Liz arrived at the door looking content and well-rested. Her toddler ran past and into the house. Margaret put a movie on for the little boy and led her friend to the kitchen. She served American coffee alongside tiny baklawa pastries.
Liz stirred cream in her coffee. “So, your trip. Let’s hear it.”
Margaret bit into a baklawa, which had a slightly rancid taste. “I have photos.” They sat side by side, examining the images as Margaret recounted the events. Holding back nothing, she described the feeling of being trapped while Ahmed resolved the conflict between his mother and aunt. She described the spectacle of the engagement party and the distress of Ahmed leaving for the job interview.
As Margaret talked, Liz responded with the right interjections of understanding, empathy, and laughter. Her toddler came to her, and Liz picked him up as Margaret spoke of the boredom of the last few days when everyone had left, including Ahmed.
Liz cradled her sleepy son and looked at Margaret. “But what about the job?”
“He had an interview in Abu Dhabi.”
“Yeah, I got that. But what happened?” Her son startled in her arms, and she gently rocked him back to sleep. “Inshallah, he’ll get a good offer.”
Margaret set her coffee down. “You told me I shouldn’t move there.”
“Well … I didn’t expect you’d listen.”
They sat quietly for a moment until Liz reached out and touched Margaret’s arm. “I would miss you. What would I do if you moved away?”
Margaret sighed. Yes, it would be lonely for them both. Plus, rather than just trailing behind her husband, she wanted plans of her own—what those would be, Margaret didn’t know.
“I just don’t want to leave this house.” Margaret’s voice cracked.
Liz raised her eyebrows.
“Did you see the work I’ve done? The yard is looking better than ever.” Margaret wanted to go back to the gossip about Nadia and her fiancé. She wanted to laugh a bit more over Alison bumbling her way through Jordan.
Liz tapped her mug. “Why didn’t you go with him when he had the interview?”
“I had no interest in that.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
“It would’ve just encouraged him. If I’d gone, he would’ve thought I’m okay with it.”
“It might have been fun to take a trip with your husband.”
“And leave the kids with the family?” Margaret reached over and stroked Liz’s sleeping child. “God knows if they’d be alive when we got back.”
Liz smiled down at her son and took a bite of baklawa. “This tastes weird.”
“I know. Ahmed’s family loves it.”
The following week, Ahmed and Margaret left Jenin to babysit Tariq and Leena. Ahmed and Margaret drove to Starbucks, the one in University Village that stayed open until midnight. Being so close to the university campus reminded Margaret of the early days when she and Ahmed had met. The sites of their first dates were not far from where they were sitting.
They sat at a tiny table while Ahmed talked about the restaurants. Her mind wandered to the mother, who would return the following morning. As this reality struck, Margaret felt her pleasure slipping away. Meanwhile, Ahmed jabbered on, now talking about Nadia, but Margaret was preoccupied with unresolved issues: the mother resuming her place in their home, the interview that had never been discussed, and finally, the overall state of their marriage.
Yes. Their marriage. What was happening to them? As a husband, Ahmed had been good to her. Hadn’t he? He had never tried to change her into some kind of Arab wife. It was Margaret who had done that. He had understood when she stopped wearing hijab. He had always been supportive. The problem was … What was the problem?
Family obligations? Cultural differences? Their marriage no longer contained two distinct cultures. They had each changed over the years, assimilating to the other, forming their own culture, neither American nor Arab, a sort of blend of the two.
Yet that balance had been disrupted, and Margaret could pinpoint the exact moment—when Ahmed’s father died and his mother had moved in. She sipped her latte and wondered. Perhaps their marital differences went further back. Her thoughts flared with an image, a sharp frame seared into her memory—9/11, the twin towers tumbling down. Within a year, Ahmed’s friends began expressing their desire to return to the Middle East. Ahmed had shared their zeal, and each time he mentioned a possible Arab country, Margaret had dismissed it, never allowing any real discussion to develop.
Ahmed said something that brought her attention back to the present.
“I never expected Nadia to get the visa.”
Margaret stared at him. She had sensed his secretiveness in Jordan and assumed it had been related to his interview. Had something else been going on?
“Honey, what are you saying?”
“It’s a four-month-visit visa. She won’t be coming until everything’s finalized.” He made no attempt to conceal his delight. “When we submitted the application, I never thought she’d get it. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
Margaret swallowed. “Four months?”
“Like I said, I never thought she’d get it. Nadia put together her own file, proof she’d return to Jordan. She had letters, even photos from her engagement—”
“Four months—at our house?”
“Maybe she’ll stay sometimes at Mona’s or Khalid’s. Honey, I never thought—”
“Stop saying that.” Margaret set her latte down, processing this latest betrayal. He had orchestrated this visa for his sister, yet hid the fact from his own wife.
“All this secrecy. What else are you not telling me?”
He looked away.
“What happened with the interview?”
He closed his eyes.
“Tell me.” Margaret froze. A chill ran up her middle.
“They called me today. They offered me a job. General Director. It’s a chain in the UAE. Sixteen outlets. Café Arabica. It’s a good offer.”
His voice trailed off as Margaret stopped listening. A clenching anxiety rose inside her. She didn’t trust herself this time. She got up, turned, and stumbled out the glass doors.
The evening air was warm for September, and the outside tables were filled with people sipping coffee and laughing, leading carefree lives—no bombs dropping on them. Margaret passed them, turned a corner, and stopped. She covered her mouth and stood that way until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Then Ahmed’s voice. “It’ll be okay.”
Margaret shook his hand off and continued walking, past a French bakery to her right, a Barnes & Noble on her left, an outdoor café after that. She kept walking until she reached the marketplace’s classically shaped fountain, its circular base covered in Mediterranean tiles. The water pouring down shimmered in the dark, a romantic sight—at once beautiful and infuriating.
She spun back around. “Why did you invite Nadia to stay with us?” The water in the fountain surged.
“I’d be a jerk if I didn’t help my sister.”
Margaret had heard these words before. I’d be a jerk if I didn’t help my mother.
She glared at him. “Well, you’re being a jerk now.”
A couple looked up from a nearby table.
“When does it end?” she cried, hating the shrillness of her voice. “What were you thinking? How can you bring your sister here and move to the Middle East? You can’t do both.” She pointed her finger at him. “This move was never part of the plan.” Her expression and gestures were severe, definitely out of place for the upscale U Village. “You can’t change our lives on some spontaneous whim.” Her voice grew louder. “I have plans, too!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Which are?”
She thought for a moment. “Now that Leena’s in preschool, I’d like to go back to the university.”
“What?” Ahmed looked taken aback. “You’ve never mentioned this before.”
“Actually, it’s my turn,” she said as sh
e pointed to herself. “I have goals. I put them aside for the restaurants, for the children … for you.”
“And what are you going to study?”
Her mind drew a blank. Finally it came to her. “Photography. I’ll study photography.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, he was looking back at her. “Damn it!” she said. “You just went ahead with your plans. Like you always do.”
Passers-by with shopping bags from The Gap glanced at them. Margaret stood still, rooted to the ground. She tried to discern what was going on behind Ahmed’s eyes but could tell nothing of his feelings. Meanwhile, the surging fountain had become almost unbearable.
“You married an American. In this country!” Her voice cracked, but then she regained control. “You can’t change the rules at this point. Your mother, your sister—I think I can handle them. But this! It’s not something I’m willing to do.” She waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she said, “You’re on your own.”
He stepped forward. “What do you mean?”
She lowered her voice. “I have skills. I can support myself. I’m not afraid of divorce.”
The threat of it seemed to hit him like a stab. His face dropped and drained of color.
She straightened. “I’m not afraid to be alone. I’m still young enough to—”
He cut her off. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“I won’t take the job.”
Margaret looked at the fountain and then back at him. “Don’t ever mention this topic again. Ever. This topic is dead.”
Ahmed held up a hand. “Wallahi, it’s over.” His shoulders slumped, and the lines of his face grew deeper.
They walked silently back to the car. For a moment Margaret was unsure if she had been fair. She brushed the worry aside and got in. She wasn’t going to be plucked from her home, roots and all, like an unwanted dandelion.
As they drove off, she slouched in her seat the way she had seen Jenin do when she was sulking. Margaret held her breath as they pulled onto the freeway. She stared ahead at the rush of taillights, aware of the lump rising in her throat. With a sudden certainty, she knew something had ended for them by that fountain. She looked over at Ahmed, who glanced at her.
“I wish you’d told me sooner about going back to the U.”
She exhaled and slunk farther down in her seat. She should have been happy. She had gotten what she wanted. Margaret closed her eyes and waited for a feeling of relief.
Chapter 22
Alison arrived back at the Sea-Tac Airport to find Khalid waiting by the luggage claim. She beamed when she saw him, but his mother held out her arms, and he went to her first. Finally, Khalid wrapped himself around Alison.
“I missed you,” she said, her hands on his shirt, inhaling his familiar scent.
At first, everything looked the same: the view from I-5, the flowers curling up the Pine View sign, and the parking spaces outside Building F. Inside, the bare walls of the apartment shone stark white. Her books stood neatly on the shelves, and her highlighter pen and graduate school printouts lay where she had left them. However, Khalid had been there alone for a week. The bed was unmade, spreadsheets cluttered the table, and dirty dishes were scattered about.
Alison sat on the sofa, not moving to unpack or straighten the room. Khalid sat across from her, tapping out text messages on his cell phone, which reminded her of Belal and his pack of cigarettes. She wished the trip was a remote memory rather than so near in her mind. All she had to do was close her eyes to see the tear gas canister rolling toward her, sending out its thin hiss of white smoke. She had barely noticed it at the time, but now as she replayed the scene, it was the canister that took center stage. Wedged in her mind was an image of that injured boy on the ground and the words of the soldier: You don’t have to live here.
During the two flights home with Khalid’s mother next to her, Alison had tried her best to focus on the in-flight entertainment, avoiding thoughts of soldiers and clashes. Back home, she lay motionless on the sofa, replaying events from her trip. That evening, Khalid listened thoughtfully to her stories about Jerusalem, the refugee camp, and the tear gas.
For days she slept long hours in the afternoon. At night, she walked silently around the apartment, remembering the curly-haired soldier at the gate of the Dome of the Rock. She wondered if he had ever fired shots at children. While Khalid slept soundly in the next room, the desperate face of Yasmine drifted in and out of Alison’s mind. Belal was the only person Alison had told about that episode. To Khalid she simply said, “You should call Yasmine.”
Just before dawn on her third day back, the newspaper thudded at the front door. She picked it up, glanced at the headlines, and threw it into the recycling bin. Alison had done this the previous mornings, as well. She could already imagine the news from the Occupied Territories—more demonstrations, more missiles, more victims, and more misery.
Alison called her parents and gave them a cheerful account of her trip. Her mother said they had received her postcard from Amman and asked about her pregnancy. Alison said everything was fine. She explained that the trip had been perfectly safe and that they, too, should visit the Via Dolorosa and the Church of the Nativity.
After a week, Alison recovered from her jet lag. Then Khalid announced that his sister Nadia had received her US visitor’s visa and would be coming to Seattle.
Alison was unmoved by this news. Actually, nothing moved her, not the Seattle Times, not the graduate school applications, not her pregnancy, not the stack of books by her bed. Everything that had been so urgent before the trip now seemed beside the point.
Back at her part-time job in the International Studies office, Alison put on the face of someone who had returned from an exotic adventure. She entertained coworkers with glib comments about her trip. “Want to travel on a dollar a day?” she asked. “Stay in a refugee camp!” She told them she had witnessed rock-throwing, “the national sport of Palestine.” Alison didn’t know why she made these horrible remarks, and yet her coworkers laughed as though what she was saying were actually funny.
Khalid worked during the day, then spent most evenings with his family at Ahmed’s house. After a few days back, Alison decided to go along, if only to be with Khalid. She sat next to his mother, their relationship newly enhanced by the two of them traveling together. Alison was now at ease with her mother-in-law, who reached over occasionally and patted her hand.
As always, Alison went into the kitchen for her customary chat with Margaret. Alison climbed on a stool, looked around, and noted, “Something’s different with your kitchen.”
“I painted.” Margaret gestured toward the wall, a soft shade of sage green. “How was the West Bank?”
“Great.” Alison took in the fresh color and new display of Palestinian pottery.
“Tell me about Aida Camp.” Margaret stood next to the stove, a glass of tea in her hand. “What about Dheisheh? How are the people coping there?”
Alison gave a weary sigh. “It’s miserable. It’s one thing to read about the occupation—”
“And it’s another thing to see it. I heard you left early.”
“It was eye-opening.” Alison put her hand on her bulging belly, now about six months along. Eye-opening wasn’t the word; it was more like a switch had been flipped. Something had shifted. Alison was no longer a mere observer of the conflict—yet she wasn’t a participant, either.
“Eye-opening,” Margaret repeated while nodding. “I can imagine.”
“I wish I could do more. I used to think if only people understood what was happening there … Now I think no one cares.”
Margaret sat next to her. “During the second intifada, Ahmed and I used to attend these demonstrations in Seattle. I stood in front of Westlake Center and handed out flyers. No one wanted them.” Margaret shook her head. “Sometimes, it feels hopeless.”
“Yeah, hopeless.�
�� Alison wanted to say more but couldn’t.
By October, the air turned brisk. Alison began wearing maternity tops and jeans with an elastic panel. She resumed the weekly Qur’an study sessions to keep up her classical Arabic but spent many evenings home alone, annoyed with Khalid, and falling asleep before he returned from his family or card playing with his friends.
She began to shrink from his touch. His leg wrapped around her body aggravated her. They were unable to rekindle any of the sexual fervor they had before the trip. His pace was too quick; she felt smothered by the weight of his body.
Alison grew more conscious of her pregnancy and worried about the lie they had told regarding the due date. A second ultrasound reconfirmed that the baby was a girl, and as Alison lay back in the darkly lit room, the cool gel sliding over her belly, she had one reassuring thought: she would not have to name the baby Abed.
That evening, Khalid stayed home to watch the news on CNN. Alison was next to him, her eyes following a report from Baghdad, which described the aftermath caused by three suicide bombings. The grim-faced correspondent reported twenty-six deaths, including five children.
“That’s awful!” Alison brought a hand to her face. “Absolutely horrible.”
The correspondent concluded by saying that more than a thousand American soldiers had died in Iraq since the start of the war.
Khalid turned the volume to mute. “The Iraqis have a right to fight. They’re defending themselves.”
She pulled away from him. “Don’t mix them up with the Palestinians. The Iraqis are divided by tribes and the Sunni Shiite split.”
“The US is occupying their country.” He turned back to the television, rapidly flicking through the channels.
Alison looked away. Was he sympathizing with suicide bombers? She turned back to him. “The Palestinian terrorists and the Iraqi terrorists are different—”
“Did you say Palestinian terrorists?” Khalid set the remote down.
“That’s not what I meant.” She tried to refocus. “You have your enemy, Israel. The Iraqis are … killing one another.” She wasn’t making sense, not in the way she used to—before the pregnancy had pulled her IQ down.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 21