Margaret searched his face. In the glow of the lamp, the light flickered in Ahmed’s eyes. His expression was thoughtful and he was more handsome than ever. There were parts of him that were so easy to love—the way he was obsessed with layer cakes, telling stories, and helping others. When she thought about it, it was no surprise he wanted to move out of the country. Lately, that was all he and his friends talked about—where to go and how to get there.
She detected a faint twitching under Ahmed’s eye, the delicate skin throbbing. He was clearly under a lot of stress. Perhaps his mother living with them wasn’t easy on him, either.
Margaret continued to look at him, and he back at her. It was a long silence, yet another moment for her to review their past, their twenty years together—the compromises, the giving in, with neither one ever completely happy. Something somewhere had gone wrong.
Margaret stood. “I’m sorry. But I’m not moving anywhere.” Her words were purposeful and deliberate. “If you take this job, you’ll be moving there alone.”
With that, she walked out.
Chapter 12
Alison skimmed the Saturday newspaper. The events came alive on the page: Clashes in the West Bank Kill Four; Israel Announces Withdrawal from Gaza; Bombing in Tel Aviv Injures Two. She moved to the opinion page: Yasser Arafat was unfit, Israeli settlements broke agreements, the Israeli security wall was illegal.
She leaned back, sipped her cappuccino, and ran a hand over her small pregnant belly. Khalid had just purchased their tickets to Jordan for Nadia’s wedding. Soon Alison would be back in the region. It was what she had wanted since graduation, time to travel and see the Middle East before hunkering down in graduate school. Her real life was finally starting.
Alison crossed the living room of their new apartment and pulled out the stack of graduate school printouts, which had been tucked away for weeks now. On the couch, she sat next to Khalid, laptop on his knees, his brow furrowed. After just two weeks as an applications developer at a local investment company, his computer had become his constant fixation.
Turning her attention to the papers, Alison read the name of each university, then began to read the contents. MA in Middle East studies. She skimmed lists of requirements. Her eyes widened at the deadline—the same week as her due date! It was too much for her brain to process.
Khalid looked up. “As soon as I’m done with this, we’ll go see my mother. Okay?”
She shoved the papers back in their place. “Sure, babe.”
Later, at Ahmed and Margaret’s house, Khalid’s mother served them a steaming mound of stuffed grape leaves. The family sat around the dining room picking up the hot rolled leaves filled with rice and meat. Khalid and Ahmed ate hungrily while their mother glanced around, monitoring. Alison rearranged the food on her plate, hoping no one would notice how little she ate. Even in her second trimester, some food aversions lingered.
“How’s the new job?” Margaret asked Khalid.
He chatted about his cubicle, his colleagues, and the spreadsheets he managed.
Khalid’s mother nudged Alison. “Kuli, kuli.” Eat, eat.
Alison brought a hand to her heart. “Alhamdulillah.” Praise be to God—the code phrase that stopped her mother-in-law from pushing food on her.
The conversation switched to the trip to Jordan, the topic on Alison’s mind. She was grateful to be going, considering her pregnancy and their lack of money. Ahmed reviewed the itinerary. Alison, Khalid, and his mother would fly to Amman in two weeks. Ahmed, Margaret, and their children would fly out a few days later.
Margaret touched Alison’s shoulder. “You get to go to Jordan.”
“I’ve been there before.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows and said in a sing-song voice, “Not with the family.”
Alison smiled back and turned to Khalid. “Can we go now? I’m starting to feel sick.”
On the way home, he took Highway 99, the route she despised. She took in the urban sprawl around her: a casino, a strip mall, and a gas station. “Now that you’re working, hopefully we can move out of here.”
“Inshallah,” he said. “First we’ll pay the credit card. The airline tickets added a lot.”
“It’ll be worth it.” She stroked the back of his head and imagined their first trip as a married couple. Of course, she hadn’t envisioned Khalid’s mother traveling with them. Not at all. Yet Alison hadn’t said a word; she sensed it was not the issue to argue over. She caressed his dark hair. “Have you thought about going to the West Bank?”
“I just started this job. I can’t take off that much time.”
“It’d be a shame not to go to Jerusalem.” She waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she tried a different tactic. “I want to meet Huda and Yasmine.”
“They might come to Jordan, inshallah.”
“You said they probably wouldn’t.” She paused and proceeded carefully. “I want to see where you grew up.”
“Ibrahim got stuck there last time. The Israelis detained him at the border.”
“Yes, but he eventually got in.”
Khalid glanced at her. “It’s not exactly safe for me.”
“I can go on my own. I can stay with your sisters; they can show me around.”
“They can’t go anywhere. Too many restrictions.”
“I can get by. I’ve been there before.”
“What about the baby?”
“The baby?” she echoed. “I’m only four months. The midwife said it’s the best time to travel.” She couldn’t believe it. The baby was barely six inches long and already interfering.
He kept his eyes on the road. “I’ll think about it.”
They stopped at an intersection and sat in silence under the glare of the August sun. Ahead was a billboard advertisement for a glistening slice of pepperoni pizza. A month before, the image would have made Alison turn away in disgust. This time, her eyes remained on the billboard.
“Now that I have a job,” Khalid said, “I’m going to send some money back home.”
Alison looked over at Khalid, whose jaw had tightened. “Babe, how much money are we talking?”
“I want to send five hundred dollars to my sisters.”
She opened her mouth. She’d known this was coming, but did he mean sending that amount every month or only once? She didn’t ask. Instead, she hugged her purse to her chest. “We’re behind on our bills. Plus, I’m quitting my job.” Alison continued on, listing reasons to delay sending money. They needed so much themselves: maternity clothes, baby things, items for the house, plus there was the trip coming up. When they reached the Pine View sign and entered the parking lot, Khalid stopped in front of Building F.
“You’re just dropping me off?”
He nodded. “I’ve got some things to do.”
“You’re playing cards with the guys, aren’t you? She stepped out of the car. “How much tarneeb can you play?” She slammed the door, grudgingly took the stairs, and entered the apartment. She reached for the phone. Her order: a medium pepperoni pizza. Once, Khalid had told her that in Palestine a man would venture all over in search of the exotic fruit that his expectant wife craved. This was her exotic fruit.
Alison stretched out on the couch and waited. For an instant, she wondered if the pepperoni made from pork was a good idea; Khalid always stayed away from the stuff. Then the concern vanished, and her mind turned to the texture of the crust and the melted cheese on her tongue. Her mouth filled with a deep craving for the gooeyness of it.
She went to the window and peeked through the blinds. Finally, a man holding a pizza box appeared, walking across the parking lot. He stopped to allow a car to pass. A black Honda Accord—Khalid’s car. He parked, got out, and walked briskly past the delivery man.
“Shit,” Alison said.
Within seconds, Khalid entered the front door.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I forgot my cell phone.”
There was a kno
ck. The delivery man handed the box to Khalid while Alison fished in her wallet for the cash. She closed the door and slowly turned around.
Khalid stood at the table, holding the lid open. “Is this pork?”
“Babe, I had a craving.” By then, the pizza’s scent had reached Alison’s nose.
He shook his head and smiled. For a moment, she thought it would be okay. Then he picked up the box and went out the front door. From the window, she watched as he crossed the parking lot, balancing the box on his fingertips as though it were contaminated. He threw the pizza, box and all, into the dumpster and then returned.
“You know we don’t have pork in the house,” he said.
Alison recoiled to the couch and clutched a throw pillow. “If you hadn’t come home, you wouldn’t have known.”
He paced back and forth. “You should respect the fact that—”
“You didn’t need to throw it away!” With her eyes, she followed Khalid, his face glowing with anger.
He glared at her. “Of all people, you should understand. You should know better!”
She glared back. “You’re not being fair.”
“There’s no use talking to you.” He reached for his cell phone and was gone.
She stared at the door, tears welling up behind her eyelids. After a moment, she collected herself, went to the kitchen, and stood at the refrigerator. Was he going to start making her eat only halal food now? She opened a cupboard and took in the row of cans. A raw hunger gnawed deep inside her, but nothing appealed.
Aggravated and restless, Alison started unpacking a box of her university papers and textbooks. On top was a senior essay, its topic the British rule of Palestine. She set it aside and lifted out the books, one by one: The Venture of Islam, The Arab Awakening, and several books by Nawal El Saadawi. Alison paused at Orientalism by Edward Said and flipped through its pages, filled with faded yellow highlights and notes in the margins. She thought back to her life as a student and realized that since graduation, her intelligence had begun to slip away—her confidence and smarts, her knowledge and understanding—all of it. Alison remembered Khalid and wondered if he had overreacted. Or maybe she was the one who had been wrong? He didn’t eat pork, of course—fine—but did that mean she couldn’t, either?
As she placed the books on the shelf, a rush of memories rose up: studying intensive Arabic in Cairo, roaming its congested streets with her classmates, eating ful and falafel, and struggling over Arabic newspaper headlines in her dorm room in Zamalek. Had all that really happened?
After arranging the textbooks on the shelf, she picked up an Egyptian novel translated into English and went to the couch to read. For a bookmark, she used the dollar Khalid had given her that day at the mosque. After reading a chapter, she picked up the dollar, already creased and worn. She held it in her hand and thought about the money Khalid wanted to send his sisters. Alison turned the dollar over and recalled their silly wedding ceremony at the mosque. One dollar! What on earth made her agree to that? She smoothed the bill repeatedly, trying to press out the wrinkles and make it look new again.
Alison was lying on the couch when Khalid returned just after midnight. He sat next to her, and a calm smile spread over his handsome face, suggesting a private joke between them. It was hard to stay bitter when he looked at her like that.
“How was your card game?” she asked.
He said that Ibrahim kept winning and Salim was a sore loser. He commented on the well-organized bookshelf and asked about the book she was reading. She said it was Palace Walk, which she was reading for a second time.
“I know the story,” he said. “I saw the miniseries.”
They laughed and she looked at him. “Why did you have to throw it away?”
He shrugged and smiled sheepishly.
“I was dying for that pizza,” she said.
“You should’ve seen your face.”
She pointed at him in a mock reprimand. “Don’t do that again.”
“Don’t bring pork home.”
“Don’t leave every time you’re pissed off.”
Khalid took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. He tasted of cigarettes and coffee. She felt her body respond and didn’t refuse when he led her to the bedroom. Their lovemaking was greedy, more urgent than tender, fueled by the energy of their earlier argument.
Two weeks later, the day before their departure, Alison and Khalid shopped for gifts to bring to his family overseas. They walked through the department store and Alison made suggestions.
“What about this picture frame?”
“Too cheap-looking.”
“How about this tablecloth?”
“What would she do with that?”
There were four sisters to shop for—one of them requiring an engagement gift. Plus, there were communal gifts to buy—bags of chocolates and nuts.
Khalid’s cell phone rang; he answered in Arabic. She could tell he was talking to his family by the way he substituted ch for k, switching to the family dialect. He continued talking loudly in Arabic as he walked around, self-absorbed. When he spoke to his family, he shifted not only his language, but his personality, as well.
Alison pretended to be looking at leather goods while concentrating on what Khalid was saying. He was talking to his brother, and the topic seemed to be about moving to the Emirates. Alison casually picked up a wallet and strained to listen. Khalid was expressing shock, something about Margaret. He gave a dismissive wave and spoke as though he were advising Ahmed to go ahead with his plans, regardless of his wife’s wishes. Alison opened her mouth to speak up, to interrupt him, but remembered their task at hand and their trip ahead.
Finally, Khalid said salaam and slipped his phone in his pocket. Soon they settled on sale-priced leather wallets as gifts for all his sisters. For Nadia’s engagement, they bought designer perfume, also on sale. As they drove back to their apartment, Khalid appeared to be in a good mood, telling Alison about the four sisters she hadn’t met yet. “Fatma’s the oldest. She takes care of everyone, and Huda, she and her kids are always joking around. Nadia, she’s the most modern, maybe because she’s the youngest.”
“What about Yasmine?’
“She lives in Dheisheh Camp. She has four kids—maybe five.”
“Do you think I’ll get to go to the West Bank to meet her?” Alison asked.
“Let’s get to Jordan, wait, and see how it goes.”
“Wait all you want.” She gave him a nudge. “But I’m planning to go there.”
That evening they went to see Khalid’s mother. It was light out as they drove, and Khalid was still talkative, describing the pleasure of staying at Fatma’s house in summer—all those relatives staying up late and sleeping in the courtyard. “Like camping!” he said.
For Alison, it was that point in time just before travel when the hours seemed to slow under the anticipation of it all. Their luggage was neatly packed, waiting back at their apartment. She had traveled to the Middle East before with only one bag. This time, she had managed to fit all her things into a single suitcase and a backpack—including the gifts, purposefully compact.
Everyone had gathered in Margaret and Ahmed’s living room, the mood lively. Ibrahim was telling a story about a past trip to Palestine. Mona was laughing loudly, although she and her family weren’t going on the trip. According to Khalid, they couldn’t afford it, as they had traveled to Jordan in the winter for the funeral of Khalid’s father. In the middle of everyone sat Khalid’s mother, smiling and nodding. Meanwhile, Margaret circulated around the room, serving tea.
Khalid’s mother asked Alison about the baby’s name. Khalid jumped in and told his mother something Alison couldn’t catch. She was about to ask for a translation when Margaret appeared with a thick scrapbook in her arms.
She set it in Alison’s lap and caressed its cover. “Our last trip there.”
Alison opened it to the first page. Mansour Trip to Jordan.
Margaret sat down next
to her. “We didn’t go to the West Bank that time. Too many problems.”
Alison nodded and flipped the page. The first photo was of Khalid’s parents, his mother looking well-rested and happy, his father with a hand around her waist.
The next page was labeled Lunch at Fatma’s. The photos showed family members sitting on the floor, crowded around an enormous platter of rice and meat. Alison poured over the album, searching for clues of what was to come. Page after page showed more of the same: mealtime, teatime, or family members sitting around.
When it was time to go, Khalid asked Alison, “Can you help me carry these bags?” He gestured toward some large plastic shopping bags piled by the front door.
Alison reached for one. “What’s in them?”
“Some stuff to take with us tomorrow.”
She set the bag down. “But we’re already packed.”
He turned toward her, his face flushed with impatience. “These are gifts from Mona, and these are from Ibrahim and Salim. They’re for their families.”
Alison straightened, her head dizzy. She lowered her voice. “Maybe Ahmed and Margaret can take some of this stuff? Or your mom?”
He frowned but said nothing and carried the bags to the curb. The sky was dark by then, and as he unlocked the trunk and arranged the sacks inside, Alison said, “I’m not carrying that stuff. It’ll have to go in your suitcase. Why did your family wait until the last minute?” Her voice was high and shaky. “I thought we were done packing.”
He closed the trunk and spun around. “What’s wrong with you?”
She flinched. “Me? Nothing’s wrong with me.”
Khalid shook his head, muttering to himself in Arabic as he got in the car.
She said nothing more. It was a hopeless argument. They would have to drag that junk with them whether she liked it or not. As they drove home, Alison bit her lip, pointedly not speaking while Khalid brought up another subject.
“We need a name for the baby.”
“Does her middle name have to be Khalid?” Alison allowed her displeasure to show.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 12