I'm With Anxious

by Suzanne Brown

  “I love you,” she mouths.

  And for some weirdo reason that hurts. Like really hurts.

  And it shouldn’t. Mum’s just being sweet, but it makes me miss my mama. My real mama who does love me. For real. Even when I’m selfish. Even when I freak out.

  NO! I don’t want to feel my heart ache! I don’t want to share this pain of missing someone with Mum. I want to wake up! I want to see my mama!

  The steamy heat. The loud laughter. Mum’s face. The emotions. They all overwhelm me, and, suddenly, I don’t feel very good.

  Auntie announces that mint tea and cookies are in the next room, and I don’t want either. I want a huge bag of cheesy puffs, my stuffed zebra, and my mama. It’s time for this dream to end. I want to go home.

  I close my eyes, and wish myself far, far away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Home. Can you hear me?

  I feel so sick. Like I’m on a rickety, old, roller coaster that won’t stop doing loop-de-loops that are slamming me into the metal seat.

  Ugh! I need out of this dream.

  I keep my eyes closed, inhale a deep breath, and think of happy things. Like cookies and mint tea and boobies. Wait. I need to think of happy things in my real life. Like Berg jumping on my bed with me. And Mama dancing with Daddy on the deck at sunset.

  My nausea starts to fade. I inhale another deep breath and open my eyes.

  It worked! I’m back in my bedroom!

  There are my soft blue walls. Hi walls! And my great-grandmother’s desk. Hi desk! And there’s Mama, Berg, and Daddy! My heart soars. I’m so happy to see them standing next to my bed that I start babbling away.

  “Oh my god, I just had the weirdest dream. I was this girl who lived in Morocco. And I was really beautiful with this long, glossy, dark hair. And I had a sister named Malika, and a mom, who we called Mum, and she was so incredibly gorgeous, but she wasn’t happy because her husband had been thrown in prison and could be dead, and all I could think about was how sad I would feel if something happened to all of you, and how horrible it would be.”

  I stop to take a breath and tears threaten to leak out of my eyes. I blink them back. I am not allowed to be sad anymore. I will not be sad. I refuse to be.

  I exhale a huge breath and paste on a smile. “But that’s all behind me now. I’m back. In my real room. With all of you. And I’m my beautiful, blond self, again, right?”

  No one answers me. They just stare at me, zombie faces full of sadness.

  “What?” I reach up and touch my face. “Why are you all looking at me like that? Do I have something on me? Do I have a big zit? What?”

  Berg shakes his head.

  “No zit? Then what?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  My eyebrows knit together. “Are you still mad at me? Is that why you’re giving me the silent treatment?”

  Berg just stares at me. No expression. No smiley dimples. Nothing.

  Oh- kay.

  I wave my hand in front of his face. “Berg? Hellooo? Anyone home?”

  My heart picks up, and I feel a little sweaty. Is this my punishment? Is that what I get for losing control of my emotions?

  “I love you, Little B,” I whisper, hoping that will snap him out of it. It always works. Berg never stays mad at me when I call him that.

  I wait to hear, “I love you, Big L,” but he doesn’t say anything as big, fat tears drip from his green eyes.

  Ok, now I’m starting to freak out.

  I turn to my Daddy. “What’s wrong with him?”

  He doesn’t answer me either.

  “Daddy?” I whimper.

  He doesn’t answer. He just walks over to the window, turns his back to me, and hunches over, shoulders shaking.

  What the crap is going on here?! Why is no one answering me? And why are they so sad? It’s making me sad. And I don’t want to be sad! I want to be happy!

  I turn to my Mama. She’ll know how to fix this. She’ll know just what to do to make this all better.

  “Mama,” I moan. “I need you.”

  She walks closer and sits down on the bed next to me. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her lips are squeezed into a thin line. She reaches out her hand, and I close my eyes, yearning for her soothing touch.

  But it never comes.

  CHAPTER 12

  How did I get back here?

  Instead of my Mama’s soothing touch, I feel my stomach squeeze and twist and turn so violently that my head starts spinning.

  I open my eyes.

  %%$$** Crap!

  I’m not in my room anymore. I’m still in bed but I’m staring at wispy pink veiling and drowning in orange and purple pillows.

  Double crap on a kebab. I’m back in the bedroom I share with Malika.

  In my dream.

  In Morocco.

  Away from my family.

  But how? I was home! I thought I woke up from this dream and was back in my real life. With my real family.

  I feel that familiar tightness building in my chest. It starts as a cute, baby elephant sitting on me and mutates into a fatty-fatty-two-by-four glomming bananas by the truckload. My heart starts to race. My temples throb. I know anger and sadness are in the ring throwing punches to see who can escape first.

  And. I. Hate. It.

  I grit my teeth. I will not let myself feel this way. I inhale a deep breath of happiness. I think of popping open a fresh bag of cheesy puffs. I exhale my anger. I inhale the sun shining on my face. I exhale the sadness.

  The elephant on my chest barfs up the bananas, and my heart rate slows.

  It’s okay. I’m going to be okay. I’m just still dreaming. Being back in my bedroom was just part of my dream. That’s why no one could hear me. That’s why no one was talking to me. Yep. This is all one big, weird, totally-crappy dream.

  Except… my heart is whispering that it might be something else.

  Mum peeks into the room. She’s back to her beautiful self. Glossy-black bob. Red lips. Darkly-lined eyes. And she’s wearing a floor-length, vivid-teal kaftan with elegant gold swirls. She looks stylish, and thankfully, totally in control of her emotions again.

  “Oh good, you’re up,” she says, her voice failing to surround me with warmth like my Mama’s. She glides over and sits on the bed next to me. She kisses my cheek. Her lips are warm, but not particularly comforting. She’s not my real mom. My mama. The one who painted a daisy on my cheek on the first day of sixth grade to cover the humongous scab I got from jumping my bike over a log pile the day before.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asks.

  Um no. I’m feeling like crap, but I don’t want her to know. I quickly paste on a smile and lie. “Yes, much better. Thanks.”

  Mum strokes my cheek. “Malika will be so pleased. We had to start the henna celebration without you, but you still have time to participate.”

  She shows me the intricate swirls of orange-red ink forming vines and flowers surrounding a sun on the top of her right hand and the moon on her left.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  I glance up at her face. She’s gazing thoughtfully at her henna, and I’m almost afraid to answer because for some reason I know the sun and moon symbolize an everlasting love between two people. She still loves her husband deeply, and that makes me so sad.

  No. No sadness.

  I am so over this dream.

  I force a grin. “It’s beautiful.”

  Her face opens into a smile. “Thank you. I think so, too.” She stands and straightens her kaftan. “Shall we join the party then?”

  As I climb out of bed, I notice I’m dressed in a pale pink kaftan with tiny, dark green embroidered flowers blooming at the hem. Since the last thing I remember was being half-naked at the hammam, I probably don’t want to know how I got dressed. Or who dressed me. Yikes.

  Mum picks up a thick, gold necklace from the dresser. “Turn around, darling, and I’ll fasten this for you.”

  I lift my hair and she l
ays the heavy chain around my neck. It feels cool on my skin.

  “Lucky girl,” she murmurs, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. She smiles. “Just out of bed, and as lovely as a blooming flower.”

  I know this is only a dream, but my heart warms like a ray of sunshine. Who doesn’t like to be told she’s beautiful? Maybe this dream will be good again. That would be nice.

  I follow Mum across the indoor courtyard and up an ornate, iron staircase leading to the rooftop. Sounds of music and laughter grow louder with each step, and when I follow her through a doorway I see the henna party is in full swing on the roof.

  I feel like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale. An ethereal, white tent billows overhead. Plush, red rugs cover the rooftop. Delicate, paper lanterns seem to float overhead. A DJ is pumping out rhythmic music, surrounded by men dressed in cream robes and dark sandals, dancing with their hands in the air. Malika and her girlfriends are clustered at the far end of the roof. She’s perched on a red velvet couch, and her friends are lounging around her on plump red poufs and purple pillows.

  Malika spots us and waves. She’s wearing the dark-green velvet dress she had on when I first met her in this dream, and she looks absolutely stunning. A lacy, golden veil waterfalls down from the tiara that’s perched atop her sable hair. Delicate, gold chains cloak her neck. Her eyes are darkly-lined, and her lips are a deep maroon. She looks like the exquisite princess in this fairy-tale dream.

  “Oh, Aicha,” she cries when we walk up. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t wait for you. Are you feeling better?”

  I really don’t know what I’m feeling, but I want to be happy and enjoy this dream so I squeeze her hands tightly and paste on a huge grin. “Yes! And ready to party!”

  She laughs, and I feel relieved.

  “And she’s ready for her henna,” Mum adds.

  Malika claps her hands, and that huge Berg-like dimple creases her right cheek when she smiles. She tugs me down next to her on the couch.

  “Take Youssef’s spot. He won’t mind because he’s over there dancing with his friends.” She glances over at the group of men and a different kind of smile forms on her lips. It’s easy and natural like I’ve seen on my mama when she looks at my daddy. A blush swells across Malika’s cheeks, but then she brings her attention back to me and shows me her arms.

  “What do you think?” She traces the henna designs that flow from her wrists all the way up to her elbows. “I chose flower buds since I’m starting a new life with Youssef. Vines and leaves for longevity and devotion in our marriage. The sun and moon for eternal love. And…,” she pauses and giggles, “paisleys. For luck… and you know,” she lowers her voice, “fertility.”

  I bust out laughing. I don’t know why that’s so funny. It’s probably not. But I can’t help it. Malika looks shocked for a second and then starts laughing with me. The sadness and anger I felt before is officially buried. I’m so happy right now I might burst.

  “Okay, silly girls, settle down.” Mum says, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes. She gestures to a squat, plump, old woman standing beside her. “Aicha, this is Karima. She will do your henna. I must go see to the cookies.”

  Mum walks away and Karima shuffles closer. She’s wearing a basic white jilbab trimmed in silver. Her skin looks as wrinkled as a walnut, and her white headscarf is wrapped so tightly around her head that her eyeballs look like they’re about to pop out. Especially when she thrusts her face inches away from mine, and stares right into my eyes.

  She’s so close I have no choice but to stare right back. Her eyes look cloudy, and I wonder if that’s why she’s totally invading my personal bubble, but as I look closer, something about her eyes is familiar. They’re muted green, but her black pupils are what really stand out. They look like swirling galaxies of teeny, tiny, white stars, all spinning and twirling. Around and around. It’s so mesmerizing…

  “Do you remember me?” she whispers, and my eyes about bug out of my head.

  Oh my god! Her eyes. I know those eyes. They’re Ms. Foofaraw’s eyes from the lake!

  I press my back deeper into the couch, but she just leans closer and grins.

  “Ah, so you do remember?” Her eyes widen. “I know who you are, too,” she whispers.

  My heart thumps. She knows? But how is that possible? How could she know that I’m a girl who worries too much? Who can’t control her emotions? Who hurt Dillon. How could she know that I don’t belong here because I’m not good enough to be Malika’s sister?

  I’m not good enough for anyone.

  My heart thumps faster. My palms start sweating. I feel the familiar freak out coming on…

  Oh, for crap’s sake, stupid brain. Get a hold of yourself! This is a just a dream. None of this is real. My freaking imagination is just running away again.

  I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. “This is just a dream.”

  “You must stop believing that, Lotus, or you will never find the way.”

  My eyes fly open. Did she just call me Lotus?!

  The old lady tilts her head, and frowns. She brings her nose so close to mine that it almost touches. “This. Is. Not. A. Dream,” she whispers.

  I shake my head. She’s wrong. I know this is a dream. I know I’m dreaming.

  She shrugs. “Okey dokie. Suit yourself.” She stands back up. “Guess we’ll continue on then.” She hums what sounds like the tune to “Happy Birthday” as she reaches down beside the couch and pulls out a large, black album. She drops it into my lap. “This one,” she says, tapping a picture on the open page. “I will give you this one.”

  My breath catches. Her gnarled finger is pointing to a lotus flower. And it’s not just a drawing like the other designs on the page. Nope. This is a photo of my lucky, lotus-flower earrings. The ones Daddy brought me from Morocco. The ones I wear when I need strength. When I don’t want to worry. The ones some Moroccan lady told him would awaken the light within.

  The ones I wore when I almost killed Dillon.

  She fixes her galaxy eyes on me. “A lotus flower roots itself in the mud yet blooms above the darkness and murk anyway. This is you, no?” she says in a thick voice.

  I’m not quite sure what she means by all that, but I’m definitely darkness and murk when my anxiety comes to the party. Or did she mean that I’m stuck in my dream world, away from my real family, and she thinks I may never go back to them? That I may never wake up?

  I snort. Or maybe I’m just a lunatic having a weird dream and overthinking all of this in my head?

  This is just a dream. And she’s just a nice artist who wants to draw a lotus flower for my dream sister’s henna party.

  Malika turns back to face me. “Which one did you choose?”

  Before I can answer, the old woman points to the lotus flower. And now it’s just a drawing. Of course.

  I want to roll my eyes at this dream.

  “I love it!” Malika cries. “The lotus symbolizes the awakening of your soul. That will be so beautiful.” She grins. “And be sure to get lots of vines and leaves like mine!”

  I nod, because really what else am I going to do. Malika turns back to her friends and Karima pulls out what looks like a bag of icing I would use to decorate cupcakes. When she grabs my hand, her fingers are surprisingly warm and comforting, and I find myself settling back into the couch. Dark-green ink spills from the bag and tickles my hand as she paints. Her warm fingers, the sensation of the henna, and Malika and her friends chatting lull me into such relaxation that I almost forget about my worries, until Youssef walks over.

  He kneels in front of Malika and gently takes her hands in his. A cheek-to-cheek grin overtakes his face. “I hope the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known is enjoying herself tonight?” he murmurs.

  Malika nods. “Oh Youssef, this has been so wonderful.”

  He exhales a happy breath. “And this is only the beginning of our beautiful life together. I promise to try my best to make you this happy every day.”

  Yous
sef and Malika are gazing at each other like Mama and Daddy always did. With a mixture of respect and awe, and I’ll do absolutely anything to make you happy. They don’t even realize that the rest of us are here anymore, because they’re in love. Real love.

  And then suddenly it hits me.

  Dillon and I were never in love. He never looked at me like Youssef is looking at Malika. But he did look at that boy like that. That boy he was kissing.

  Zings of raw emotion shoot through me. My body throbs with pain. It feels like someone punched me in the gut and their fist went all the way through. Why didn’t he love me? Boys should love girls. Just like Mama and Daddy. And Malika and Youssef. Was it my fault? What did I do that made him gay? Am I really that awful?

  I might be. Because I have no idea who I am anymore. I still feel the same on my inside. I want people to like me. I want to be happy. And as much as I adore jilbabs and mint tea, I would kill for the new Jimmy Choo sandals and a bag of cheese puffs right now.

  So who am I? Am I the happy girl? Or the Oh my GAD girl who lashes out at her boyfriend and almost kills him? Am I American or Muslim?

  Am I dreaming or not?

  “What about calling Omar?” Malika says with a giggle.

  I was so deep in thought that I didn’t notice Youssef has left and all the girls are giggling about someone named Omar.

  “Call him?” her friend shrieks. “I could never do that!”

  And that gives me a crazy idea.

  I’m going to call my house. Maybe if I hear Mama’s voice I can get out of this wacky dream. Maybe that will help me wake up and go back to my real life.

  “Um, excuse me,” I say softly, trying not to startle the old woman who seems to be in a trance. “Are you…?”

  “Yes, I am finished,” she answers. She closes her eyes and nods. “Go call her. You need to know.”

  My eyebrows pop up. What did she just say? How did she know I was going to call my Mama? Did I say it out loud?