convert, by the way. He would have married me regardless—we were impatient to start our lives together. For him, the conversion was a plus, though an unnecessary one. We both recognized the relationship the other had with religion.”
“Which was?”
“Hopeful but bruised. Weary. Open to another path.”
“What happened?”
Her fingers keep kneading the scar. “Teta asked me to consider it, when we visited them in Dallas for the first time.”
I frown. “So Grandmother was right. I always thought she was making it up.”
We were visiting my grandmother in Florida the first time I realized she wasn’t happy my mother had married a Muslim.
She didn’t dislike all Muslims, of course. There were plenty she liked: my father, and Dr. Oz, and “that lovely older actress—you know the one, with the black hair, what’s her name.”
“Maybe you’ll reconsider this Moslem thing,” my grandmother said to my mom the morning after we’d flown in from California. Dad was at the store, stocking up on groceries. She loved his cooking. Exotic, she called it. We sat by the pool of her home in Key Biscayne, the air salty and sticky.
“This Muslim thing?” Mom said, trying to correct her.
“Yes, dear. I told you becoming a Moslem was a terrible idea. Can’t you simply … take it back?” She looked over at me and smiled. “More guava juice, darling?”
I pretended to look up from my book as if I had been actually reading instead of listening intently. “No, thank you, Grandmother.”
“I converted my religion, Mother,” Mom said, scowling at her. “I didn’t buy a handbag at Neiman Marcus.”
“You did it to impress his mother. She’ll get over it.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“I gather you’re saying—”
“No, I can’t just take it back. More importantly, I don’t want to. Islam is a beautiful religion.”
Grandmother sighed. “You refuse to take my advice.”
“Maybe I would, if it were good advice,” Mom said.
The memory is fuzzy, and it’s tempting to insert details. When I think back on that moment, though, one thing stands out clearly:
It’s the first time I realized somebody could like me—even love me—and yet not accept me.
I was ten.
Mom makes a face. “My mother has her own baggage. It doesn’t mean she’s right.”
“It sounds like she is right. You converted to make Teta happy.”
When Mom is trying to be diplomatic, she pauses, puts her fingers together, and purses her lips. She’s doing it now.
“Teta never pressured me. Your dad never pressured me. If I hadn’t converted, you would still be a Muslim: If the father is a Muslim, the child is a Muslim.”
“So it was all about me? Teta was worried I wouldn’t be Muslim enough?”
Mom’s sigh comes from deep within. “It was ultimately my decision. I thought it might make our family complete. I was trying to make things easier on your dad with his family. Muslims marry Muslims. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Changing your religion wasn’t a big deal?” I ask incredulously.
“Allie, you know neither your father nor I is religious. Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, Mormon—what’s the difference? It’s all man-made.”
I frown. “I disagree.”
“And that’s your prerogative. Dad and I wanted you to choose your own path. It’s the biggest mystery in li
fe, the biggest question out there: Isn’t it important to allow your children to choose what they believe?”
“Maybe,” I say tentatively, “it’s important to raise your kids with something, so they don’t feel … lost?”
My mother looks stricken.
“You feel lost?”
Now it’s my turn to choose my words carefully.
“Not lost. But not found, either.”
She’s quiet again. I hear the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the fireplace mantel.
“We thought we were doing right by you,” she says.
I look down at my hands. “I know.”
“I went through a period where I doubted God existed.”
“You were an atheist?”
Her smile is small, quiet. “Briefly. When I was your age.”
My heart thuds against my chest. “You’re not now, right?” Her response feels like the most important thing in the world.
“Not now. Don’t get me wrong: The idea of a superhero in the sky … it’s a bit convenient.”
We stare at each other. She puts her hand on mine.
“But I remember how it felt when you were born and I cradled you in my arms for the first time,” she says. Her tone is an offering. “I remember the energy in the room when my father died. I remember the devastation of losing the babies after you, of holding Rania’s tiny body in our hands at the hospital. I believe there’s something out there, and I don’t care what you call it. It’s all the same to me.”
I feel like I’m going to cry.
“It’s a lonely thing, being a convert. People born into a religion take it for granted. But when you adopt it as your own, it’s hard to find the right path. Some people go overboard and hold themselves to an exacting standard. Others become wayward. I suppose that’s what happened to me. I converted as a technicality, but the longer we were married—the longer I spent around your teta and jido, and saw how much comfort and peace Islam brought the family—the more I wanted to know about it. I didn’t have much support from your father, though, and…” She shrugs. “I have nobody to blame but myself. I could have learned more on my own. I didn’t.”
“Dad didn’t support you?”
She puts up her hands. “Your father is the most supportive man I’ve ever met. I was too passive. I could have gone to the mosque by myself, I could have taken Arabic lessons.”
“But you didn’t?”
“But I didn’t. People judge your father, and that’s unfair,” she says. “They don’t know his path. He doesn’t have the comfort of religion to fall back on. Strangers who know nothing about him place him in a box, judge him off unfair stereotypes. And, conversely, the family isn’t thrilled with his views.”
“Is Dad an atheist?” I whisper.
“No. Despite his scientific bluster and bravado.” She puts her hand on mine again. “If God takes root in your heart, it’s hard to stop fully believing.”
“But he’s not religious.”
“You don’t have to be religious to have a relationship with God.”
I’m quiet for a long time.
“Are you interested in exploring Islam?” Mom says. “Or … another religion? I don’t want to assume.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. I clear my throat, gathering the courage. “Islam.”
I didn’t know I wanted it until I say it.
“That’s wonderful,” she says softly. “Islam is a beautiful religion, if you open yourself up to it.” She looks like she wants to say something else.
“Will Dad understand?”
“Your father is the best man I know.” She sighs. “Everybody has a weak spot.”
We fall into silence.
“My turn,” she says, sitting upright.
“What do you mean?”
“Since we’re being honest … can I ask you something?”
“Okay…”
“This kid Wells. You two are hanging out a lot recently. Is he your boyfriend?”
I squirm. “I don’t know. People don’t really do the boyfriend-girlfriend thing anymore.”
She laughs, burying her face in her hands. “When did I get so old? Okay, fine, are you two ‘hanging out’?” She says it exaggeratedly, using air quotes.
“Mom! I don’t know!” I’m so not into this conversation.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Does he know we’re Muslim?” she asks.
That’s why.
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know.”
She nods.
“Do you think I should?”
I rarely ask my mom to straight-up tell me what to do. Desperate times.
She purses her lips. “I met him for five seconds. He seemed kind. But if he doesn’t accept you for who you are, he doesn’t deserve your company in the first place.”
“Okay, Hallmark card,” I say.
She laughs, kissing me on the head. “Hey, kiddo. You’re awesome. And don’t you forget it.”
* * *
Later, Dad knocks on my door, startling me while I’m working on homework.
“Everything okay? You were quiet at dinner.”
I lower my laptop screen, a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Yeah, all good.”
My dad swings the door open wider. “I stopped by the store to pick up extra toppings—got chocolate sauce, pistachios, and raspberries. Thought we could tuck into The Sound of Music again tonight. I’m in the mood for some singing nuns. If you want to watch while doing homework.”
“For you, Dad, I always have time.”
I stand up, unplug my laptop, and follow him down the stairs as he chatters happily, telling a dad joke, wondering how do you solve a problem like Maria?
My anxiety levels about what Dad will think when he finds out I want to explore the religion are sky-high. He places his confidence in science. In facts. Religion is for suckers, he says.
What does that make me?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Who’s meeting us there?” I ask Wells as he drives us to the movie theater that Saturday afternoon, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
“Oh, uh … everybody was busy.”
Something about the way he says it makes me suspect they weren’t invited.
“That’s too bad.”
“Is it, though?” he cracks. The levity in his voice reminds me of that jokey thing I’ve mastered over the years—when I’m trying to protect my true feelings. He pulls into the parking lot. “So fair warning: The reviews are god-awful.”
“You mean the popcorn movie about a giant robot attacking a major city isn’t a best-picture contender?”
“Laugh it up. Didn’t want you to think I had horrible taste, that’s all.”
“Oh, you definitely have horrible taste. I still like ya.”
We grin at each other before he maneuvers his giant truck into a spot.
“I have to ask. This truck. What’s the deal?” I say as I drop down from the cab, closing the door with a satisfying thud. We got here early so we could go to the bookstore next door before the movie.
“What do you mean?” His voice is suddenly defensive.
“I mean … are you auditioning for another Transformers? Preparing for a monster-truck rally?”
His cheeks turn a little pink. “It’s my dad.”
“Huh?”
“He picked it out. A gift. It wasn’t a discussion.”
“There are worse gifts than a brand-new truck,” I say.
He shrugs.
He looks at his watch. “The movie starts in forty-five. Plenty of time for the bookstore.” As we approach the door, he scurries ahead of me to hold it open. “My lady.”
“You dork,” I tease.
We make our way to a fiction aisle, where we scan the shelves, picking up bestsellers and reading staff recommendations.
I love being inside a bookstore. There are endless possibilities. Infinite stories. Places to los
e myself. It’s heaven.
I wait until he wanders over to the graphic novels to make a break for the religious section.
I’m looking for a Qur’an.
I find the one I’m looking for: a simple blue Oxford World’s Classics copy I’ve seen at Aunt Bila’s house. I flip to a random page, playing an old game I enjoy with books: I’ll look at a random page and see if it has meaning.
The Qur’an passage reads: “Whoever accepts guidance does so for his own good; whoever strays does so at his own peril.”
“Whatcha got there?” Wells asks.
I startle. I instinctively turn the Qur’an over and shield it with my hands as I turn toward him.
“Nothing.”
“Is that … Wait, is that a Qur’an?”
I freeze.
He looks at me, amusement in his eyes. “A little light reading?”
“Ha,” I say, putting the Qur’an back down on a random bookshelf. “Yeah.”
It’s the perfect opportunity.
What are you waiting for, Allie?
I can’t. I’m not ready.
Wells and I wander over to the young adult section to browse. A few minutes later, he says he wants to check out a music biography of Keith Richards. I have three minutes, tops.
I race back to the Qur’an, take it with me to the front, and quickly pay in cash with my allowance money for the week. I’m back in the young adult aisle with the Qur’an and a receipt stuffed into my bag before he returns.
“Are you getting it?” I ask. “The Keith Richards book?”
“Nah. I’ll borrow it from the library,” he says. “Ready to go? Movie in ten.”
“Robots activate!”
Incredibly, he laughs at my silly joke.
The Qur’an is burning a hole in my bag. I feel a confusing rush of emotions: excitement, anxiety, embarrassment, and also, weirdly, shame.
Once inside the theater, I barely pay attention to the movie. Number one: because it’s the worst. Number two: because Wells is sitting next to me in a dark room.
Is this a date?
We’re seeing a movie alone together.
He picked me up.
We’re sharing popcorn.
This might be a date.
Except, he doesn’t put his arm around me. And there’s no moment when we brush fingers reaching for popcorn, looking at each other shyly before breaking into giggles. In fact, when I accidentally let out a tiny burp after taking a too-large sip of Coke, he cracks up laughing, instead of looking horrified or embarrassed for me.
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