"What's your mother's name?" I asked her.
"Rima," she said, her knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. "I hate seeing you in hijab. I hate it."
"I know, baby. It's a temporary discomfort. Did you tell her I was coming?"
Sam nodded and continued to stare straight ahead despite the traffic light.
"What'd she say?"
"Nothing."
"At all?"
Sam shook her head, and I worried she might tear the steering wheel off the column. "Can we talk about something else?"
"Of course, baby. Like what?"
"I don't know. Anything. Read me the dictionary if you like," she said, gulping down her last word.
"Is this what one of your panic attacks looks like?" I leaned forward in my seat and she nodded, her bottom lip ending up between her teeth. "Okay. Let's put on some music. Want to hear a song?" She nodded and I pulled out my phone to connect the music app to her Bluetooth. "Ready?"
"Yes," she said, and I pressed play. It took her a few seconds before she glanced at me. "Is this Against The Machine?"
"Yup." I laughed and she smirked. "Like it?"
"What else have you got on there?"
"Korn. Pantera. Nirvana."
"You're a nineties metal head? Were you even born in the nineties?" Sam laughed hard, and I swatted her arm.
"Yes, I was, in fact." I joined her laughter and switched to Teen Spirit by Nirvana. "Hush up and enjoy it."
"My dainty little fairy is an inner psychopath. I knew it." She snapped her fingers and I cracked up.
"You're just now realizing this? I watch serial killer documentaries for fun and have an obsession with horror movies."
Sam laughed, a small smile settling on her lips. "It's charming."
"Well, glad to know you appreciate my inner demons," I said, and gave her thigh a pat.
"Don't mention to my mom that I drink alcohol." The sentence burst from her lips while her grip on the steering wheel tightened again, though she didn't seem to return to panicking. "Or eat bacon."
"I'll make sure to steer clear of any conversations regarding bacon or alcohol, honey. What else should I know?"
"Um...Sharia Law was active in Syria when my mom escaped. She doesn't believe in it, but my uncles still hold some of the viewpoints as they were older than her."
"Even while living in America and Canada?" My eyes widened and she nodded.
"Some things, not all. Mainly when it comes down to women's rights. My uncle, Farid, married an American woman. She divorced him eventually because he used to beat her, believing that a man was allowed to beat his wife into submission. Earlier in their relationship, she was generally passive and fawned over him. Only when she found her voice did he begin to hurt her." Sam's hands twisted on the wheel and I placed my hand on her forearm. "I still think he wants me dead because he suspects I consider myself non-Muslim."
"Do you, baby?"
She nodded, and glanced at me. "And being gay, I'm sure he wants me dead."
"Sam…" My heart crumbled to pieces on the seat beside her. "What does your mom say about all of this? Does she know?"
"I'm sure she does. She's not going to stand up to him. She might've been an equal partner with my dad, but when he died, Farid looked after her. Like he always did. He got her out of Syria. He saved most of our family by doing whatever he did. So naturally, she just...does what he says."
"So when you visit your mom, and he's there, it's harder for you?"
She nodded and brushed the back of her hand across her forehead as we pulled into the senior living complex on the edge of the city. Well-manicured lawns surrounded the perfectly-paved pathways that led to rows of uniform homes. The first-floor condos all shared the same off-white siding with dark roofs and a parking space in front. Most notably, everything appeared handicapped accessible with no stairs, and all ramps. Sam pulled into one of the empty spaces, and parked the car. She drew in a deep breath and glanced at me.
"We're here together," I reminded her and she nodded. "Am I allowed to touch you?"
"You shouldn't." That did it and tears marred the beauty of her pretty hazel eyes. She blinked them away and a few tumbled from her long lashes. "I'm so ashamed of calling you my friend."
"Samirah." I turned in my seat after releasing the seatbelt. "I understand how hard this is for you. For today, I'm happy to be your friend. It's day one, okay?"
"Yes, my sweet." She stroked my cheek a few times with her thumb. My heart broke for her and the pain she wore outwardly today. Our role reversal also became quite evident when she allowed me to lead for a moment.
We parted, and she covered her hair with the fabric she hated. I followed suit and we exited the car together. Sam grabbed two reusable grocery bags from the back seat and we met each other by the walkway. Despite her instruction to not touch her, her hand remained at the small of my back the entire walk up the path to her mother's house. We entered without knocking, Sam using her key, and she paused in the entryway to slip out of her ankle boots. I watched her and did the same, leaving me in a pair of striped purple socks. She glanced at them, and offered me a small smile. Part of me began to wonder if my affinity for purple socks held a deeper meaning.
"Mom?" called Sam as she led me into the quaint home. The cozy, modern home with subtle earthy tones and sage-colored accents, appeared as standard to me as ever. I wasn't sure what I expected, but it wasn't something so average.
A woman appeared from the kitchen, clad in nearly the same outfit as Sam—jeans and a burgundy sweater—greeting us with a smile. Mrs. Flynn must've been in her mid-sixties, with her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a low, twisted bun. She kissed both of Sam's cheeks when she greeted her, before turning to me. She wasn't wearing hijab or anything traditional as I expected either. So far, nothing turned out as expected.
"This must be Rose. Good to meet you," she said, a bundle of smiles as she double-kissed my cheeks as well.
"Good to meet you, too, Mrs. Flynn," I said, my voice softer than I intended.
Sam didn't linger on pleasantries as she urged the head covering off her hair then glanced at me. I followed suit and she offered me the faintest nod.
"Let me put the groceries away," Sam said, glancing toward the kitchen. "They've been in the car."
"I fixed some tea," answered her mother, waving for us to follow her toward the kitchen. On the dining room table, set with six chairs but only three table settings, a kettle of tea sat in the middle beside a plate stacked tall with what appeared to be golden cookies of some sort.
Mrs. Flynn gestured for me to sit and I did, but Sam brushed past us toward the kitchen. I could see her from the dining table, her eyes never leaving me as she hurriedly filled the cabinets and refrigerator with whatever she purchased. Her mother patted my hand to draw my attention back to her, and I gulped down the nerves that tightened my throat. My expectations had me prepared for something very different. Instead, I faced my usual anxiety of meeting a new person. I glanced at Sam, and the expression she wore, laden with defeat and sadness, tortured me more than anything else.
"How do you take your tea, dear?" asked Mrs. Flynn as she poured out three cups into the pretty cups. The white China mixed with maroon etchings offered a subtle elegance to a simple gesture.
"Just black, please. Thank you," I answered, and she offered me the filled cup.
"Not like my Sami who lumps in her cubes and milk, I see." Mrs. Flynn fixed Sam's tea how she liked it. "Help yourself to a biscuit, Rose."
"Okay… Thank you." I did as she said and glanced to Sam when she returned to the table. Her gaze remained low and focused on her tea when she cupped her hands around it.
Mrs. Flynn watched her, then reached over and brushed a strand of Sam's hair off her shoulder. "I thought you would be brighter today," she said.
"Why?" Sam sipped her tea, and she didn't once look at her mother. The anxiety dripped from her like a thick sap running down the injured bark of an Evergreen.
"If you've brought Rose to meet me, then she must be special to you." Mrs. Flynn leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the same time that Sam did. I glanced between them, the mirrored pair knocking my jaw slack for a moment. I covered by sipping my tea.
"She is," offered Sam, then set her cup back down on the saucer. "Is Farid coming over here today?"
"Perhaps. He's unpredictable on his best day. Retirement hasn't served him well. How's work, love?" Mrs. Flynn continued to attempt engagement with Sam, but all it did was serve to force her into more quiet.
"Rosie and I will leave if Farid shows up," she said, her gaze flickering to her mother.
"Understood." Mrs. Flynn met my gaze, and the intensity of her stare had me dropping mine for a moment as well. Somewhere in the back of my memories, I remembered eye contact, or lack thereof, was a cultural difference between the U.S. and Middle Eastern traditions. I couldn't recall it clearly enough to modify my actions appropriately.
Sam stayed quiet, but helped herself to a biscuit. Her mom seemed to settle when she did that, and repeated her question.
"How's work, Sami? Are you enjoying the steadier position?"
"For the most part." Sam nibbled the cookie, and out of sheer inability to figure out how to navigate the awkward situation, I did the same. The crunchy, nutty confection brought a stroke of delight to my mouth and I took a bigger bite the second time.
"Good." Mrs. Flynn stroked Sam's hair a few times and then gave her hand a squeeze. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Not really." Sam met her mother's gaze in a sharp turn of events. "Rosie is more than my friend."
"I know, Sami." Mrs. Flynn’s slender lips curved into a small smile. To me, it seemed genuine.
"The minute Farid walks in here, he'd smack that grin off your face and you'd let him." Sam sat up straighter in her chair. "And if it were up to him, I wouldn't exist at all."
"Samirah..." Mrs. Flynn's posture shifted to mirror Sam's. "There are some battles worth waging, and some not. He is an old, stubborn man who is stuck in his ways."
"You make excuses for him." Sam's rage made it to the surface and the quiet, subdued, worried woman who walked in wasn't the one who's eyes widened with her passion. "Always for him, and not for me."
I stood from my seat, and made my way around the table to stand closer to her. I didn't touch her first, but she automatically wrapped her arm around my middle and pulled me to lean against her.
"Samirah," began Mrs. Flynn, but she tore off into a language I didn't understand. Sam's grip on my hip tightened and she spat back at her mother. The two of them exchanged heat in, what I assumed to be Arabic, that nearly blew the hair from my shoulders. Despite the harsh tones, Mrs. Flynn's posture remained calm and reasonable, but Sam grew more upset.
"Speak English in front of my girlfriend," she shouted, finally, slamming her hand down on the table so hard that the dishes rattled.
"All right." Mrs. Flynn held her hands up in front of her. "Calm yourself, Samirah. There's no need to shout."
"There is." Sam dropped her head against my stomach and I wrapped my arms around her. "We're going to go now. This was a mistake."
"If you insist. But I'd like if you stayed," said Mrs. Flynn, glancing between us. "I'm fixing maqloubeh for supper. I know you like that."
"Sam." I leaned down to whisper to her. "Let's take a walk for a minute."
Again, to my surprise, she agreed and rose to stand with me. Her mother let us go and I headed toward the front door. A sharp grab on my wrist jolted me backward and Sam pulled me into a hug before I made to reach for the door handle, despite the fact neither of us had shoes on yet.
"Not outside."
"Okay. Okay." I turned around in her arms and cupped her face. "Samirah, take a breath with me."
"This was a mistake. I can't breathe here." Her words sounded more panicked than she looked and she stroked my arms from wrist to elbow. "We need to go."
"We can go, but I want you to breathe with me for a minute. Look at me, please," I implored. She met my gaze and the sheer terror in her eyes told me how difficult this situation was for her. Did she feel like this every time she came here?
Voices carried from the kitchen and the back door to the condo closed. Mrs. Flynn began speaking to someone, again in Arabic, and Sam released me, stepping back right away. She pulled the covering over my hair, then did the same for herself.
"Farid," was all she could say. Her fear melted to a sort of resignation, and that expression, sullen and withdrawn, I remembered.
My mind flashed to the time a few weeks ago when she returned home, thinking I slept on the sofa, and watched her chuck her scarf in the closet. The empty, vacant stare that told me of her pain and brought the fractured parts of herself to the surface.
She led me back inside, now standing further away from me than before but always a protective step in front, as we returned to the table. Two men, the older one with a gray mustache and wrinkled brow, spoke animatedly to Mrs. Flynn. Occasionally, I understood him saying Rima, but nothing else. The other man, younger, maybe in his forties, helped himself to some of the biscuits on the table. Neither of them acknowledged us when we returned to the table at first. I assumed the older man to be Farid, but I wasn't introduced to the other. Sam kept her gaze averted, and her lips pursed while we returned to our seats, though this time I sat beside her.
Their chatter calmed down, the younger man smiled at both of us and offered a small wave. "Hey. I'm Wally. Samirah's cousin."
"Rose," I said, glancing to Sam. She didn't seem too unnerved by Wally addressing us.
"Hi, Sami," he said, attempting to engage her. He lowered himself down on the table in an obnoxious attempt to get her to look at him. Eventually she did and it made her smirk. "Grumpy face. Eat a cookie."
His playfulness had me watching the exchange between the two of them. He continued to try and make her talk to him, and dropped down to sit across from us at the table. Farid ignored us, and spoke only to Mrs. Flynn.
"You from Seattle, Rose?" asked Wally while taking a giant bite of one of the biscuits. He poured himself some tea.
"Um… yes. Are-are you?" I stumbled over my words, and with the number of people in the room combined with the unified anxiety shared between me and Sam, my insides felt ready to melt down.
"Sure am. Born and raised." He took a deep breath and let out a dramatic sigh. His silliness made me smile and it seemed to loosen up Samirah a bit. She sipped her tea, though her eyes continued to dart toward the others.
Mrs. Flynn's volume increased and both Wally and Sam shot daggers at Farid.
"Dad, really?" Wally dropped his biscuit on the plate with a clatter.
Sam's hands balled to fists and she held Farid's glare when he stared her down. His dark, almost black eyes scared the life out of me, and I gulped down the fear that tightened my throat. He said something to Sam that had her shaking with rage as she squeezed her fists tighter. Mrs. Flynn, her lips pursed and expression tense, didn't say anything, but I could tell she wasn't happy.
Wally stood up and moved himself to stand between Sam and the old man. "Leave her alone already, Da."
"Mind your manners," the old man croaked and gave Wally a weak shove.
"You mind yours. Leave her alone," Wally shot back.
Farid's eyes left Sam and fell on me. A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth and he said, "She's a little girl. You like little white girls, Samirah?" His accent, much thicker than Mrs. Flynn's, made everything he said sit hard in my gut. He meant every word of the joust he took at Sam's expense. I wanted so badly to defend her, to stand up and punch him in the dentures, but I couldn't. This man struck a chord of fear so loudly that it paralyzed me in my seat.
"Don't look at her," spat Sam, her body tensing as she made to rise from her seat.
"Dad, c'mon." Wally ushered the old man from the room and he shuffled along, arguing with him the whole way, or so it seemed.
Mrs. Flynn return
ed her attention to us, her brows narrowed as she reached for Sam's shoulder, but she swatted her hand away.
"You don't say anything to defend me," she burst forth as she stood, her voice hiccupping with it. "You just let him come in here and say that to me every time." She reached back, grabbing my hand in her trembling fist. "You let him in your home and let him tell me how I deserve to die. Call me a pedophile. How I deserve to be raped and beaten and you say nothing. In front of someone I love and you let him treat me like that, Mom."
Tears streamed down my cheeks when I heard her translate whatever her uncle said to her. Sam wrapped her arm around me, then cautiously pulled the scarf from my head. She did the same with her own, then dropped both on the floor at her mother's feet.
"We're leaving."
"Samirah, I—" Mrs. Flynn made to step toward us but Sam backed away.
She held up her hand and turned her back on her mother. She stormed out, with me in tow, and we scooped up our shoes on the way. The minute our socked feet hit the cold pavement, Sam choked on a sob, swung around, and lifted me clear off the ground. I wrapped my arms and legs around her as she breathed heavily against me. The adrenaline surged through her, her arms trembling as she carried me to the SUV.
She settled me on the passenger seat, and I cried quietly while I stroked her face. Her rage permeated the air around us and she pressed a single finger to my lips.
"We are never, ever coming back here," she said, her words barely audible through her clenched teeth. "Ever."
I nodded and she cupped my face in her hands, both of us breathless heaps of tears. She buckled me in the car, then climbed over my lap after shutting the door. She started the engine, and we tore out of there, like we'd just left the scene of an arson we'd started.
Chapter Eighteen
Nocere Page 31