Hoda and Jake

by Richard Booth

  Hoda didn’t feel so lovely lately. Jake never said anything about it, but she was of course ungainly with child, and anxious on several counts, not least for it to be over with.

  “Jake!” she called, from the bathroom.

  “Yes?” Jake was never far away lately, and matched deed to Hoda’s every word.

  “Get me the phone!”

  Jake didn’t ask. He retrieved the cordless phone from its cradle, opened the bathroom door, handed her the phone while discreetly minding his eyes, and was gone in a flash. Then, like any self-respecting expectant father—not to mention spy—he stood outside, eavesdropping. Hoda dialed her obstetrician.

  Water broke… not sure about dilation… yes… no… yes… yes… yes…

  There was some information in that half of the exchange—crucial information, in fact—but much was missing. Not that Jake would ask: he would follow orders. Period. This was not his play.

  “Thank you. Yes.” Click. Or more accurately clack, as Hoda put the phone down, probably on the hamper.

  “Jake?”

  “Yes?”

  “Time to go. Get my bag. Get the car.”

  “On it,” he said, remembering not to make a joke of it by adding, “Boss,” like the TV show NCIS. They never watched it, but everyone else they knew seemed to.

  Hoda’s bag was carefully packed, naturally, had been fore days, and Jake knew exactly where it was. The doctor in Hoda had drilled him more than once. But Jake went to the living room and picked up the other phone, dialing from memory the routine call number of their local police.

  “Sergeant Weed,” he said, when the dispatcher answered.

  When his acquaintance was on the line, Holman said, “Chris? It’s Jake. Remember I called you about a month ago? Well, the deal is going down. We’re leaving for the hospital, and I think we’ll be going pretty quick. No, no need for a bus. We’ve got this. But some friendly help might be a good idea.”

  “Sure, Jake. What’s the address?”

  Jake told him, and they rang off.

  “Jake!” Hoda barked. It didn’t sound like Hoda, especially talking to her husband. But she did that lately.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing? Let’s go!” She groaned, and began to walk with what Jake thought was pain—waddle, actually—toward the kitchen. He helped her out to the car, where it took some time for Hoda to negotiate sitting down, and then Jake went back to get her bag and lock the door.

  Though it had only been about four minutes since Jake had hung up with the local police, a cruiser turned into the condo complex parking lot. A young officer got out, stood by. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “We’re doing fine,” Jake said.

  “Maybe you are!” Hoda snapped. “Let’s go!”

  “Samaritan?” the officer asked. Jake nodded. It was about an hour away; Jake made quick duaa that they’d make it. He found personal prayer to Allah increasingly useful since converting to Islam just before marrying Hoda. Of course, no conversion, no Hoda. It was an easy choice for Jake, who liked reading the Holy Quran and its accompanying Hadiths from the Prophet Mohammed, Peace be Unto Him.

  The officer handed Jake a business card. “Here’s my department cell,” he told Jake, “in case we get separated.” Jake had the fleeting thought that 30 years ago “department cell” for police meant something very different. He put the card in his shirt pocket, and the cruiser went in front as they pulled from the condo lot. In ten years as a CIA operative, Jake Holman had taken his share of hairy rides, and he had no intention of losing the cruiser.

  “Jake, there’s no need for all this,” Hoda said. “We’d have done fine.”

  “Just in case,” he said, in a tone not to be trifled with. Secretly, Hoda was pleased at his thoughtfulness. And it just might be useful to have an escort.

  Traffic began light as they made the interstate, but construction slowed it to a crawl. The cruiser found the breakdown lane, and scattered cars with siren and lights, Jake riding his slip stream with an intensity worthy of NASCAR, if a tad slower.

  Breaking into the open again, they made good time and in less than it would have taken by themselves by far. Jake and Hoda found themselves at the emergency entrance of Samaritan Hospital. The OB-GYN, Dr. Habiba Noamany, had the Holmans expected.

  Jake gradually turned into a fifth wheel, thanking the officer—who was by now several jurisdictions out of his own—and stashing the car in long-term parking; there was no way of telling what a siege lay ahead.

  And siege it was. There followed, for Jake, one of the greatest challenges of his life. Much has been written of childbirth—from a mother’s perspective. Far less from a father’s, though some. For the first time in his agent’s life, Jake Holman faced an enemy he could not defeat by action: fear. Fear he could not describe, an anxiety for the future unspeakable to name. It cut into his heart to hear Hoda’s cries, and he later feared he did not do his due diligence as a breathing coach. But Hoda was so capable, so… professional in everything she did, Jake saw no reason to inflict himself on the proceedings.

  Dr. Noamany was calm and professional, speaking clearly but softly to the obstetrics staff, all an equally well-oiled machine. In the white-and-stainless steel delivery room, Jake often watched in the convex mirror as the miracle of life slowly unfolded. He was not squeamish in the least, but felt so… helpless. It was the lowest point, he realized, in his life as a male of the species.

  Six interminable hours later, six hours of huffing and pushing and pain Jake could only guess at, came the classic denouement: Marwa Johnsen Holman drew her first atmospheric breath.

  It was probably fortunate none of the delivery attendants—the numerous women especially—could read Jake’s mind. Because the first description that came to his mind as they attended Marwa, checking and measuring and weighing and covering the shivering crimson babe, was of a race car pit crew, bent over their competitor’s chariot.

  Jake was momentarily guilty about that, and even guiltier at his gratitude that Hoda’s mother, Maryam, had not come to visit for the blessed event. She wanted to in the worst way, but Hoda was determined to work until the last minute, and the second condo bedroom had been turned into a nursery. Maryam was determined for a time, insisting on staying in public lodging, but Hoda was equally determined to have Marwa on her own.

  Of course, the way was clear now, and Jake had a duty to fulfill. During the final stages of preparing mother and daughter for their short hospital stay, Jake raced down to the in-house coffee shop. Cell phones were banned in Samaritan, as they were in most hospitals, so there was that rarest of rarities, a public telephone. This one had a credit card slot, and he gratefully used it.

  “Maryam!” Jake said.

  “Jake!” she shrieked. “Is everything alright?” There could only be one reason he would call, Mash’Allah.

  “Everything’s fine. Hoda’s doing well,” Jake said. He gave what details he had: length, weight, viability scale. Everything pointed to Marwa’s perfection.

  “Alhamdulillah!” Maryam said. In the ten sentences they exchanged, she used the word in every single one—including to her husband, at their house. Jake heard Dr. Hassan said it a couple of times himself.

  “Maryam, I’ve got to go. See Hoda—and Marwa,” he quickly remembered to add.

  “We’ll be right down,” Maryam said, “as soon as we can get packed.”

  Of course Dr. Hassan would travel with her; he wouldn’t let his Muslim wife travel alone. It wasn’t done.

  “Alhamdulillah!”

  “Salaam.” Jake rang off. Then it was back upstairs to The Family.

  Hoda was sleeping, Marwa in the nursery with the other new arrivals. Jake checked on mother, melting at her angelic, exhausted face. She no doubt would say she looked like a train wreck, but to Jake she looked like a gift from Allah—which Jake had always considered her.

  And Marwa. Marwa! Was there every a creature so perfect? Pink and peaceful, and covered
head-to-toe, leaving only the perfect face. Jake didn’t realize it, but he had often thought all newborn babies were ugly. That, of course, was before the arrival of his own. His complex emotions distilled into a giant amalgam of love, on a new and intense level that threatened to incapacitate him. He struggled for the control so dear to him.

  “Marwa,” he kept repeating. “Alhamdulillah.”

  He checked his watch. It was prayer time. He had nearly prayed the cycle around, since arriving at the hospital. He headed for the non-denomenational chapel. There was usually no one there, and this time was no exception. He made fervent duaa for the recent successful arrival of the second most important blessing of his entire life.

  ***

  The Hassans made excellent time driving from Massachusetts. Dr. Hassan greeted Jake warmly. The two had grown closer since Jake had faced down two home invaders at their New Hampshire camp some months ago. As far as the doctor was concerned, Jake had saved his life, but Jake knew the truth: Hoda had played a crucial role. It just wasn’t one her father would approve, so they let Jake bask in the credit. At the time Jake needed it, being the American whose marriage to Hoda the doctor was originally against.

  Maryam had liked Jake from the get-go. She had seen his devotion right away. Like women everywhere, and mothers especially, she took immediate charge of her daughter’s household, and Jake knew better than to argue with city hall, as the old expression went. He and his father-in-law merely assented, letting Maryam cook and clean and order them around—with subtlety, for she was a Muslim wife to the core—while Hoda regained her strength for four days in the hospital. The trio visited the new mother every day, the doctor and his wife ecstatic and proud at their first grandchild. Hoda was an only child, something they deeply regretted. Of course, Jake never asked why.

  When that hiatus ended, and Hoda came home, her parents moved into a hotel for what was planned to be a few days. Hoda and Jake looked forward to a well-worn routine of new parents.

  It was not to be.

  Jake woke to Hoda’s voice on the telephone: “Yes, doctor. We’ll be there in sixty minutes.”

  Hoda turned to wake Jake, but he had already slid his legs from under the covers. Standing, in a smooth motion he had his pants on and was pulling his socks up. Hoda said nothing; her husband was a man of action. She changed hurriedly, then went to the nursery to bundle Marwa while Jake called the police for a second time, and went to start the car.

  As urgent at their previous trip was, Jake realized, women had been having babies for thousands of years. This time something was wrong. He calmly asked Hoda what it was.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. She was distracted, Marwa in her arms. If his wife, a physician, was unsure, Jake would ask no questions. They would only irritate. He was on autopilot now, a smoothly operating machine: this was a mission, like any other.

  It was the same shift, in the same police patrol quadrant, and the same officer answered with his cruiser. “Get in,” he told Marwa, who didn’t hesitate, but strapped Marwa in the back seat, then joined her. To Jake the patrolman said, “I’ve got this. Why don’t you being your car after me?”

  Good thinking, the operator in Jake thought, and nodded. The cruiser was out of the lot quickly, flashing blinding blue.

  There was no hope for Jake to catch it. Determinedly, as he had on dozens of operational CIA cases, he made himself drive sanely, at normal speeds. Traffic welled up and choked him off, but he did not despair; only with cool courage could he be any use to his wife and daughter. His daughter. He resolved grimly to be worthy.

  But that was the frustrating thing, wasn’t it? All his life, Jake Holman had been the capable one. The action man. A star scholar-athlete in school, he’d been good enough to start as a tight end for his Division 1aa college footfall team until an injury sidelined him. With surgery to repair that, he’d risen through Army ranks to earn a warrant officer’s device, graduate from the arduous Ranger School and Special Forces training, the Airborne School. He’d always been irresistible to women, having his choice until Hoda Abdelal bound his heart hand and feet with her vanishingly rare combination of modesty, piety and beauty. He had had to win her—and he had, setting about it as an Ivanhoe. The point was, whatever the challenge, if action were the call, James A. Holman rose to the occasion. Except.

  Except no amount of action by him was worth anything. He could only stand helplessly by, first while his worshipped wife carried his baby and gave her life; then discovered whatever this new threat was; and finally while his wife and her doctor—a female doctor—negotiated and fought the threat.

  Helpless. Jake Holman was helpless. And it was a new kind of threat, calling for a new kind of courage. He recognized it, and resolved to find it.

  The police car was nowhere in sight by the time Jake arrived at the hospital. To his astonishment, an orderly waved him down at the emergency entrance.

  “Mr. Holman?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m to take your car. They’re waiting for you inside. You’ll be in the physicians’ parking, near this building. I’ll bring you your keys.”

  “Thank you,” Jake said, astonished at valet parking by a hospital—not to mention the unspeakable courtesy of physician parking. It was an astonishment he vowed not to share; surely heads would roll if it got out.

  Marwa and Hoda were still in the emergency room when Jake arrived. He approached Hoda, and she rushed to him, embracing him in a way unthinkable for a public place, unless in such circumstances.

  “Oh, Jake,” she said, her tears wetting his cheek.

  Jake said nothing beyond a soft shush, his enormous tight end’s hands pressing Hoda’s smooth back. Then one pressed her head to his shoulder, feeling her hair through the head scarf, the hijab.

  “What do they know?” Jake asked quietly. His voice and body were rock-steady. The steadiness transferred itself as by osmosis to Hoda. The physician in her turned on as though by some unseen switch.

  “She’s hot,” Hoda said. “Too feverish by half. It’s not uncommon for newborns to run a tiny fever, but this was too much. Way too much.”

  “So?”

  “Dr. Noamany and the pediatrician are guessing, but they couldn’t wait.”

  “And?”

  “Meningitis. They’re guessing meningitis.”

  Jake thought: gambling my daughter’s life.

  Just that moment Dr. Noamany approached. Short, dark and bespectacled, she was, like Hoda, Egyptian-American. They had, in fact, known each other in high school, where they attended a private Islamic academy in Massachusetts. Dr. Noamany was MIT and Tufts Medical. She exuded that alert calm that seemed to guide the stricken through crisis.

  To Hoda she said, “We’ve got the IV in.” To Jake she explained:

  “With a fever this high, we couldn’t wait. We had to guess. The symptoms point to meningitis, and it’s been confirmed in our area. These things run in cycles, so we’re thinking that’s what it is. We’ve started a general antibiotic regimen, and we’re doing blood work now. When we get the specific strain of meningitis, we can switch to a more specific antibiotic.”

  “Which regimen?” Hoda asked. Habiba named it, but it meant nothing to Jake.

  Hoda nodded, her arm locking inside Jake’s and pressing until it almost hurt. Hoda was a strong woman.

  Dr. Noamany led the way to one of the emergency alcoves, and pulled back the curtain. Marwa lay on a gurney, so tiny on its vast expanse. A Dixie cup was taped to her head, and to the cup an intravenous needle. Jake couldn’t take his eyes from it.

  “In a newborn,” Hoda whispered, “the veins are so small they can’t be used for an IV. They use a vein in the skull. The cup is there to support it, so the flesh doesn’t take the strain.”

  Jake Holman had seen many things, fearful and terrifying. But the sight of that infant on that gurney caused a reaction in his knees he had not felt since boyhood. He remembered thinking at the time he would never feel it again, by the st
rength of his own iron will. No more.

  ***

  In little more than an hour Hoda’s parents joined them, and in an emotional scene greeted each other. There was much Arabic spoken—including to Dr. Noamany, who was fluent—and it made Jake feel the fifth wheel again. But he dared not let resentment flare. No, he reached inside himself for the resolve that made him a Ranger and top CIA operative, and stood calmly to one side while the emotions of a family in crisis worked themselves out.

  Presently, and predictably, it was Maryam who recognized what they were doing to Jake. She adroitly switched the conversation to English, and craftily invited him into it. But significantly, it was her husband who took it one step further, into Muslim culture.

  “Jake,” he said shortly thereafter, “would you like some lunch?”

  Jake quickly parsed the invitation in his mind. An American never would have tendered it, realizing Jake would want to stay with his family—his new, nuclear family—and see it through. What Dr. Hassan, Abdul, meant was “we should separate from the women.” There was also, unseen by Jake, his father-in-law’s genuine desire to spend time with his son-in-law.

  Wisely, Jake accepted. The men walked under bright sunshine to Abdul’s Mercedes, and Jake suggested a nice little halal lunch place Hoda liked. He hoped it would hit the spot for Abdul. They were halfway through a silent lunch when the doctor broke the seal.

  “The secret of life,” he said, “is woman.”

  Jake didn’t know where he was going, so he said nothing, but did acknowledge with his eyes. Abdul continued.

  “Oh, they can be emotional and irrational. No question. But they have strength, and gifts, far beyond what you might imagine.” He was an older man speaking to a younger, and as a wise young man Jake was deferential; whatever he thought, he nodded gravely, like he was absorbing sage advice. This was, after all, the family patriarch.