THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO

by Wafa Faith Hallam

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This can’t be true! You have the nerve to call in the middle of the night and ask me to help you fulfill your fantasy? You know what a fantasy is, don’t you? It’s a dream, it’s not meant to be taken literally…” Panic-stricken, I’d started crying noisily. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this. How can you be so cruel? How can you say you love me and do this?” I’d choked.

  Slivers of light from the street filtered through the drawn shades, casting long phallic shadows on the floor.

  “Stop crying, will you? Of course I love you. I just made a suggestion. We both fantasized about it and I thought you might want to try it, that’s all. Many couples do.”

  “Wow, you’re really too kind,” I’d interjected between my tears. “I only play along because I love you-don’t you get it, you freak? If you really do love me, care for me, you’d get out of there and come home, that’s what you’d do…Unless you wanna be done with me!”

  “Don’t dramatize now, please. I’ll be home soon.”

  He’d hung up.

  In an instant, the small bedroom he’d spent so many days painstakingly painting seemed to slowly cave in around me, compressing the air out of my lungs, muffling my sobs.

  My chest had felt like a festering, open sore. I’d sat haggardly in the semi-darkness, the phone still in my hand, with a devastating urge to call him back, beg him to come home and heave me out of my nightmare. But I had nowhere to reach him: He’d abandoned me to my misery, left me in a twilight zone, counting the passing seconds like drips of molten fire on my icy heart.

  For hours, tears had ravaged my swollen face until they could flow no more. How to make it stop? A fleeting notion, a survival gasp: I’d put on a coat and shoes and dragged myself down to the nearby Korean store to buy a bottle of wine, a pack of cigarettes, and sleeping pills, anything to drown my thoughts and ease the pain.

  When he finally returned home in mid-morning, he’d found me curled up at the foot of the bed, my coat still on, a full ashtray and a half-empty bottle of wine by my side. Neither the pills nor the wine had put me back to sleep; instead they’d left me in a drowsy, migrainous haze with a thick and fetid mouth. Eight hours had passed since his call, an eternity. It’d felt like a miracle that I was still breathing. He’d sat next to me, held me in his arms, and apologized feebly.

  My sobs had been my only answer.

  Speaking softly, he’d offered his narrative, explained he’d foolishly agreed to follow her home to New Jersey and, when he realized it was a mistake, could no longer find his way back to Manhattan until the morning. He’d sworn nothing had happened.

  There he was, yet again, lying through his teeth, weaving another mendacious tale on that second week of August 1992. He’d been overseas less than two months and everything had gone wrong. It had been a long time since his last paycheck, and my job as a real estate agent was unpredictable. Unwittingly, I had chosen a profession during one of the most significant downturns in housing in the New York region in a decade. And although I had pulled in decent money in 1991, 1992 was looking very grim, which incited me to accept my sister’s invitation—and plane tickets—to visit her in Tunisia with Mom and Sophia. The very day after Robbie’s return home, we took the overnight flight to Casablanca, then Tunis. I needed to reflect on the state of my marriage and consider my options.

  By the time we came back, on November 11, 1992, I had made up my mind to leave Robbie. His ever-more reckless behavior during the three months he was home alone had made it clear that there was no hope left for redemption. He had not returned to full-time work and never called me for reconciliation; instead he’d invited the woman from Tunis to stay in our home. He had gone through our meager savings and used our jointly held credit cards for his expenses.

  After my return, he often wouldn’t even come home at night, and when he did, he slept in the living room and we didn’t speak. For the following few days, I anguished about how to announce my decision. When the silence took hold, it seemed unbreakable. I had never before in my life held a grudge so big. We had never before felt so estranged from each other. The tension between us had reached its climax; our mutual revulsion was so thick as to be palpable.

  “Robbie, we have to talk,” I said one cheerless morning as I watched him finish his coffee, throwing his head back, in one motion.

  “I don’t want to talk right now,” he replied without looking at me, putting his cup down in the sink.

  “But we must,” I protested. “This situation cannot go on indefinitely. It’s obvious we can no longer live together. It’s bad for us and for the baby,” I declared somberly, adding, “You’ve betrayed everything I could still believe in. I’ve had enough, I want out.” I felt so much resentment toward him; I could hardly control my voice.

  “Always playing the victim card,” he replied bitterly. “I feel just as betrayed, and I don’t want to live with you anymore either, but this is my home. Where am I supposed to go with no money?”

  He faced me squarely in the narrow kitchen.

  “You feel just as betrayed? That’s good,” I scoffed, itching to add: I am not the one that cheated, not the one that lied, not the wife-beater, not the one that’s squandering our little money. No, that battle had already been fought far too many times, his I-too-am-a-victim argument far too familiar.

  For eleven years, because of my deep-rooted and distorted sense of fairness, I had swallowed it with relish almost, like a penitent nun confessing her sins against God, admitting to my issues and my part in the demise of our relationship. Was I not too demanding, manipulative, nagging, controlling, critical, and nasty even? A slow instillation into the depth of my psyche-that I somehow deserved whatever was inflicted on me-had justified my entire existence with him.

  “I convinced Nezha to let you use her apartment upstairs for a little while, until you find a job,” I said, trying to put an end to another futile clash.

  He looked at me with irritation.

  “I suppose you think you can just make those kinds of decisions for me?” he growled.

  “Someone has to,” I snapped. “The fact of the matter is, we cannot continue like this. Our marriage has been a farce for too long. You and I know that.”

  “Why don’t you move out then? I don’t want to lose my kid, and I’m just as entitled to keep my home as you are,” he shouted back. I realized he was not going to make it easy. I had no idea of how I could manage on my own, I only knew one thing for sure, he’d have to go, and alone.

  My intent to avoid a fight crumbled.

  “You cheated on me, had that whore in my bed for weeks and you’re talking of being entitled? I want you to get out of my life, now. I’m so sick and tired of your bullshit, your irresponsibility, your brutality. I’ve had enough of you, your lies and pretenses. You’re nothing but a fraud.”

  I seethed, trembling from head to toe. I watched him bite his lower lip, ready to lash out. Instead he walked past me and reached for his jacket on the sofa, then grabbed the car keys on the dining table. That’s when he saw Sophia timidly creeping out of her room.

  “If that’s how you want to play, then I’m taking my kid with me,” he barked, took a few steps toward her and scooped her up in his arms.

  Frightened, she looked at me with teary eyes. She was not yet four, but she’d already witnessed the violence between us, and told her grandma how Daddy and Mommy yelled very loud sometimes.

  “Oh no, you’re not,” I screamed, disregarding her fear. “Leave her out of this, do you hear me?”

  He carried her to her room, rummaged through her clothes.

  “Robbie, you’re not taking her out of this house, I won’t let you. So you just stop this, right now.”

  He wasn’t answering, which only intensified my dread. I picked up the phone, called my brother Larbi, and begged him to come down at once. “Robbie is stealing my baby! Call the police,” I implored him.

  I ran to the door and threw my body against
it. He’d have to kill me before I let him out. Sophia was bawling, calling to me. I rushed back to her room.

  “Don’t use her to get at me, Robbie,” I pleaded.

  He was struggling to put on her shoes, his back turned to me, deaf to my implorations. In my frantic mind surfaced all the stories of fathers kidnapping their children to take them away from their mothers, never to be found again, all the untold emotional dysfunctions prompting a man to get back at his estranged wife through her offspring, and I panicked. I wouldn’t put it past him. I knew his selfishness all too well. I went back to the phone and called 911. At least I think I did. Or maybe it was Larbi who’d called the police.

  All I remember from that God-awful day is that the cops appeared in my hallway, stopped him from taking Sophia, and advised me to get a restraining order, which I did, that very day. For the first time since I’d known him and been subjected to his abuse, I acted decisively to keep him away. I changed the locks, closed our joint bank accounts, and cancelled our credit cards.

  He responded violently to each of my actions, threatened me, and went wilder still in his reactions. My brother had persuaded him to move to my sister’s apartment where he invited girls over and got high on pot and pornography almost nightly. On the other hand, even though he lived only a few floors above, he rarely saw his daughter and invariably broke his promises to spend time with her under some lousy pretext.

  Until he broke down.

  He was still unemployed when he called me, well past midnight, one chilly December night, begging me to reconsider my decision. I shivered at the sound of his voice.

  “Wafa, this is stupid, we can still work this out,” he lamented softly.

  I hadn’t been asleep when the phone rang. Sleep mostly eluded me in those days. My life was spent showing dozens of apartments to ambivalent buyers and running back home to pick up Sophia from daycare, juggling payments to creditors, and coping with an ailing mother and alienated spouse.

  “Work what out, Robbie? I haven’t seen anything from you that would lead me to believe that anything changed. If anything, your recklessness is adding to my resolve. I went over the last credit card statements. What were you thinking?”

  “I just lost everything, Wafa. How am I supposed to cope with that, huh? This is killing me, you know that.”

  His voice broke. There was a long pause. He seemed to be looking for words.

  “I saw a psychic and she told me there was a woman who’s out to hurt me. And I know that woman is you.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “You never used to be like this,” he went on. “I guess it’s Sami. He’s been lying about me, hasn’t he? That man is bad, I know his kind, and you don’t. You better watch out,” he sputtered.

  “I don’t need Sami to tell me what you’re capable of, Robbie. This is just the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’ve taken more shit from you than I could ever admit to. But now there’s Sophia, and, for her sake, it’s best we separate.”

  I willed myself to sound self-assured. Inside, I was devoured with doubt and still craving his embrace, like an addict her fix.

  “I just don’t want to lose you and my kid. I’m desperate, I’m telling you. Sometimes, I just want to throw myself out the window.” He stopped talking, and I heard him weep on the phone. “I just want to finish with it,” he murmured. “Then you’ll have my death on your conscience, I swear to you, it’s that bad.”

  I took a deep breath. “Oh my God, Robbie, stop it, that’s crazy. Please, please don’t do this. I beg you, don’t blackmail me with suicide. It’s hard enough as it is,” I pleaded.

  I heard the phone click and he was gone.

  What was I supposed to do? How serious a threat was that? I couldn’t handle that, too. I had to call his parents, let them take care of their son this time.

  22

  Saying Goodbye

  My mother stayed almost four weeks at Mt Sinai. When she came out, she was lucid but her spirit had withered. The drugs she had been administered had restored her sanity but at a great cost. The once bold and smiley charmer had turned into a dull and tired-looking woman barely able to manage a smirk here and there. They had aged her beyond her years, and it took months before she regained some of her spark.

  After the brain-numbing antipsychotic pills, lithium became her dreaded nemesis. Regardless of the dosage, it left a pronounced taste of salt in her mouth, a strong tremor, and slurred speech. Depakote soon replaced Lithium, but it, too, caused her to bloat and gain weight, while all side effects did not disappear. Like lithium, it required periodic blood tests to regulate toxicity and mood-stabilizing levels.

  After the highs of acute mania, Mom then faced depression, sometimes despair. The anti-depressants battled the mood-stabilizers and, combined with her hormonal replacement therapy, sleeping pills, and pain killers, became part of a daily drug regimen central to her routine. Thereafter, my sister and I were reluctantly inducted into the role of medicine police.

  I had been reminded enough, and had read enough, to know that vigilance was necessary to avoid manic relapses. In addition to drugs, the psychiatrist who followed her had also prescribed psychotherapy. Unfortunately, with his imperfect command of French and her minimal knowledge of English, their sessions were less than optimal, and I was often called upon to translate before being sent back to the waiting room.

  In the months that followed, and beyond the drugs, the single most important factor that helped my mother reclaim her life somewhat was her children’s love and support. Within months of her hospital discharge, all three of my siblings had moved to the Versailles, the apartment building on Boulevard East that had been my home and hers since I moved to New Jersey. Nezha and Hisham were next to make it their residence after their prior lease had expired.

  Both my brothers were married by then. In 1987, Larbi had wed Margie, a cute and vivacious Jewish woman from Brooklyn. After a couple of years living in a tiny Manhattan studio, he had finally persuaded his wife to move to larger quarters in New Jersey—a decision which, at the time, she found exceedingly unappealing. Then, in 1989, a month after Mom married Chester, Abdu had tied the knot with Samira, a smart and determined twenty-five-year-old from Rabat. They had initially settled in Queens but soon returned to New Jersey and signed a lease in our building.

  Thus, in an unplanned fashion my family and I had come to occupy five units on different floors of the same coop, the possibility of doing so never discussed or agreed on in common. Perhaps my siblings felt an instinctive need to be close to Mom after her illness. Our friends joked then that the building’s name should have been changed to ours.

  Over the next couple of years, Mom seemed to slowly accept her medicated existence. At least that was the impression she gave—until her second relapse. The debilitating side effects and the fact that she secretly stopped taking Depakote, and then lied about it, were certainly a contributing factor. Even under her daughters’ watchful eyes, she still found a way.

  Unbeknownst to me then, an ongoing battle was raging between her and her medication, a struggle I could never understand. It was rather simple in my mind; wasn’t being “normal” a state that everyone aspired to? I’d never really stopped to consider how Mom felt about it. Now that I do, I realize how dreadful it must be to have one’s mind hammered, numbed, and then wrung through the narrow bottleneck of normalcy—the insipid need to conform. Aren’t our differences what make us stand out in the crowd? Is it any wonder that some of the greatest creative minds, scientists, and artists of all time have been considered eccentrics, wackoes, and rebels during their lifetime?

  For the rest of her life, Mom was expected to ingest one type of poison to keep her from too much elation, and another one to avert the depths of despair—along the way wreaking havoc in her body, destroying its exquisite ability to heal itself, and enduring more physical discomfort than one can imagine. How can anyone willingly subjec
t oneself to such treatment? She was hardly alone; most, if not all, mental patients stop taking their medication and go through relapses.

  “You seem like you’re doing fine, Mom. Did you have a good night sleep?” I would ask her every time she looked well and a bit too happy.

  “Yes, I did, and I feel good,” she’d answer cautiously, suspecting my motives. Lack of sleep signaled mania, and so did euphoria, but in her case, insomnia could also mean depression. She had to appear neither too down nor too high, just right. How awfully cynical and even contemptuous of our very humanity! Mood changes are part and parcel of the human condition; not even yogis and wise men can achieve an even temper all the time. Moreover, is it not impossible for anyone to not want to feel really wonderful? Finally, was I only concerned about her health, or mostly worried about my peace of mind?

  “So, Mom, when you start feeling too good, you must tell your doctor, or me, so that we can knock that well-being out of you and drug you down again,” is in effect what her doctor and I were asking her to do. Is it any wonder, then, that she rebelled and refused to comply by lying about her growing exhilaration? It’s only when her increased brain activity, sensorial sensitivity, and lack of sleep turned into irritability and belligerence, followed by delusion and paranoia, that she would admit to a problem.

  But were the lapses in drug intake truly the only culprits in the breakdown of her fragile mind? Today I am convinced that perhaps, more than any other cause, heightened levels of stress can affect the chemistry of the brain and unleash mayhem. And for that, there is no doubt in my mind, that my separation from my husband played a huge part in her first big relapse.

  When Robbie threatened to end his life, I called his parents and they immediately sent him a plane ticket for Costa Rica. On December 11, 1992, on the eve of his departure, we agreed to put up a Christmas tree together for the pleasure of our little toddler.