Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Sitting back, Zainab held her palms open and closed her eyes. She asked God for special protection over Khalid’s house and Ahmed’s house, dar Mansour. “Whatever blessings I or my sons have, it is from You. All grace and thanks are to You.”

  The usual bundle of worries appeared before her. “Allah, help Margaret agree to move. Help her to see what’s best for her family.” Her supplications moved to Nadia. Zainab prayed for her to be married, settled, and taken care of. At last, Zainab made a request in the name of Abed’s soul and got up from her carpet, her legs stiff and heavy.

  Another prayer was complete.

  Chapter 11

  Nearly a month after her anniversary, Margaret made a mental inventory of her choices over the years as she knelt down in the hallway bathroom to mop up the floor yet again. The mother, splashing water about, had turned the bathroom into an Arab hammam. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed the floor was covered in cheap linoleum and not ceramic tile, nor was there a drain like in an Arab-style bathroom. As she worked, Margaret noticed that the wooden baseboards were now discolored. She lifted up a corner of linoleum to confirm the beginnings of rot underneath.

  While she wiped the floor, she reviewed why she couldn’t move to an Arab country with Ahmed. Ever since their nasty anniversary argument, Margaret had gone over the same internal monologue every day. She composed long speeches in her head, with all the reasons to stay in her home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Compromises flared up in her mind, a record from the past two decades. This latest request, presented as nearly a done deal, eclipsed them all.

  Noise traveled to her from the living room; voices talking over the sound of the television. Who was visiting the mother now? Margaret would have to go out there and make the necessary greetings. Getting up from the floor, she became dizzy from rising too quickly. She closed the toilet lid and sat down, recalling her last exchange with Ahmed—how he had left the house that morning without saying good-bye. They had not spoken to each other in any meaningful way since their anniversary. They had fallen into a shared code of silence, a pattern of mutual avoidance, punctuated only by mealtimes and matters regarding the mother or how to manage the children during the summer break. Despite Margaret’s stance, she was beginning to miss him, their talks, and his stories about the goings-on at the restaurant.

  How much longer could she hold herself in suspension like this? Waiting for something to happen, for the tension to end. Her heart raced. She tried to calm herself, but it was pointless. She brought her hands to her face, her tears wet in her palms. Oh, to rewind to an earlier time, to when she and Ahmed were still speaking, when her place in the world was secure.

  With a damp washcloth, Margaret blotted her eyes. She needed to talk to someone. Her scrapbook group was meeting that evening. The three J’s would cover their mouths in alarm at the idea of her moving to the Middle East. There would be talk of terrorism and the mistreatment of women. “You’re not thinking of going, are you?” they would ask.

  No, Margaret wouldn’t bring up the issue with them.

  Meanwhile, the women in the Qur’an group hadn’t grasped the situation at all. The move wasn’t about learning Arabic or hearing the call to prayer. An image had formed in Margaret’s mind—which she let develop, adding detail and texture. In that frame, she and her family lived somewhere in the Gulf where the weather was hot and dust blew in the air. Their home was an apartment, with its air conditioner buzzing and the smell of cooking wafting in from the neighbors’. The children were miserable, the mother ran the kitchen—the scenario went on and on.

  Margaret was not a quasi-Arab wife, like Aisha or Lateefa. Yes, Margaret had visited that avenue briefly at an earlier time, seeking approval through Arabic meals, Islamic sayings, and a closetful of modest clothing. It had all culminated with her covering her head. But it had been an impossible mission, fitting in. Margaret knew that now—and where had it gotten her? It certainly had not helped Lateefa, who had transformed herself, even changing her name. Lateefa was alone now, left by her husband, raising her boys on her own.

  Yes, Margaret might have moved to the Middle East ten years before, full of trust, not wanting to say no. But at age forty-one, she was no longer that woman, no longer the wife who spent long hours rolling grape leaves and going along with her husband’s every plan.

  Liz would understand. Margaret slipped out of the bathroom and went to her bedroom. Voices from the living room followed her down the hallway. She closed the door and reached for the phone.

  Liz answered. “Oh my God, I was just thinking of you. Your mother-in-law still there?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “You poor thing. Mine just left. Finally.”

  Margaret leaned back and allowed her friend’s voice to envelop her.

  “I’m now in recovery.” Liz said, then shouted something to one of her children in the background. “And what about you?”

  Margaret opened her mouth, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Things aren’t good.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve got to get out of this house.”

  “Tomorrow morning, my place? We have lots to catch up on.”

  “You’ve no idea.”

  Margaret said good-bye and walked down the hallway. Sounds were coming from the kitchen. Were they cooking already? It was still morning. Sure enough, in the kitchen was the mother and Mona, who was scooping out the insides of a zucchini to stuff later. The mother was cleaning whole chickens in the kitchen sink, using her preferred method, scrubbing the uncooked birds with salt.

  Margaret told herself to smile. “Bless your hands,” she said in Arabic.

  “And your hands, too,” Mona and the mother said in unison.

  Mona fixed her eyes on Margaret. “You look tired.”

  “I am tired.” It was true, it had been another night of strained sleep, trying to stay on her side of the bed, twisting away from Ahmed.

  Leena ran from the living room and hugged Margaret’s legs. “Hey sweetie,” Margaret said just as Tariq dashed in. “Please don’t chase your sister,” she told him. Margaret took Leena’s hand and went to the living room, where Mona’s boys were milling about and Jenin was serving tea to Khalid and Alison.

  Margaret turned to Khalid. “The new job going well?”

  “Alhamdulillah,” Khalid said matter-of-factly. “I worked only one week. It’s orientation.”

  She gave him a nod of approval and sat next to Alison. “How’s your pregnancy?”

  “I need to ask you something,” Alison whispered. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

  Margaret got up and signaled for Alison to take her tea and follow her to the bedroom. Margaret sat on the bed. “What’s up?”

  “Baby names.” Alison lowered herself into the armchair. “Of course, he wants Khalid as her middle name.”

  “That’s how they do it. The second name is the father’s name.”

  “I know.” Alison touched her belly. “Even my grandparents did it that way, but it’s so old-fashioned.”

  Margaret sighed as though she, too, were a victim of this naming practice, when, in fact, at the time it hadn’t bothered her at all. What she regretted most was the choice of the name Jenin. Ahmed had thought it nationalistic to name his first born after a Palestinian village. When the attack on that village occurred, Jenin was thirteen. Ahmed told her the details, the actions of the Israeli soldiers, the bulldozed homes, and the death count. Jenin had been at just the right age to not only be shocked but horrified that such a thing could happen. From that father-daughter exchange, Jenin became forever fixated on the conflict that her father had escaped. She was so much like him, not only outwardly with the same eyes and dark wavy hair, but inwardly, as well, with her fierce identification with Palestine.

  Margaret said, “We named our kids Jenin Ahmed—”

  “I’m fine with an Arabic first name, even Khalid’s last name.” Her voice had grown impatient. “But the middle name, too?”

  Alison’s face was pouty and naïve. She ha
d no idea what was ahead of her. No clue! The baby’s name would be just one issue, one compromise in a long string of them.

  Margaret shook her head. “Whatever you do, it’s never enough.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this …”

  Alison leaned in. “Say it.”

  “My advice? Don’t give up anything you can’t live without.”

  The next morning, Margaret dropped off Tariq at summer day camp and headed to Liz’s. Her friend’s home was also a split-level in a cul-de-sac, but Liz’s front yard was cluttered with children’s bikes and toys, cast about wherever her children had left them. Margaret let Leena ring the bell. Liz answered and gave Margaret a hug.

  “So what’ve your in-laws done now?” Liz asked.

  “Oh, the usual torture.”

  Liz gave a knowing smile and led them to the breakfast nook where Margaret sat at the table by the window. Outside, Liz’s children played on the swing set, and Liz opened the back door for Leena to join them. At the kitchen counter, Liz filled the coffee grinder with beans.

  Above the grinding noise, Margaret said, “I bet you’re happy now.”

  Liz silenced the grinder and put her hands on her hips. “I’m rethinking the whole cross-cultural marriage thing.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late now, my dear.”

  “You can’t imagine what I went through with Nezar’s mother.” Liz flicked on her coffee machine and came to the table. “She took my silver serving tray.” She widened her eyes. “I found it in her suitcase.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took it back, of course. Then guess what. It’s in her suitcase again.” Liz paused until Margaret registered the right amount of shock on her face. “That was a wedding gift! You know what Nezar said?” Liz imitated her husband, his accent and dismissive wave. “It’s just a tray. We’ll get another one.” Liz, with a look of true pain on her face, brought both hands to her chest. “When do my feelings count?” Her voice was shrill. “Never!” Her face flushed, and she went on, ranting about her mother-in-law and her husband in a way that was neither healthy nor helpful, but there was something intoxicating about listening to her.

  Liz jumped up and returned with the coffee pot. She filled each mug and described how her mother-in-law had criticized her parenting and about the suitcase of obligatory gifts they were required to send. Margaret stirred cream in her coffee and allowed Liz to carry on.

  “I’m so glad they’re gone,” she said. “I cannot tell you. Two months. It ruined our summer.” Liz reached over and touched Margaret’s hand. “Your time will come, too, inshallah.”

  Margaret smiled faintly but said nothing.

  “At this point, I can hardly stand to be in the same room with Nezar.” Liz’s cup of coffee sat untouched. “It’s always like this, every time, such a strain on our marriage.” She lowered her voice. “If I had a way to support myself, I’d be out of here so fast.”

  Margaret glanced out the window to the children in the backyard. “Yeah, but that’s a whole new set of problems.”

  “Do you ever think of old boyfriends?” Liz asked. “Have you ever wondered how your life could be different?”

  “I might be thinking about that soon.”

  Liz, too wound up, didn’t seem to register Margaret’s words. “Hey,” Liz said, “How’s your new sister-in-law?”

  “Alison?” Margaret sighed. “For someone so intelligent, she’s not very smart.”

  “Kids these days.”

  Margaret tried to steer the conversation to her own troubles. “The family’s taken over the house. And the mother! She shows no signs of leaving.”

  “You know what?” Liz’s face assumed a look of mock seriousness. “You should get a grant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know … for helping refugees.” Liz smiled, her eyes shining with mischief. “Palestinian refugees. All the work that you do.”

  Margaret chuckled softly. “You’re wicked.”

  “Think about it,” Liz said. “Everything you do for that family.” She raised her eyebrows playfully. “You’ve sponsored the brother. You’ve sheltered the mother.”

  “You’re bad.”

  Liz kept on. “You’ve funded God-knows-who in the West Bank.”

  Margaret’s laugh grew deeper, and Liz joined in. They carried on like this, laughing until Liz’s eyes had narrowed to slits and the tears were pouring down.

  Liz caught her breath. “We had no clue what we were getting into. We didn’t marry the man, we married the clan!”

  Margaret wiped her eye. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.” The words finally began to spill out while Liz stared past her into the backyard where the children played. “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one,” Margaret said. “Things are a mess. Ahmed wants to move to the Middle East.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “He’s serious. He sprang it on me during our anniversary dinner.”

  Liz slapped her own forehead, her version of the Arabic gesture. “What a jerk.”

  Unthinking, yes. A jerk? No.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Well, no, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  The next day, Margaret knew what she had to do. After leaving Leena in Jenin’s care and dropping Tariq at day camp, she drove into the city, leaving the suburbs behind, heading toward Capitol Hill. With all the family members constantly coming and going from her house, the restaurant was the only place to talk in private.

  Ahmed was at the kitchen’s back door, inspecting a produce delivery, when she arrived. He looked up from his clipboard to see her standing there.

  “We need to talk,” she said. It was before noon, the pause between the morning prep and the lunch rush.

  “Meet me in the office,” he said.

  She walked amongst the empty tables, carefully set and ready for customers. The smells of the restaurant were familiar: a mixture of coffee grounds, Windex, and almond extract. The refrigerated glass case displayed the layer cakes, garnished with fresh berries, flower petals, and chopped nuts—Ahmed’s showcase. Margaret descended the stairs to the office and flipped on the lamp. On the desk were stacks of invoices and used order tickets, waiting to be processed.

  Ahmed came in, closed the door, and sat across from her, the stacks of papers between them. His hair was ruffled, and he looked tired but still attractive in the soft lighting. She felt an unexpected surge of love for him, but that love was so tangled with bitterness, she couldn’t separate the two.

  “Honey,” she said. “Can you forgive me for not wanting to move over there?”

  “Yeah, I can forgive you.” His voice was composed. Perhaps he finally understood. From upstairs came the faint sound of the bell at the front door. Lunch customers were coming in.

  Ahmed crossed his arms. “It doesn’t change the fact that I want to move.”

  Margaret sat silently, aware of the walls in the tiny space confining her.

  He caught her eye. “I don’t belong here anymore.”

  “I know you keep saying that, but this is your home. You’ve made a life here.”

  “Yes, but it’s not me.”

  “How can you say that? You’ve done so well for yourself.”

  “This is not my homeland. I don’t want to die in this country.” His words were firm, as if he had been waiting to say them.

  “And the UAE is? You’ve never even been there.”

  “If I could make a life in Palestine, I would. Trust me. Who knows? I still have my residency ID.”

  Margaret blinked back a tear.

  Ahmed continued, “I want my children to have Arab culture.”

  “We have Arab culture here.” She felt exasperated at the thought of explaining it all over again. She saw everything clearly. Why couldn’t he?

  “It’s diluted here,” he said. “It’s not real Arab culture.”

  She wanted
to remind him they had taken many trips to the Middle East, and they would take another very soon. But instead she said, “Well, I don’t want to die in an Arab country.”

  “There’s more to the world than this place.” He paused and took a breath, his eyes moist. “What am I doing here? My life is passing by.” He let his hand fall on a stack of papers. “The restaurants were good for me at first. It’s not enough anymore.” With that, he swept his hand across the desk, sending a stack of invoices cascading to the floor.

  Margaret stared at the papers. She knew she shouldn’t say it, but she couldn’t stop. The words came tumbling out, fulfilling a pattern of marital arguments they had assumed years ago. “Was this your mother’s idea?”

  “Leave my mother out of it!” He didn’t seem to care if anyone upstairs heard him.

  Margaret cringed. “What about my family? My mother would have a fit if we moved.”

  “How often do you see your parents? Once a month?”

  “I see my mother more than that.”

  “You remember my friend Rashid? He’s done so well over there.”

  Rashid had been Ahmed’s first mentor at the university. According to Ahmed, Rashid and his American wife Cynthia formed the ideal mixed couple. They’d moved to the Middle East before Margaret had a chance to meet them. Rashid had a thriving business and Cynthia spoke Arabic—as did their children. They were the benchmark to which Ahmed compared all of his successes and failures.

  “I don’t want to hear about your friend in Abu Dhabi,” Margaret said.

  “They’re in Amman now.”

  “Whatever.” She glared at him. “They don’t concern us.”

  “He thinks we could have a good life over there.”

  Margaret shook her head.

  Ahmed opened his mouth to say more but changed his mind. Finally, he said, “I might have an interview in the UAE next month.”

  Margaret sucked in a breath of air. “When were you planning to tell me?”

  “I was planning to tell you today.” His words turned soft. “I want to check it out, that’s all.” He shrugged. “See what they offer.”