Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Lois said, “We should go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.”

  An old family custom. “Okay, Mom,” Margaret said. “You start.”

  Lois glanced toward the kids’ table. “I’m thankful to be near my grandchildren.”

  “Can I be next?” Liz raised her hand. “I’m thankful for Ahmed’s apple pie.”

  Everyone laughed, and Nadia appeared to be listening with great interest. The mother was eyeing the sweet potatoes, and Margaret worried she might take a bite before it was time.

  Someone said Alison’s name. She rubbed her belly and looked flustered. “I’m thankful for the baby shower Margaret’s planning for me.”

  At last, Ahmed brought out the turkey, garnished with herbs and cherry tomatoes. The guests murmured their approval.

  Lois zeroed in on him. “Ahmed, what are you thankful for?”

  Still standing, he waved the question away.

  Lois pushed on. “It’s your turn.”

  “No, no,” he said.

  “You must be thankful for something.”

  He gave a forced smile and returned to the kitchen.

  The others, one by one, obediently revealed what they were thankful for. Margaret stared at the browned turkey and wondered about Ahmed’s lack of response. She looked toward the kitchen, waiting for him to return. Her mother’s voice brought her attention back.

  “It’s your turn, dear.”

  Margaret said, “I’m grateful for this home and for—”

  “You hate this house.” It was Ahmed next to her, his tone flat.

  “Ahmed,” Liz said. “Let her finish.”

  Margaret tried again. “I’m grateful for …” She paused. “I’m grateful that …” She searched for something to say. Anything. “You’re all here on my favorite holiday.”

  Margaret released the breath she had been holding. By her side was Ahmed, slicing the turkey and behaving as though nothing were wrong. Margaret waited for Ahmed to raise his glass and say his customary toast: Next year, Jerusalem. But he never did.

  Still, the mood was light and festive, just as it should have been. The turkey was moist, the cranberries tart, and the sweet potatoes flavorful. Compliments flowed freely. Ahmed’s mother seemed to relish the foods that she had regarded skeptically only minutes before.

  For a moment, everything seemed normal, as it was before—before Ahmed’s mother moved in, before the pressure to move, before they were always on edge.

  Then Margaret’s father brought up the topic of George W. Bush.

  “I don’t understand how he got reelected,” he said.

  “I feel like moving to Canada,” Lois said as she passed the green bean casserole.

  Ahmed laughed loudly. It was a bitter laugh that quieted the table.

  “Even you, Lois?” he asked. “Even you want to move away?” He laughed to himself, leaned toward Lois, and said in a low callous tone, “You’re not the only one.”

  Lois held the green beans suspended above the table. Her smile slowly dropped from her face as she registered what Ahmed had said. “Don’t tell me you’re moving to the Middle East.”

  She said it just like that, pulling the topic out of nowhere, the issue that Ahmed and Margaret had backed away from for so long, circling around it, never mentioning it.

  No one spoke except Lois, who gave Margaret a perplexed look. “What’s going on?”

  Liz coughed, and Margaret squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  “What?” Lois stared at Ahmed. “You’re not moving, are you?”

  He didn’t answer but turned to Margaret and gave her a blank look, one meant to conceal his feelings yet expose them, as well.

  Khalid took the dish from Lois, who looked at Margaret. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Barry put his hand on hers.

  “No, Lois,” Ahmed said. “Nothing to tell.” He looked over at Margaret. “Your daughter’s made sure of that.”

  Margaret stared back at him. “Ahmed, you’re not being fair.”

  “You think you’re being fair?” He began to say more but seemed to change his mind.

  Margaret turned to her mother. “Mom, we discussed moving but decided against it.”

  Under his breath, Ahmed said, “You decided.”

  Lois shook her head. “Don’t tell me you’re moving my grandkids.”

  A silence came over the table. Ahmed stood, and Margaret gave him a pleading look, imploring to him to sit back down. He strode to the kitchen with his plate, pausing to say, “No worries, Lois. Your grandkids are staying here.”

  From the kitchen came the sound of his plate dropping into the sink. He disappeared down the hallway, his seat now a glaring gap. The mother, looking bewildered, had a pile of discarded turkey bones next to her plate.

  “Uh-oh,” Liz said.

  Margaret’s eyes darted around the table. “Keep eating, everyone. It’s nothing.” She took a bite of mashed potatoes and told herself to swallow.

  “I’ll get him.” Khalid stood and dropped his napkin on the table, only to quickly return. “He says he’s done eating.”

  Stunned and unprepared, Margaret had to remind herself to breathe. The most shocking thing was Ahmed violating his own rules: Never do anything to make people uncomfortable. Never make a scene in front of guests. It had been so foolish to put so much energy into this meal, as if she were trying to create a feeling that no longer existed.

  Margaret glanced at Alison. Their eyes met, and Alison tilted her head. “Come on, there must be something you like about the Middle East.”

  Margaret’s chest tightened with fresh irritation. “That’s not the point.” Rising within her was an urge to reach across the table and give Alison a slap.

  Liz slipped into Ahmed’s empty chair. “It’ll be okay.” She put her arm around Margaret. “He’ll get over it.”

  They were the same empty words that Margaret had told Alison on Eid. Margaret bit her lip in a vain attempt to keep the tears in.

  “No, no, don’t do that.” Liz patted Margaret’s shoulder. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Margaret realized there was work to be done. She stood and began to busy herself with cleaning up. Finally, working briskly, she assembled the final course.

  Out of nervousness, Margaret served the pies too early. Two by two, she laid them out: Lois’s pecan pies, her own pumpkin pies, and finally Ahmed’s apple pies, garnished with little autumn leaves.

  Margaret stared at the leaves, which Ahmed had carefully cut from pastry dough. He was so well-suited for his work, appreciative of both taste and appearance. Why else had the restaurants been successful? It was a surprise even still that he was willing to walk away.

  The family sat in the living room taking small bites while Ahmed’s absence hung over the room. Margaret asked Jenin to serve coffee while she slipped away to find him sitting in her bedroom armchair, her escape corner. She sat on the bed near him. He looked weary, almost fragile.

  Margaret tried to coax some empathy into her heart. “I know you’re angry at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “It’s time to join our guests,” she said.

  “Really, they’re better off without me.” He looked at her, his expression miserable. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Take what?”

  “I don’t want to be here.”

  Margaret stared back, processing this ever-widening fracture. “You promised me you’d never mention this again.”

  He didn’t reply. What was happening between them? How would they ever get out of this endless maze of hurt and denial? She got up, took a final look at him, and left.

  At the edge of the living room, she stood and stared at her guests, all pretending nothing was wrong. She turned and took the stairs down to the basement playroom. The space, normally a free-for-all of toys and clutter, was now tidy. Of course, Nadia had done it; she had left her positive mark all over the house.

  Perhaps because
everything was in place, something in the far corner caught Margaret’s eye. It was on the map of the world, which she had pinned up years ago. Yet that day something stood out—a black smudge in its center.

  She moved closer. Someone—Jenin?—had blackened out the word Israel. Whoever had done it had scratched with such zeal that they had put a hole through the map.

  Margaret’s eyes scanned the map. They landed on a tiny triangle of a country at the bottom of the Persian Gulf, squeezed between Saudi Arabia and Oman. She counted the time zones between it and Seattle. Twelve. Literally on opposite ends of the world.

  No way in hell.

  Chapter 25

  Alison drove out of the Pine View complex, headed to her baby shower. It was a week into the new year, and next to her was her mother, who had flown in from Chicago just to attend the shower. Poised on her knees was a wrapped gift with an oversized ribbon. Later in the spring, both of Alison’s parents would fly out after the baby was born and when they both had time off from work.

  The baby pressed against Alison’s bladder. In the past month, her ankles had swollen, her nipples darkened, her belly button protruded, and her face had grown puffy. She overate and had stopped exercising. Strangest of all, she didn’t care.

  As they neared the party, Alison’s mind filled with worries. How would her mother behave? Would she finally see something good in Khalid’s family? Alison hoped the shower wouldn’t be like the childbirth classes—something she had looked forward to but turned out to be awful. After dragging Khalid to the first class, it was Alison who grew to dread it. She despised the moments in the dimmed room when the two of them had to lie on the floor alongside other couples practicing relaxation techniques. Somehow the exercises made her mind race, and her heart, too. Alison simply could not relax.

  Her mother looked out the car window, commenting on how many homes still had their Christmas lights up. The two of them hadn’t shared any meaningful conversation since her mother’s arrival. Naturally her mother had asked about Christmas. But what was there to say? A tabletop Christmas tree, a few gifts from her parents. Her mother also posed a few questions about Alison’s pregnancy but didn’t probe further. Had her mother always been like this? So detached? Couldn’t she see something was wrong?

  Alison had been waiting for her mother to get there, hoping finally for some understanding, some empathy. Since their telephone conversation during Ramadan, Alison had avoided the topic of her marriage. Now she longed to delve into what was bothering her.

  Alison began, “Married life is sort of interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  How could she explain? Sometimes she felt connected to Khalid, like when she grabbed his hand and put it on her belly to feel the baby kick. Yet other times their differences cast a shadow, like when he maintained that violence could serve the Palestinian cause, or said he hoped his mother would move in with them, or insisted his future daughter would never date. When he spoke like that, she stared at him, a sudden stranger.

  “I’ve been trying to sort out Khalid from his culture,” Alison said. “Some of it’s from his religion, some from his family. Some of it’s just Khalid.”

  “Some of what?”

  Alison glanced at her mother. “His attitudes, his behavior.”

  “What behavior?”

  “How he wants me to dress more modestly.” Alison kept her eyes straight ahead. “How he doesn’t want me socializing with his friends. How—”

  “Sweetheart,” her mother said, “this is what you signed up for.”

  Alison ignored her mother’s words and turned into Margaret’s cul-de-sac. Pastel-colored balloons hung on Margaret’s front door. Several cars were already there. Alison parked and turned off the engine.

  Alison touched her mother’s sleeve. “Mom, I need to tell you something.” She looked down at her giant belly. “It’s about my due date.”

  “January 12th—right?

  “Yes, right. Well … Khalid’s mom and sister think it’s the end of February.”

  “Why would you lie about something like this?”

  Alison pinched the bridge of her nose. “It was Khalid’s idea. Because I got pregnant before we married.”

  Her mother fluffed the ribbon on the gift. “Not a great reason to marry, if you ask me.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Alison glimpsed Margaret in the front window. “That’s not why we got married, Mom. I found out after.”

  “I see. So, what’s the point of the lie?”

  “Khalid’s mother. She’s a bit religious. Khalid thinks she’ll freak out if she knows.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “Are the women going to be wearing that garb on their head today?” “I don’t know, Mom.” Alison remembered that Margaret had invited Aisha and Lateefa from the Qur’an study group. “Probably some will.” Alison hadn’t bothered inviting her college friends. After graduation, most everyone scattered off to different cities. Besides, how could she invite friends whom she had practically ignored for the past year?

  Her mother got out and smoothed the front of her skirt. They approached the front door, and Margaret welcomed them up to the living room. Khalid’s mother and sisters were already there, as well as Margaret’s friend Liz.

  As they entered the room, Alison’s mother mumbled, “Salaam alaikum.”

  Alison went straight to Khalid’s mother and greeted her warmly—an attempt to show her own mother, See? They’re not so bad.

  After handshakes, the women sat in a circle.

  Liz asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Alison explained that her fingers were so swollen she had to remove her wedding ring.

  Liz looked at her belly. “It won’t be long now.”

  It was true. Alison was huge, larger than she had ever imagined she would be.

  Margaret whispered to Alison, “About the due date, I wouldn’t worry. The baby will come when she comes.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Margaret jumped up. Alison recognized the voices, Aisha’s murmur of Islamic greetings and that contrived accent of Lateefa’s. They reached the living room and made a beeline for Alison.

  Aisha embraced her. “As-salaamu alaikum. You’re looking well, masha’Allah.” She wore a black abaya, her head wrapped in a matching shayla; meanwhile, Lateefa was swathed in glittering fabric.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Lateefa said. “I had to wait for my husband to pick up the boys.” She gave a sly smile, lowered her voice, and said, “Soon to be ex-husband.”

  As Aisha and Lateefa added gifts to the pile on the fireplace hearth, Alison’s mother stared openly at the two women. It was hard not to. They were a study in opposites: flamboyant Lateefa, and Aisha, severe in black.

  Alison’s mother asked them, “How do you know Alison?”

  Alison held her breath as Aisha spoke. “Our Qur’an study group. Masha’Allah, Alison comes regularly.”

  Alison’s mother arched an eyebrow and said nothing.

  Margaret invited everyone to help themselves to the food. As the women moved toward the table, Alison whispered to her mother, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to convert.”

  “Then why are you going?”

  “Research.”

  Her mother shot her a look. Apparently this was not acceptable, either. Alison approached the buffet: a spread of finger sandwiches, savory Arab pastries, and in the center, a frosted almond layer cake from Ahmed’s restaurant. The cake read BEST WISHES ALISON.

  The women ate and chatted politely. Alison steered the conversation away from religion and described her and Khalid’s preparations for the baby.

  Lateefa complained bitterly that her husband had never helped when her boys were babies. She said to Alison, “You should be happy if your husband helps at all.”

  Alison nodded but kept it to herself that she and Khalid spent most of their free time arguing, a new theme each week. Their current disagreement was about whether or not Khalid’s
mother would babysit. Khalid stipulated that it was the only way for Alison to return to work. After all, his mother had raised seven babies. Alison argued that his mother couldn’t read directions or use the telephone.

  Margaret stood. “Instead of games, we’re doing something different.” She picked up a small brown tube. “Henna!”

  This part of the shower had slipped Alison’s mind. Margaret handed the henna tube to Nadia and said, “Nadia can do your hand, your shoulder, your ankle … whatever you want.”

  Alison could sense her mother next to her shifting in her chair.

  Liz pointed at Alison. “You should do your bump.” “I think I’ll do my hand.”

  “Oh no, you have to do your belly,” Liz said with mock seriousness. “It’s a requirement.”

  Khalid’s mother volunteered to be first. She sat next to Nadia, who squeezed the tube, and just like decorating a cake, she drew a swirly Arab motif on the top of her mother’s hand.

  Alison whispered to her mother, “You must have done henna before?”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Oh come on, Mom.”

  “It’s not my sort of thing.”

  “Even Khalid’s mother did it,” Alison said, but her mother shook her head.

  Alison was last. She pointed to her hand, but the room broke into a chorus of chanting: “Bel-ly! Bel-ly!”

  She wasn’t sure why she gave in, perhaps to make up for her mother’s refusal to participate. Alison sat and slid her maternity top up, revealing her protruding abdomen.

  Nadia knelt in front of Alison’s belly. She held up the tube and Alison closed her eyes. There was a cold sensation, and she threw her head back and laughed. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother sitting rod-straight, her purse in her lap.

  Margaret patted Alison’s shoulder. “It’s good to have fun now. Your life’s going to change soon.”

  When Nadia finished, Margaret brought out a hand mirror so Alison could properly see the henna swirls radiating off her belly button. Her mother glanced at it and looked away. By then, the other women’s henna had dried and was flaking off.