Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Alison hesitated and then said, “It’s Khalid.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s Ramadan. I have to cook for his whole family tomorrow. Everyone. His mom and his cousins. Plus, his brother and sister and their families.

  “That’s a lot of cooking. Why do you have to do it all?”

  “We’re taking turns.” Once Alison started talking, the words came easily. “Khalid and I argued about the baby today. I ended up walking home alone. He doesn’t want our daughter to do sports.” Now that Alison had said the words, it all sounded so silly, so ridiculous and so many years away! Why had she taken him seriously?

  “Is he around?” her mother asked.

  “He’s at the mosque. He went to the prayer.”

  “I see.” Her mother’s voice was tight. “Well, I’m at your grandmother’s. She wants to talk to you.”

  Why now? Of all days? Of course, it was Sunday, when her mother visited Grandma Helen and when they were most likely to call. Alison could hear the hushed sounds of her mother’s voice as she passed the phone, talking to her grandmother, telling her God-knew-what. Alison gathered herself and tried to make her voice bright.

  “Teytey! How are you?”

  “Hello, habibti. I’m fine,” her grandmother said in her gravelly voice. “How’s your pregnancy? Are you taking care of yourself?”

  “Yes, I’m eating well and sleeping lots. The doctor says everything’s great.”

  “What’s this I hear about your husband?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  “That’s not what your mother tells me.”

  “We just have some issues. It’s normal.”

  “When you marry someone so different—”

  “I know, Teytey.”

  “With such a different background, you can’t expect to look at things the same way.”

  “I know,” Alison said, tears springing up.

  “Believe me, I know how these Muslims are. They may seem—”

  “Teytey!” Alison stood, heat flushing through her body. “Can I talk to Mom?”

  Her mother came back on. “Well, Alison, he’s the man you chose.”

  “This is not helping,” Alison said as she paced with a hand pressed to her pregnant belly.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I warned you about this.”

  “Mom!”

  “You may think his culture is similar to ours—”

  “Please stop!”

  “Oh sweetheart, I hate to say it, but if it’s that bad, you can get on a plane and come home.”

  “Why would you say that? We’re having a baby!” Alison screamed, her sob-filled voice betraying her. She would never move back to her parents. Never. She would find a way to make things work. She had to.

  “It’s only going to get worse,” her mother replied.

  “Look, Mom. I need to go,” Alison said and hung up.

  Chapter 23

  At the table in Khalid’s apartment, Zainab sat, noting the sound of rain outside. She accepted her bowl of soup and said, “Bless your hands,” to Alison, who didn’t reply but turned to Khalid. Zainab’s eyes followed their exchange, riddled with tension.

  Khalid said, “We both made the soup, Yama.”

  Zainab lifted the spoon to her mouth. Scorched. “Well, then, bless your hands, too.”

  That afternoon while fasting, Zainab had tried to imagine the iftar at her son’s house. In the end, her suspicions were confirmed. Alison couldn’t cook. One dish was overcooked, and another wasn’t ready on time. Margaret must have known about her lack of skill, as she brought two dishes of her own, foreign foods unfamiliar to Zainab. It didn’t seem like Ramadan; the flavors and smells were all wrong.

  Of course, Zainab’s own daughters could prepare a proper iftar, the right combination of dishes, ready on time. She had taught Fatma, Mona, Huda, and Yasmine, just as her own mother had taught her in that tiny kitchen in the refugee camp.

  Now it was Nadia’s turn. Zainab’s thoughts expanded to what she would teach her after she arrived in America—how to cook bamia, freekah stew, mahshi, and kufta—so many productive days ahead. She would disclose all of her cooking secrets; she only wished she had started the process earlier.

  The rest of Alison’s iftar was more of the same, bland, overcooked food. Her fattoush salad had too much lettuce. Even her tea was bad—weak and overly sweet. Zainab sipped and pretended not to notice that Khalid’s voice was tight and Alison had tears in her eyes. A shame, Alison’s mother lived far away and was unable to guide her daughter in meal preparation and the proper behavior of a wife.

  From Zainab’s position at the table, she took in the rest of her family. Her eyes fell on Ahmed. Truth be told, her worries about him outweighed all others. Hunched over his plate, his eyes tired and dark, he ate quietly.

  Zainab caught his eye. “How’s the food?”

  “I need to teach Khalid some things.”

  She took her last bite and pushed her plate away. It worried her greatly that Ahmed had such a depressed air about him. Since the trip to Jordan, she had pressed him about the job. He told her, “You’ll be the first to know, Yama.”

  Zainab wondered if that company in the Gulf was still keeping him waiting. A shiver of dread ran over her as she realized that maybe he hadn’t gotten that job and was too humiliated to tell her. With a blank look on his face, Ahmed was quiet, not joining in the conversation. Meanwhile, Margaret sat across the room, occupied with Leena. It had been a long time since Ahmed and Margaret sat together or shared a pot of tea. It seemed a sadness had sunk down and filled the space between them.

  Later, at the mosque for tarawih, Zainab prayed two rak’ah and sat on the carpeted floor opposite the lattice that looked down onto the men’s section. The women’s area was filling up fast, but she was alone. Mona hadn’t arrived yet, and Zainab didn’t recognized the faces of the other women.

  She fingered her prayer beads until, at last, Mona slipped through the row of women and squeezed in next to Zainab, who would soon have two daughters at prayer, one on each side.

  The prayer started. The imam read a new juz each night of Ramadan until the entire Qur’an was complete. Zainab performed rak’ah after rak’ah, until she was lightheaded from going up and down. When the prayer ended, she began her supplications by asking for Nadia to arrive safely. When finished, she gripped her prayer beads with one hand and Mona’s elbow with the other. Outside, the light rain had turned to heavy showers.

  The weather! So gloomy and wet, day after day. How could anyone live like this?

  Finally, Ahmed waved to her from across the drenched parking lot. Wearing only a sweater over her thob, Zainab shielded herself with it and hurried over to his car, stepping into a deep puddle on the way. As she slipped into the front seat next to him, her prayer beads caught on the door handle. When she gently tugged, the string snapped and the dark beads scattered. Her heart dropped as she watched them disappear into the puddle and under the car. “Bismillah,” she said. In the name of God. She reached down.

  “Yama, just leave them,” Ahmed said. “We’ll get you another one.”

  She stared at the wet ground before getting in and closing the car door. Her thob was wet to the skin. She looked down at her feet, also soaked through. A few beads were strewn around the car floor, and she reached down and picked one up.

  “Turn on the heat,” Khalid said from the back.

  As Ahmed drove, the wipers slapped against the windshield and Zainab shivered. Her anxious thoughts turned to Ahmed. Finally, she blurted out the question plaguing her.

  “What happened with that job in the Gulf?”

  He sighed. “Nothing, Yama.”

  “Are you still waiting? Have they decided?” Her questions spilled out. “They didn’t offer you enough money? You changed your mind?” She stared at her son. “You didn’t get the job.”

  “No, I got
it.”

  “So?” She sat up. “You told me I’d be the first to know.”

  Ahmed fixed his eyes on the road ahead. “I’m not taking it.”

  “Why not?”

  Khalid’s voice came from the backseat. “Yama, let it be.”

  Her throat tightened. “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t take it.”

  “Astaghfirullah! Just tell me.”

  Ahmed turned to her. “Margaret doesn’t want to move. Okay?”

  Zainab held up her hands. “But why? You can make money there.”

  “It’s not about money. She doesn’t want to go.”

  “What reason did she give?”

  Khalid spoke again. “Let it be, Yama.”

  Ahmed kept his eyes ahead. “She doesn’t think she’ll be happy there.”

  Under her breath, Zainab said, “So foolish.”

  Ahmed shrugged. “What can I do?”

  “What can you do? You can make her go.”

  “I can’t force her.” He shook his head. “If she’s not happy, no one will be happy.”

  “You are the head of the family, are you not?” Zainab’s voice cracked. “Astaghfirullah.” Forgive me, God. She squeezed the single prayer bead between her fingers. Were her sons to live in America forever? Was she to have nowhere to go? Was it for Margaret to decide? Zainab turned to the window. One thing was for certain. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her years in this cold, rain-filled, disbelieving country.

  The next morning, Zainab woke up with dull pain in her side. It was an old ache that appeared whenever she was homesick. Still, it would be Nadia’s first day in America, and for that, Zainab felt blessed. Nearly everyone in the family drove to the airport to greet her. The moment she saw her youngest child, Zainab’s eyes filled with tears. She embraced Nadia and held her hand all the way to the parking garage.

  At home, Ahmed, Khalid, Mona, and now Nadia gathered around Zainab, four of her children talking and laughing, all at once. Zainab’s worries floated away, and in their place, joy rose up, filling her chest.

  Yet the feeling lasted but a moment, as three daughters were missing. Would she ever have all seven children together again? Was her life to continue fractured like this? No real home. Her children scattered about. She considered the days and years ahead. What would they look like?

  Zainab trained her attention back to her children in front of her. Her eyes skimmed their faces. Bless them all. This moment together was short-lived, however. Everyone was drained from fasting and needed to get back to their duties.

  In the bedroom Zainab would now share with her daughter, she shooed the cat out and looked through the items in Nadia’s suitcase. “What? No jilbabs?”

  Nadia was at the mirror brushing her hair. “No one wears a jilbab in America.”

  “What about an abaya?”

  Nadia turned and gave Zainab a stern look. “Yama. Please.”

  Zainab dropped the subject and turned back to the suitcase. So many jeans! At least Nadia had the good sense to bring a selection of scarves. Zainab folded them into a neat stack and handed them to Nadia, who pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. As she placed the scarves inside, her hand landed on the rolled-up kufiyah.

  “What’s this?” Nadia asked.

  Reluctantly, Zainab took out the bundle, sat on the bed, and unrolled it.

  Nadia sat next to her and said softly, “Baba’s things.” She picked up his string of prayer beads. “Why don’t you take these, Yama, since yours are broken?” She put them in Zainab’s hand. “It’ll help you remember him.”

  Zainab didn’t need help remembering. Abed hovered over her every day—a constant shadow over all events. She looked down at the amber-colored beads in her hand and then up at Nadia. Zainab’s loneliness swelled and then lessened when Nadia put her arm around her.

  Then from nowhere came a beeping sound. Nadia pulled a cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans and flipped it open. “It’s Mohammed.” She smiled. “He sent me a text.” Nadia turned away and took a long moment to read it.

  Zainab slipped Abed’s prayer beads into her pocket and rolled the remains of his belongings back up.

  Nadia snapped her phone shut. “He misses me.”

  Zainab shook her head. Clearly a love match. When the infatuation was gone, what was left? Zainab felt a slight pain in her side and touched the spot. If only she hadn’t rushed Nadia.

  Zainab said to her daughter, “Your jeans, they’re tight.”

  “Yama. This is not tight.”

  Zainab shook her head. “Too tight.”

  “I beg you, Yama.” Nadia waved toward the door. “Just go and let me unpack.”

  Zainab closed the door, stunned that she had been kicked out of her own room. She went to the kitchen, where Margaret was preparing the family iftar. Actually, she wasn’t cooking but instead staring at a cookbook.

  Margaret looked up, and Ahmed’s words replayed in Zainab’s head. She doesn’t think she’ll be happy there. Zainab’s eyes narrowed. By the grace of God, it seemed everyone’s future was spinning on what would make this woman happy.

  Why did Ahmed allow Margaret to dictate? What about his needs? And the children’s? And the rest of the family? An image flashed in her head: her own old age spent pacing the cul-de-sac, getting sick, seeing doctors she couldn’t understand. Nadia’s arrival was supposed to be a blessed day, yet Zainab fought the urge to curse out loud.

  In her heavy Arabic, Margaret asked, “Are you happy your daughter’s here?”

  “Of course I am!” Zainab huffed, then turned and walked down the hall, asking for forgiveness for the relentless dark thoughts in her head.

  Just before sunset, the family gathered for iftar. Among the many dishes on the table was Zainab’s stuffed cabbage. She had rolled each leaf with care and cooked them slowly, allowing the flavors to come together. As she prepared them, she had imagined Nadia’s delighted expression as she bit into one of them.

  When it came time for the main course, Nadia filled her plate with foreign foods prepared by Margaret. Zainab slipped a handful of the stuffed cabbage onto Nadia’s plate only for her to toss them back onto the serving platter.

  “Yama, I just ate this in Jordan.”

  Zainab pressed her lips together and stayed silent. Later, the family sat in the living room sipping tea and sampling American brownies, a disgustingly sweet and gooey cake. Zainab leaned toward Nadia, finally by her side, the result of all that planning and praying.

  Nadia held up her brownie and said something to Margaret, which made her laugh.

  Zainab patted her daughter’s hand. “While you’re here, I’ll teach you to make ma’amoul. We’ll make them with pistachios and dates.” Zainab did a quick calculation of how many stuffed pastries they would need for Eid al-Fitr, the holiday fast approaching, marking the end of Ramadan.

  Nadia reached for another gooey cake. “I’d rather learn to make brownies.”

  Zainab repressed a shudder. “Don’t be silly.” She kept her tone soft. “We’ll cook many foods together, my love. Mensef, mahshi, sambusik—”

  Nadia laughed. “I want Margaret to teach me American food.”

  At this, Margaret smiled and said something back to Nadia. The two chatted in English while Zainab looked on. “Ya Allah,” she said under her breath.

  “Yama, I won’t have time for cooking,” Nadia said. “I’m taking English classes.”

  Zainab sat up. “What classes?”

  “At the college. Margaret says she’ll drive me.”

  Zainab furrowed her brow.

  “They’re free classes.”

  Zainab let out a small grunt.

  Nadia and Margaret exchanged a secretive glance—it seemed the two of them were making plans. Margaret talked in an enthusiastic rush. This was a new scene, as she rarely drank tea with the family anymore. Yet here she was, influencing Nadia on her first day.

  Zainab crossed her arms over the ache in her side. She s
tared at Margaret, talking to Nadia and ticking off points on her fingertips. Zainab wished she could understand what was being said. She asked Ahmed, “When’s tarawih prayer?” Finally, she would be able to pull Nadia away from Margaret.

  Before Ahmed could answer, Nadia said, “I’m not going. I’m tired.”

  “You don’t look tired.”

  “I just got here.” Nadia rolled her eyes. “Besides, I don’t have to go to the mosque. I just came from a journey.”

  “Don’t explain al-Islam to me, my love.” Zainab got up from her seat and walked down the hall. She would definitely take a coat this time.

  At the mosque, Zainab was alone again in the women’s section. Mona had decided not to come, either. This cruel solitude forced her to concentrate on her prayers.

  When she was in the most submissive position with her forehead pressed to the floor, she whispered her private request. Please let Ahmed be a man. Make him take this job. After the last rak’ah, she held her hands open. Please make Margaret change her mind. Please guide Nadia down the right path. She gripped Abed’s beads and recited Allah is great ninety-nine times.

  The next day, Zainab’s ache was still there. What’s more, the day was gray and heavy with gloom. In the living room, Margaret and Nadia formed a little clique on the couch. Nadia was showing off her latest cross-stitch project, a strip of black fabric covered in red stitches, which would be the belt to match her bridal thob. Nadia and Margaret spoke in a whirl of English, oblivious to Zainab, who paced the room. She tried to insert herself into the exchange; she asked Nadia if she was tired and asked Margaret about iftar. Both times she was brushed aside.

  After a while, Nadia stood and announced she was going to rest. Finally, the jet lag was taking hold. Margaret went to the kitchen. Zainab followed her and hoisted herself up onto a stool, her feet dangling loose. Margaret moved about the kitchen as though trying to appear busy, turning to her cookbook with her back to Zainab, who wondered if it had been such a good idea to bring Nadia into this house. Margaret was already filling the girl’s head with who-knew-what while Nadia showed no interest in learning to prepare the dishes of her mother. She wasn’t even interested in talking to her mother! Zainab had spent so much effort getting her daughter to America, yet here she sat with the same feelings of loneliness.