I'm With Anxious

by Suzanne Brown

  My eyes widen. I glare at the tabby. “Why did you do that?” I rush after the white kitten, but when I turn the corner I’m assaulted by chaos. I’ve left the quiet, residential streets for the bustling souk- the marketplace.

  The souk is noisy and colorful and jam-packed. Every stall along the cobblestone street is stuffed with people and stalls selling everything imaginable. Black, plastic barrels overflow with herbs and spices. Raw chicken parts line glass cases. Silk jilbabs in happy colors like peach, cream, teal, amber, and coral shimmer in the sun. Pointy-toed shoes like Mum’s are stacked in blocks of gold, red, purple, and pink, all nestled on top of one another so snugly that there must be thousands of shoes in one little stall.

  I’m in heaven! The souk is like the mall at home, only way cooler! I know I need to find this hammam place to meet Malika and Mum, but I’m sure I can look around for a few minutes. I mean, this is my dream.

  A lady passes me wearing a lavender jilbab similar to the one I’m wearing. Her head is covered with a brilliant pink scarf which really sets off her darkly-lined eyes and vivid pink lips. I’m definitely going to try that back in my real life. I bet my brown eyes would pop if I wore a headscarf.

  I pass the stall selling spices. A man who looks to be about Mum’s age stands proudly in front of the barrels. He’s wearing a long white tunic and a red fez on his head. He glares at me when I lean down to smell his barrel of orange cumin, so I move on to the next stall selling jilbabs. I squat down to admire the detailing on the hem of a blue jilbab, and suddenly the most gorgeous sandals on earth walk up beside me.

  “Are those the summer Jimmy Choos?” I gush without even looking up.

  “Why, yes they are,” the voice above me answers.

  I drool over the black-and-white, hounds-tooth pattern and the silky-thin tassels for a few seconds before I stand up and come face to face with what I swear is me, twenty years from now. This woman is bottle-blonde, blue-eyed, big-chested (well, that’s probably not likely), a little wrinkly, and a lot smiley.

  I smile back. “They’re so beautiful! How did you get them? I didn’t think they were coming out for another month.”

  She grins wider. “I know a buyer who was able to get them for me right before I left Nashville for this vacation.”

  I sigh. “You are so lucky. I totally want them for my sixteenth birthday, and I’ve been asking my parents for them for like months but seeing them now in person I want them even more. They really are as fabulous in real life as they look online.”

  “Well, shock ran.”

  I tilt my head. “Shock ran? Is that like a Nashville thing?”

  Her eyebrows knit together. “I’m sorry. Am I saying it wrong?” She laughs nervously. “I’m trying to say thank you in Arabic.”

  I smile. “Oh, you mean shukran.”

  What? How did I know that?

  “Aicha?”

  Uh oh. It’s Malika. Her face is tight, lips pursed, hands balled into fists at her side. Uh oh is right. She’s pissed.

  “Are you speaking English?” she hisses under her breath.

  “What?” I thought she was going to yell at me for being late. I raise an eyebrow. “Um, yeah. What else would I be speaking?”

  She looks at me like an olive tree just sprouted out of my head. “Arabic. Like we are now.”

  My eyes widen. “We’re speaking Arabic?”

  She nods.

  I turn to the woman. “Am I speaking Arabic to you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. You’re speaking English. And it’s quite good as a matter of fact.” I’m about to tell Malika she’s hearing things when the woman adds. “But it sounded like you were speaking Arabic to that young woman.”

  What?! My eyeballs feel like they’re going to pop out of my head. When in the world did I learn Arabic?

  Oh wait.

  Of course, I can speak Arabic. This is a dream. I can do anything in a dream. I can speak Arabic. I can see the new Jimmy Choos up close. And I can be a Moroccan girl.

  It’s a dream. Anything is possible.

  I grin at the woman. “Well, my sister and I are off to the hammam. Have a nice vacation!”

  She waves goodbye, and I watch those beautiful sandals walk away. “Good-bye Jimmy Choos. Thanks for visiting me in this dream. I hope to see you on my birthday.” I turn to Malika. “Allrighty sister-of-mine, off to the hammam we go.” I hold out my arm and wait for her to latch onto it so we can go skipping through the souk laughing and giggling in my beautiful dream.

  Malika eyes narrow. “I can’t believe you were talking to an American,” she hisses.

  I raise my eyebrow. “Why?”

  “What if Mum had seen you?”

  “Um, hopefully she would have loved the Jimmy Choos, too?”

  Malika shakes her head. “Quit trying to be funny. This is not funny.” Her eyes sag as her frown deepens. “You know Mum is extra sensitive because he’s not here for the wedding.” She sighs. “Aicha, sometimes I wonder if you care about anyone but yourself.”

  What?

  What is it with this selfish theme? This is my dream, and I want this dream to be happy; not this shame-on-you crapola my psyche is trying to get away with.

  “I do care,” I snap back. My heart starts racing as I feel my anger rising. I inhale a happy thought of that cute, white kitten. “I let you wear the blue jilbab, didn’t I? I forgave Mum for yelling at me. And besides, why would Mum care if I talk to an American?”

  Tears drip slowly from Malika’s eyes, and my stomach instantly hurts because I know I somehow caused them, even if this is just a dream. Her eyes turn darker than black, and I don’t understand why, until suddenly I know what she’s going to say and it plunges my stomach into darkness.

  “They hated him,” she whispers, almost so softly that I can’t hear her over the clamor of the souk. “They hated him so much that we’ll probably never get to see our Papa again.”

  CHAPTER 10

  More than I can handle

  Tears are streaming down Malika’s face, and I hate watching it. And seeing all this sadness. I don’t want to feel it. I try to turn and run, but the crowd is suddenly too thick, suffocating me against her pain.

  “You were too young, but I remember,” she whimpers. “They hated Papa. Not because he was bad, but because he was Muslim. He wore a headscarf. He prayed to Allah. And they thought he was just like those horrid men who killed everyone in America.”

  I don’t want to hear this. I try to step back, but I can’t move.

  “They never saw Papa for who he really was,” she says. “He was our sweet father, and Mum’s loving husband, and he was an amazing chemist working on a cure for leukemia.” Her eyes light up. “He was going to cure cancer. I just know he was!” She shakes her head. “But they never cared about any of that. He went over to share his research, and they thought he was a terrorist and they took him away from us. We don’t know why. We don’t know where.” A sob escapes and her voice cracks as she whispers, “We don’t even know if he’s still alive.” She buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, quietly sobbing.

  Sadness bubbles up inside of me. I can’t help it. All I can think about is if my Daddy was killed and he wasn’t there to sing his wacky, off-key, happy birthday song to me. Or to give me my special, fist-bump kiss goodnight. Or to tell me to stop growing up so I can always be his little girl.

  I can’t even imagine.

  And I don’t want to.

  I swallow those awful emotions. I shove them deep down, refusing to feel them. I’m not doing this in my happy dream. I inhale a vision of that sweet, little, white kitty again.

  But Malika is not finished playing with my emotions. “I remember how Mum cried and cried, and tried to understand and forgive, but then she just completely fell apart.” She wipes her eyes and stares past me. “And then we almost lost her, too.”

  Losing my mama… Nope! I’m not even going there.

  I watch Malika wipe her tears and remembe
r how streaked with black my favorite blue sweater got after my freak-out crying fit in the shadow of the school.

  She grabs my hands, and stares at me with big, round, puppy dog eyes. “Aicha, I can’t bear to see her like that again. Especially for my wedding. I just want everyone to be happy so please no more talking to Americans.”

  I nod. Crap, I’ll agree to anything if we can just get past all this icky emotion. Malika looks so relieved, but I have a funny thought. If I can’t talk to Americans, does that mean no more talking to myself? Because I’m American.

  Or am I Moroccan?

  What are we in a dream? Are we our real selves with all our hopes and dreams? Or do we become the person we dream we are, and forget about who we once were? Am I nobody in my dream? Merely a figment of my own imagination?

  Malika saves me from over-analyzing by hugging me. I slowly put my arms around her and find myself really hugging her back. I focus on the happiness growing in my belly and bury any residual sadness deep, deep down.

  Malika pulls away first. Her eyes look brighter and her face is flushed. Hugs definitely have a special healing power. I need to remember that.

  “Okay.” She inhales a deep breath. “Now we are beyond late. My friends are covering for us, but no one can deceive Auntie for that long.” She links her arm through mine. “Promise you’ll stick with me at the hammam?”

  I nod. “Like glue.”

  Malika grins, looking like her happy self again. “Oh, Aicha, I’m so lucky you’re my sister.”

  I smile at that, and find myself sort of wishing it were true.

  We push our way through the souk crowd until Malika stops in front of a bright green, wooden door.

  “Auntie and Mum think I went to the bathroom,” she confides. “Please don’t tell them I went looking for you. I don’t want them to be mad. I just want us all to have fun.”

  I feel really guilty. She left her special hammam party to find me, and I was shopping. Maybe Mama was right. Maybe I am selfish?

  I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Hey, Malika.”

  She turns around. “Yes?”

  “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  She smiles. “Of course. You’re my sister. I’d do anything for you.”

  Wow. Just like I said I’d do anything for Berg. But I didn’t. Because I let myself get in the way.

  Malika inhales a deep breath. “You’re going to stay with me?”

  “Of course. You’re my sister.”

  She grins, opens the door, and we walk together into the hammam.

  Oh crap. I don’t know what I expected to see, but a dozen women, topless and hanging out in their underwear in a huge bath hall was not even close.

  “They’re here!” someone shrieks, and boobs of all shapes and sizes bounce over to greet us.

  Oh my. This is slowly turning into a nightmare.

  We’re standing in a long, thin room under an arched ceiling. The floor, walls, and ceiling are an earthy-green marble peppered with bright-green mosaic tiles. And that’s all I have time to take in before the attack of the boobs descends upon me.

  “Aicha, you look so lovely!” says saggy boobs.

  “Aren’t you so proud of your sister?” says small boobs.

  “Where have you been?” says oh-my-god-look-away boobs.

  I’m bombarded by woman of all ages… and all of their boobs. I’m not exactly prude. I mean, I have seen Mama in her underwear and bra. But I don’t even know these people! And they’re all hugging me to their boobs!

  Wait. Actually, I do know them. That one is Mum’s best friend. And that one is my cousin. And that’s Malika’s best friend. And that’s Auntie.

  I shake my head. Dreams are so bizarre.

  I catch sight of Mum. She didn’t bounce over to greet us. Thank god! She’s sitting crossed legged in the middle of the floor, with her chic hair all wet and slicked back, and somehow without her red lips, she looks very sad.

  Or maybe she looks that way because now I know what she’s been through.

  I quickly avert my eyes because I don’t want to feel her pain.

  Malika sheds her clothes and hangs them on a hook. “Remember your promise,” she whispers before the gaggle of woman drag her away.

  I groan. Why did I promise her? I don’t want to be here times infinity. I don’t want these women to see my boobs. What if they stare? Or point? Or…oh my god… talk about how perky I am?

  Crap. And now I’m worrying again.

  I’m seriously thinking of sneaking back out the door when Malika calls my name.

  “Aicha, come on!” She motions to me and then pats the mat next to her. Mum is sitting on her other side.

  Aicha! That’s right. I’m Aicha, and I’m in a dream. There’s nothing to worry about. The only person that will see my boobs is myself because I’m the only real person here. These people are all in my imagination.

  I strip down to my panties, and even though I keep reminding myself this is a dream, I still feel exposed so I fold my arms tightly over my chest.

  Auntie appears in front of me. “Finally, you are ready,” she scolds and links her arm in mine, exposing my boobs to everyone. As my cheeks heat up, I remind myself that this is only a dream. Auntie drags me to the center of the room and pushes me to sit on the mat next to Malika. I’m wondering if the drain that runs down the center of the hall is deep enough to swallow me up and whisk me out of this dream when Malika leans closer.

  “I’m happy you didn’t leave,” she whispers.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Now why in the world would you think I was going to leave?”

  She snorts. “Your hand on the doorknob.”

  I bite my lower lip, but she only laughs.

  “Don’t feel bad,” she giggles. “I was thinking about joining you.”

  I can’t help but giggle with her. I like seeing her so happy. And I like to think it’s because I’m here. With her. For her.

  And that can’t be selfish. Maybe my mama was wrong.

  Auntie hands me a bar of black soap. “Here is the sabon bildi. You need the olive oil to soften your scaly skin.”

  Um. Gee, thanks, Auntie. Just call me lizard girl.

  While Malika, Mum, and I lather up with the soap, the women surround us and start singing. The tune is rhythmic and joyous, and a few of Malika’s friends even start dancing.

  I set the soap down on the mat next to me and close my eyes. I inhale and let the music and the steam lull me into a deep relaxation. Too bad I didn’t have a hammam handy when I ran into Dillon in the auditorium. I would have…

  “Yow!” I shriek. Something is scratching the skin off my back! “Ow!”

  My eyes fly open. Malika looks mortified. Mum is frowning at me. And, of course, the singing has stopped and everyone is staring at me like I just announced that I’m part of the I-hate-spa-day club. Auntie is behind me, giving me a funny look, her hand inside a black glove that’s poised above my back.

  “What’s wrong?” Malika asks, concern in her eyes.

  Suddenly, I know that the black glove of pain is actually a loofa used to exfoliate dead skin and make my skin super soft.

  How do I know that? Is this for real?

  Man, this dream is taking such a weird turn.

  Everyone is still staring at me so I fumble for an explanation. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s a… it was a song.” What am I saying?!

  Inhale. Remember this is a dream. You can do anything.

  I give Malika what I hope is a grin. “It’s a new song I wrote for you.”

  She claps her hands together. “Really?” she squeals. “Will you sing it again?”

  Ok. Oh geez. Here goes nothing.

  I sing softly to the tune of Row Your Boat. “Wow, wow, wow, wow, and wow. This is Malika’s day.” Malika is smiling so I take that as a good sign and keep going. “And now you all sing with me, ‘Wow, we’re all bathing in the hammam, for her wedding day.’”

  No one joins me. No one smiles. In
fact, no one moves. This may only be a dream, but I am definitely feeling like a humongous idiot. My stomach starts to knot up. My cheeks get really hot. And then Mum saves me.

  “Bathing,” she sings softly. “Bathing in the hammam.” Her voice is deep and rich, and really soulful, like an old-time jazz singer. “Bathing in the hamman, for her wedding day.”

  Malika squeezes my hand. “I love it,” she cries.

  And this prompts everyone to start singing my dorky, ridiculous, made-up song. Everyone sings at different times and in different chords, but somehow that transforms it into something rich with life and love and happiness. And surprisingly, it sounds beautiful.

  This does not, however, distract Auntie from her task of skinning me alive. She rubs my body with that scratchy glove, and after a minute, I must lose all nerve endings because it feels less like barbaric needles and more like fine sandpaper. I close my eyes and listen to the singing until, finally, Auntie sets down the glove (Hooray! Hooray!) and rinses me with a pitcher of water. This I love. The warm water rushing over my body feels like every molecule of my skin is getting a cozy, warm hug. Malika is rinsed with warm milk, not water, to purify her for the wedding, and I wonder if it feels the same. Or if she feels like she’s in a big bowl of cereal.

  Once I’m all rinsed, Auntie massages argan oil into my pink skin. It smells like a mixture of olive oil and lemons. I’m limp as spaghetti when Auntie finishes, but my skin feels softer than anything I’ve ever felt and smells so fresh. Maybe I should see if there’s a hammam near my house when I wake up.

  Mum smiles. “I am so happy that this day is here. You both look so beautiful. I just wish…” Her words trail off.

  “I know, Mum,” Malika murmurs, and pulls Mum into a hug.

  I watch huge tears drip from Mum’s closed eyes and I know they aren’t happy ones. Her lips are pressed together trying to hold in the pain she must be feeling because her husband isn’t here to share what should be a perfect wedding celebration.

  Malika whispers something in Mum’s ear that must make her happy because Mum’s face relaxes a little and the tears slow. Then Mum opens her eyes, sees me, and tries to smile.