Come Home

by Patricia Gussin

  Nicole would get home too late for any encounter with Ahmed. Whether he’d be pleased to find her gone, she didn’t know. He’d tried to get her to resign from the U of Penn faculty, as he had, but she valued both the prestige and the opportunity to treat Level 1 trauma cases. She hadn’t endured that extra year of a craniofacial residency to treat only elective plastic procedures.

  Big turnpike accident near Lancaster, Nicole scribbled, and left the note on the kitchen counter where Ahmed would see it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “WELL, LADIES,” ROB Johnson said aloud in his empty Philadelphia Center City office, “today’s the day the old man is going under.”

  He studied the two 8x10 photos on his desk, just to the left of his big desktop computer. Leslie, his daughter, and Natalie, his wife. Leslie twenty-five, dark hair, a bit on the chubby side, but slimming down for her wedding; Natalie, seventeen years older, blond, trim, a good stepmother despite their different personalities. Maybe because Leslie’s mother died when she was so young. Leslie was the glass-half-empty type—she had trust issues, struggled to gain self-confidence. Marriage might help improve her self-image. One of the reasons he wanted to give her the perfect wedding was to bolster her sense of self-worth. He wanted to make her a princess for at least one day, one she would remember forever. But now he needed to take Natalie’s money …

  Stacked on Rob’s desk were the legal papers that would take Johnson Quality Homes into Philadelphia Eastern Bankruptcy Court. Twelve years ago, Rob’s dad had retired so his son could take over the business and maybe expand it. At the peak of the housing market in 2006, Johnson Quality had assets of half a billion dollars. When the crash hit in 2008, the company was vulnerable. Almost half of Rob’s signed contracts walked away, foreclosures soared, construction came to a standstill.

  When the reality hit, he’d done what he had to do. Gave up the private plane, cut all nonessential spending. He’d had no choice but to let most of his employees go; he’d done his best, without enough success, to pay his suppliers.

  He and Natalie had thoroughly discussed the bankruptcy contingency so his call to her now would not come as a surprise. They would be okay financially because of Natalie’s substantial income; he would never be okay as a guy basically living off his wife. He reached for the phone.

  Rob was on hold at Keystone Pharma while Natalie’s secretary rushed off to find her in one of the labs.

  “Rob, are you okay?” Natalie sounded breathless when she picked up.

  He and Natalie never interrupted each other at work for anything trivial.

  No, I’m not okay. This is the day I’m admitting failure to the rest of the world. “Honey, today’s the day. I’ve gone over all the legal stuff and I can’t put it off any longer. I’m filing today.”

  “Oh, Rob.” He heard her gasp. “I am so, so sorry. I know you did everything you could to prevent this. Everything—”

  “I wanted you to know. It’ll be in the papers tonight. God knows how my creditors will react; they knew it was coming, but still, hope springs eternal.”

  “Chapter Eleven?” Natalie asked.

  “Yes.” Just as they’d discussed. Very complex. He’d maintain ownership as he tried to pay off the creditors.

  “So you’ll continue to function,” Natalie said.

  Yes, I won’t be lying around the house all day. “Yes—with oversight from the bankruptcy court.”

  Rob had no idea how he’d handle such an intrusion into his business. No matter how affable he’d been as a boss, he’d always been a benevolent dictator.

  “Rob, you’ve hung in there longer than any of the other builders. This slump will pass. Folks will be building new houses. In the meantime, we’ll be fine … financially.”

  “I’m going to be tied up with lawyers until late tonight. Will you call Leslie? What do I want Natalie to tell her … that her wedding will be less than lavish?

  “Rob, of course, I’ll do my best to reassure her that everything will be okay.” He heard Natalie hesitate. “Remember, we agreed about the wedding? I’m taking care of it.”

  His wife paying for her stepdaughter’s wedding was not his idea of a man providing for his family. Rob most certainly did remember, and relived the humility of it at each recall.

  After hanging up with Natalie, Rob placed both hands on the stack of bankruptcy documents, said a silent prayer that he was doing the right thing, and let a tear slide down his cheek.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NICOLE CONSIDERED HERSELF a tough woman, a reputation she’d earned growing up among her four siblings, and throughout her medical career. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it.

  For as long as she could remember, she and her identical twin, Natalie, had been compared and contrasted. The twins looked like carbon copies, but growing up, they had distinctly different personalities. Nicole, demanding; Natalie, compliant. They were inseparable until college, where they’d finally split up, Nicole choosing the University of Michigan and Natalie, Notre Dame. After that separation—maybe because of it—Natalie had developed her own strong personality, confident and competent.

  If Nicole were honest with herself, she wondered if she was overshadowing her husband, much as she’d outdone her sister when they were kids. Pushing past him career wise, gathering accolades in plastic surgery circles while he dealt with irksome lawsuits. Should I back off? Let him take the limelight? Indulge his male ego? Was she responsible for what happened last Sunday night? The result of Ahmed’s pent-up frustration? Or had something happened during the Sunday family call to Egypt? Something that made him tense, edgy …

  She’d always resented that mandatory call to Egypt. Did they talk about her, the infidel daughter-in-law? In the past, Ahmed would share the weekly discussion with her, but that had stopped—she couldn’t recall how long ago. Why had he stopped? And then after last Sunday …

  Stop making excuses for him. He hit you!

  But for Alex, I will do anything.

  “Mommy, are you ready?”

  Alex had walked into her bedroom as she was adjusting the sleeves on her dress, pulling them down to cover her wrists.

  “Yes, honey, just a minute.” She reached to pick up her hijab, the beige one, and placed it on top of her purse.

  “Why are you gonna wear that?”

  “I’m taking you to look at a new school today and out of respect for Muslim custom, I’ll wear a headscarf.”

  Nicole had not put on a hijab since her last trip to Egypt two years ago. As a Western woman, she’d not been expected to wear one, but she chose to emulate her sisters-in-law who never left the compound without donning the headgear. The hijab is supposed to signify modesty. Alex had been only three, but he did remember the funny clothes some Egyptians wore, even though the Masud men dressed mostly in Western attire, the women in long dress, covering everything except their faces and hands.

  “I don’t want to go to a new school,” Alex said. “I like my teacher and I get to go outside and play in the treehouse—”

  “Daddy wants me to take you to a school that teaches Arabic. So you can talk like the other kids when you’re in Egypt.”

  Ever since Sunday, Nicole struggled to put herself in Ahmed’s situation. They were living in her country. They celebrated every occasion with her family, with her customs, her religious traditions. If, God forbid, they lived in Egypt, she knew how desperately she would miss her family. But every time she tried to talk to Ahmed about his feelings, he’d just change the subject. Arab men did not open up. Arab men did not admit to an emotional side—maybe not even to themselves.

  But Ahmed did love her and Alex, of that she was sure. But he’d hit her!

  Three days had passed as she struggled to decide what to do.

  Should she forgive him? What could she do to prevent future … angry outbursts?

  She’d decided to try. To do as he’d asked. Sign up Alex at that Islamic school. All religious paths led to one God, so wh
at was the problem with her son learning about Muslim as well as Catholic beliefs? Her mom might not agree, but Nicole could deal with any such fallout.

  She and Alex chatted about his school friends on the six-mile drive to the Villanova Academy for Honor Students. Villanova welcomed visitors on Wednesdays; Nicole wanted to show Alex the school, but more importantly she wanted Ahmed to know she’d taken seriously his desire to educate his son in his culture, too. She wasn’t playing Obedient Wife—she wanted to avoid any academic pressure on Alex. Signing up a child for school was supposed to be “woman’s work,” wasn’t it? And she didn’t expect an argument when she pointed out that Alex would have to finish kindergarten at the public school and take the entrance exam for the Islamic-centric Montessori-method elementary school. So, no matter what happened today, Alex would not change schools midyear.

  “Wow!” Alex’s eyes opened wide as she turned into the wide, tree-lined driveway leading up to the white mansion-like building that dominated the twenty-three-acre property. “This is a school?”

  “Yes. A very pretty school.”

  She stopped the car on the circular drive at the mansion entrance, and a young man in a sports coat and tie approached to instruct her where to park. “The tour will start shortly. You can join the others over by the playground.”

  Once Alex saw the extensive playground with elaborate equipment, he was happy to join the other kids who’d accompanied their parents. “I like this place, Mommy.” Nicole smiled in relief as she walked toward the entrance with the other mothers.

  Shit, I forgot to put on the hijab. Four other moms had congregated, three with their hair covered.

  She had to sign in, give the name and age of her child. She wrote Alexander, forgetting that Ahmed had specified he go by Wati. Well, Ahmed, enough is enough. I’m not giving in on that. When they visited Ahmed’s family in Egypt, Wati would be okay, but not here in Pennsylvania.

  For the next hour and a half, Nicole listened to the usual private school propaganda. Small classes. One to ten teacher ratio. School uniforms. But then came daily classes in the Quran and Arabic. Opportunity to celebrate Islamic holidays, Iftar meals for Ramadan. And on and on.

  They did not take students midyear; children had to pass an admissions test and a personal interview, even for first grade. Classes were mixed, boys and girls. Girls were not required to wear hijabs, but Nicole noted that about half of them did.

  Once the presentation was over, Nicole collected the admissions papers, did not stop to chitchat, and collected Alex.

  “Am I going to go to school here?” Alex asked as he ran up to meet her.

  “Maybe next year. But you can’t start until first grade.”

  “Good, because I like my school now. None of my friends will be here.”

  “Hey, let’s get some ice cream on the way home and then stop at the bookstore and get a book about bugs for your show-and-tell.”

  “Are there different kinds of bugs in Egypt?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Why was Alex asking about Egypt?

  “I can’t remember stuff from Egypt,” Alex said. “Daddy says we can go there soon.”

  Alex hadn’t seen Ahmed’s family in two years. Of course, he wouldn’t remember much. She never stood in the way of their travel to Egypt, but she’d never been an advocate, either. For one thing, she didn’t have time to think about it. Was that fair to Ahmed and Alex?

  Well, at least today, she had no surgical cases and she’d canceled office hours. She and Alex could spend the whole day together. She’d take him to a movie.

  “How about we go see Toy Story Three?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “Mom, I wish Daddy could come to the movie, too. Can you call him?”

  “Sorry, honey, he has a busy schedule today,” Nicole said. She admitted to herself how she, too, desperately wanted Ahmed with her and Alex; she needed him to feel … whole. For the three of them to be whole. The sad reality: she and Ahmed had not spoken an unnecessary word for three days. How much longer could this go on?

  CHAPTER NINE

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 16, 2011

  PHILADELPHIA

  ON SUNDAY AT one p.m., Ahmed locked his upstairs office door and called his family in Giza. His father, Umi Masud, answered the call, extended a greeting, and mumbled something about not feeling well. Ahmed’s older brother, Jafari, took over. With no conversational niceties, he demanded that Ahmed immediately return to Egypt. A plan was in place: a private plane would wait for him at Atlantic Aviation, Philadelphia International Airport. The plane also would transport a passenger—a prominent Egyptian businessman, returning after undergoing heart valve replacement surgery at the University Hospital of Pennsylvania. Arrangements had been made for Dr. Ahmed Masud to accompany as attending physician.

  “I don’t know anything about valve replacements,” Ahmed protested.

  “So what? You’re a doctor. No questions will be asked.” Jafari added with a rare chuckle, “No need to tell him that all you do are nose jobs.”

  “But, Father, if this important man has a heart problem …”

  Jafari jumped in. “He’ll be fine. The operation went well. He’s as good as new. The Gulfstream you’ll be flying has every type of medical equipment including telecommunication with a Cairo cardiologist. Nothing to worry about, little brother. Just a sham to get you out of there.”

  Ahmed’s body started to shake. So, this was it? Summoned. Would he go? Hadn’t he already decided to go? Now the logistics were in place. Can I do this? He’d missed it, but now it struck him—Nicole was not mentioned.

  “Nicole?”

  “We think you should not bring your wife, Ahmed,” his older sister, Merit, said. Women were meant to keep still, but not Merit, who virtually ran their cotton empire—from behind the scenes, of course. “She’s unaccustomed to our ways. She’d just cause trouble. Come alone with Wati.”

  “But my practice? I can’t just walk away …”

  “There are plenty of medical positions here for you,” his father said. “They’ll accept your US credentials at the top Cairo medical centers.”

  “Plenty of patients who want attractive faces,” Jafari said with another chuckle.

  For weeks, the family had been urging Ahmed to return home, but this was an ultimatum. He couldn’t find words.

  His mother broke the silence. “Your father is not well, Ahmed. We need your medical expertise.”

  What am I going to do? Six months ago, he would have declined—with respect, but firmly. But now with the fucking lawsuits, the anti-Arab mood, a wife who hadn’t spoken to him for a week?

  “Brother,” Jafari—always Father’s number-one man—repeated: “the arrangements have been made. Customs will be no problem at the airport. Just get on that plane with your son. You’ll find everything set up for you.”

  “Too sudden—” Ahmed needed time. Time to absorb this. No way could he leave so abruptly. Walk away from the practice he had built? The American home he provided, for his son and wife? His friends? His club? His Philadelphia world might not be perfect—but it was pretty damn good. And then there was Nicole. She’d been the love of his life until … Until he’d hit her. Now she’d become a bitch.

  “Factors in Egypt are shifting against us.” His younger brother Seth’s tone sounded conciliatory. “Social media is spreading poison about the Mubarak regime. It’s pervasive here in Europe. We have to protect the family, move our assets, make sure they’re protected. You can help us with this.”

  “Father, are you recalling Seth to Egypt, too?”

  As the middle son, Ahmed always had been sensitive about favoritism toward his older and his younger brothers.

  “I’m needed here in Europe,” Seth said.

  “I’m not sure what I can do for the family,” Ahmed wavered. “I’m a surgeon, not a banker, not a businessman.”

  “You will make our family look good,” Jafari said. “In case there’s trouble, doctors will be very important. Beside
s, we can use you immediately to relocate assets and we can use your accounts to hide money.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Ahmed, do you even know about Zine El Abidine Ben Ali—he had to flee to Saudi Arabia.”

  The president of Tunisia. “Yes, I know that.”

  “And what about those Facebook sites,” Jafari said. “About those so-called ‘Silent Stands’.”

  “I don’t have time for social media,” Ahmed said, even though he had been looking at those bizarre posts.

  “And you think I do? I’m running the fu—” Jafari stopped. Among themselves, the men used obscenities, but they refrained in front of the women. “Father’s made me responsible for our textile business, Ahmed. If I have time, my brother, you have time.”

  “Check it out on social media,” Seth said. “You won’t believe what’s brewing. Most choose to ignore it, but if these radicals—”

  Father managed to raise his voice over Seth’s. “Do as your elder brother says. Remember the strikes in 2006, 2007 at Al-Mahalla Textiles. Remember Kefaya.”

  Ahmed did remember; Kefaya means enough. The protest against inherited presidency, Hosni Mubarak’s son Gamal inheriting the country’s rule. As for the textile strikes a few years ago, they had financially dented the family. But they’d receded, hadn’t they?

  “Ahmed, board that plane Monday morning,” his father continued, but his voice wavered. “With your son. Do not plan to return to the US. Your time there has ended. You are Egyptian. You will raise your son as an Egyptian under the law of Allah.”

  “But my wife, Father …” Can I leave Nicole behind? Even though he and Nicole had not spoken all week—they’d merely coexisted at the office and at home—could he leave her? They’d not touched although they’d slept in the same bed every night. Can I walk out on my wife without a word? Take our son?

  When the call ended, Ahmed sank back in his chair, his mind running overtime, trying to absorb his new reality. He was to be on an airplane tomorrow, with his son, returning to his homeland. Ahmed had no illusions. He was his father’s son. He must obey. But how can I leave Nicole?