by Puja Guha
Mariam sighed and forced herself out of bed as a wave of nausea overcame her. Morning sickness, again. She groaned and groped her way toward the bathroom where she spent the next few minutes crouched with her head over the toilet seat. Most of the time she didn’t actually vomit, the wave of nausea would hit, she’d sip some soda water and it would pass, but every few days she’d find herself like this on the bathroom floor. Ten minutes later, she used the vanity to pull herself up and flushed the toilet. After a quick shower and some time in front of the mirror, she felt slightly better—enough to make the trek downstairs to the kitchen.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Fahad left for work, and Dinah chatted with her over breakfast, then headed off to the British Council. Mariam walked around the house, realizing that she was alone—Dinah’s housekeeper also had gone out to run some errands and wouldn’t return for another hour. She tried to find distraction with the morning paper, but found herself drawn to the window, watching the street below as her heart raced.
When will Tareq come back? She steadied herself against the windowsill, certain that he was going to return, that he would corner her in the empty house. She grabbed a knife from the kitchen, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the handle. With the knife in hand, she made her way back upstairs and locked her bedroom door. She set the knife on the bedside table and turned on the television—she had to pass the time somehow. Her eyes moved to the clock on the bedroom wall, Dinah would be home in three hours, she only had to make it until then.
Mariam spent some time watching The Young and the Restless—anything to keep her away from the window—before she gave up on the tumultuous soap opera and settled into one of Dinah’s books. Not having to keep her reading hidden from anyone had been the best part of the week that she’d spent there, and she wanted to take advantage of every minute. Alone in the house, though, even reading felt like torture, she could hardly keep her attention focused for more than a page.
She heard a noise downstairs and picked up the knife and pressed her ear to the door; a wave of relief greeted her as she heard Dinah’s housekeeper, Janhvi, call out, “Hello,” from the stairwell.
Mariam put the knife back onto the bedside table and slid to the ground. Today was the first time that she’d been alone in Dinah’s house, she’d never realized how comforting the housekeeper’s presence was. She wiped her eyes and scrambled to her feet, then settled onto the bed and picked up the book again, still overwhelmed by the sense of relief. Finding the story totally unfamiliar, she had to turn back several chapters before she noticed something she recognized. She reached one of the more scandalizing scenes and had to stop to take a deep breath and drink a glass of water as she envisioned the sensual moment. Is that what sex is supposed to be like? Her cheeks flushed at the imagery and she read through the scene again.
Dinah finally returned around one in the afternoon, and the two of them chatted over a long lunch while they waited for the doctor to arrive. Once she did, he looked over Mariam’s stitches and made quick work of removing them. Mariam asked about the pain in her left forearm that continued to plague her, and he explained that the wrist was sprained from the impact of the fall, which would take another few days to heal. The doctor asked several questions about Mariam’s other symptoms—if she was having any trouble with reading or watching television. “Those are the symptoms to watch out for after a concussion,” she explained.
Mariam chuckled, “The only thing I’m having issues with is morning sickness. I’ve had a couple of headaches, but nothing severe.”
“Good,” the doctor nodded. “Keep taking Panadol if you need it for the headaches and rest up. Don’t do any strenuous activity until the headaches are completely gone, and if you do start to exercise, do it gradually.”
“Do you think the scars will fade?” Mariam looked down at the gashes on both her arms, now more or less healed, but heavily scarred.
The doctor took a second to examine them again, then took out a prescription pad and scribbled something illegible. “This cream should help,” he said as he handed the prescription over. “Don’t worry, the scars will fade—eventually.”
LATER, STILL ABSORBED in her book, Mariam heard a commotion downstairs. She made it to the edge of the stairwell before she stopped, frozen in her tracks. She could hear two voices downstairs yelling at each other in Arabic. One was Fahad’s and the other—Tareq was here, in the house. Her blood ran cold. Her breathing turned shallow. Part of her wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to go. She couldn’t help but inch forward, she had to know what was going on.
She crouched behind the upstairs railing that offered a view of about half of the entrance foyer and resisted the temptation to move to a better vantage point, lest he notice her. So far, Fahad seemed to be holding his own, shouting repeatedly that Mariam wasn’t there and that Tareq needed to get out of his house. She could see Tareq in profile, and based on his stance, she guessed that he had been down one of the bottles of Scotch he kept in a hidden cabinet in the pantry. Her body quivered—Tareq angry was bad enough, but the addition of alcohol amplified the violence.
“I know she’s here,” Tareq yelled for at least the fourth time.
“Get out of my house,” the volume of Fahad’s voice had dropped now, he wasn’t shouting anymore. “Get out.”
For a moment it seemed as if Tareq might listen, especially given Fahad’s superior size, but Mariam felt as if she was watching a car about to drive over a cliff.
He won’t leave. She knew it deep in her bones.
Tareq threw the first punch, a right hook to Fahad’s jaw that caught him by surprise. Mariam couldn’t keep track of much after that, there were punches and elbows and then the two of them fell to the ground, knocking over an antique Egyptian vase on display in the foyer. The alabaster shell exploded as it hit the floor, but the two men didn’t notice. Eventually Fahad managed to pin Tareq to the ground with his forearm pressed against Tareq’s neck. “Now, get out of my house,” he repeated in the same cold voice. “If I see you here again, I’ll have you arrested.” Fahad waited a second before he released his hold on Tareq, who slid slowly across the floor and stood up with the help of the door frame. He was gone a moment later, with the sharp slam of the front door.
Mariam turned around, her back to the railing, hyperventilating and trying to get control of her breathing as black spots appeared in her vision. Her skin crawled. All she wanted to do was escape him, to never see him again—yet some part of her felt as if she should run after him, go with him and defuse the situation. She blinked away tears.
Why does this man have so much power over me? Why do I let him? She had to get away.
Mariam took a deep breath, and at that moment, resolved to go out and get a new passport. Whatever the risks, she had to take them.
I have no choice.
Salmiya, Kuwait – August 1, 1990
Mariam tossed and turned into the early morning. She both relished her increased resolve and feared it. She had no idea what might be around the next bend, how she would get away from Tareq if the passport office informed him of her application. If Dinah was so convinced that they could do it, then she had to be right—there would be a way out of this. I’ll find a way, she repeated to herself.
After Tareq had left, Dinah had tended to the cuts on Fahad’s face, while the three of them sat together in the living room in silence. Mariam had thanked Fahad several times, had tried to express her gratitude for what he had done and for their help in letting her stay, but he had responded with only a few grunts. Luckily, none of the cuts were severe, and after Dinah placed a Band-Aid on the worst of them on his forehead, he stood up, gave them a brief nod, and retreated to his study.
“Don’t worry about him,” Dinah said in a quiet voice, looking back at Mariam. “He’s always been the strong silent type.”
Mariam could see the forced chuckle; Fahad’s silence was certainly one of the reasons that Dinah and his marriage had broken d
own. Mariam remembered vaguely from about three years earlier: Dinah in tears after a second miscarriage, how she couldn’t understand why Fahad wouldn’t talk to her anymore, how she’d hated the whole world. Mariam had been too young to really understand, but she had seen Dinah as she sobbed on her sister Reema’s shoulder.
After a long sigh, Mariam turned on the light, giving up on sleep and picked back up the copy of Coma from her bedside table. She tried to read, but gave up a few minutes later. She was about to turn the light out to go back to sleep—some version of “fake it till you make it”—when the ring of the telephone broke the night silence.
Who would be calling now?
Three rings later the phone stopped, Fahad or Dinah must have picked it up. Mariam turned out her bedside lamp and pulled the covers up to her chin. Even though it was peak summer with the dry desert heat of early August, with the air conditioning running at full blast the house was actually cooler than it would have been in December. She was finally starting to relax when the bedroom door flew open.
“Dinah?” Mariam sat up and turned the light back on. The expression on Dinah’s face told her that something dire had happened.
“What is it?”
“The Iraqi army just crossed the border.”
Washington D.C. area, USA – February, 2016
Mariam looked at her watch for the fifteenth time as her flight touched down at Reagan National.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, I should have let Raj or Aliya come with me. She took a deep breath and had to remind herself to let it out. How on earth did Dinah convince me to do this? Following the last few months in therapy, Mariam had finally felt strong enough to confront her old identity by attending the Liberation Day celebration at the Kuwaiti embassy, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Over the year and a half since Dinah had come to Washington after several years in London, Mariam had considered visiting her cousin many times, each time managing to find an excuse to stay put. Dinah had come to Austin once, and they’d had an incredible time together, picking up as if no time had passed, but Mariam still struggled with the idea of touching the embassy with a ten-foot pole. Her paperwork as Ritika Ghosh was in order, and Dinah had checked and rechecked for anyone on the guest list who have known her in her past life, but Mariam’s battle was entirely internal: she wanted to distance herself from her past. Her therapist, along with Raj and Aliya, had been firm though, this part of confronting her old identity—the good and the bad, of accepting that she was still a Kuwaiti and that her past would always be a part of her—was essential for her to get past her fear and nightmares. It’s the right thing, she repeated to herself. Deep down she knew it, even if she would have preferred to hide under her blankets.
She had still been unable to open up to Raj about Tareq’s abuse or how he had died—how could she be so close to Raj and yet so closed off at the same time? Her last few sessions had focused on this point, along with her fear of her old self. Rationally, she recognized that Teresa was right, that Mariam Qatami was part of who she was now, but emotionally, Mariam couldn’t be more disconnected from her. That identity belonged to someone else who had died during the Iraqi invasion, a submissive woman, a victim who had let her husband hurt her and stayed with him anyway. Despite her breakthroughs in therapy, including the realization that part of her decision to leave Tareq had indeed been her own, she was still struggling with the emotional aspect of it all. Her intellectual self had caught up, but her emotional self remained leagues behind.
Regardless, Mariam clung to the hope that Teresa was right. By attending the event at the embassy and celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of Kuwait’s liberation, she might be able to reintegrate that part of her identity into her new life. It’s only taken over twenty-five years. She couldn’t help but smile, human beings were far too complicated for their own good. The plane came to a halt in front of the gate, and she stood up as the fasten seatbelt light turned off. “At least you’ll get to see Dinah,” Raj had said to help convince her, although what had really propelled her forward was his other point, the one they were still dancing around.
Mariam forced herself to keep breathing, even though weeks had passed since his first outburst, she found herself incapable of processing what he had said. She had barely had the courage to talk to Teresa about it, instead focusing on work stress, her secrets, nightmares, memories—anything but the fact that the bedrock of her marriage had become unstable.
I can’t believe he’s felt that way all this time.
Raj’s words continued to echo through her head.
…I never understood why you didn’t want to take your old identity back. Dinah did and she’s happy…
I’ve never regretted helping you and pretending to be Ritika was so important for you to get out of Kuwait, but since then, you could have been yourself again…
I fell in love with you, Mariam—and I want to be married to you, not you pretending to be my first wife. I love you, and that will never change, but why can’t you be yourself?
Her eyes stung as she kept her gaze ahead and pulled her carry-on bag toward the exit. Although she had vacillated on attending the event several times since first agreeing to it, those were the words that had finally pushed her over the edge, compelled her to take this trip and confront her past.
Mariam stepped onto the jet bridge. It all went back to the same point which she and Teresa had beaten to a pulp in therapy. I have to tell him about Tareq, who we were… what he did to me. But most importantly, how he died.
She followed the signs for ground transportation down a long corridor and onto an escalator past baggage claim, keeping her eyes out for Dinah. I’m going to tell him, Mariam vowed as she waved at her cousin who had just pulled up along the curve a few feet away. But not today. Her face burst into a smile. First, I get to remind myself that being Mariam Qatami might not be so bad after all.
Washington D.C., USA – February, 2016
Mariam smoothed out the skirt of her floor-length burgundy dress, considering whether or not she should put on a cardigan. Her long dark hair was pulled into a low French twist that hung at the base of her neck, just off-center. She had only worn that hairdo a couple of times before, but it was one that Raj really liked—she had chosen it specifically so that he would notice when she called him on FaceTime earlier, right after she and Dinah returned from the hair salon.
“You look lovely,” he’d said with a smile, although he’d neglected to comment specifically on her hairstyle. Under normal circumstances, she would have teased him about it, reminding him why she had chosen that style, even if he had forgotten that he had once mentioned how much he liked it. With how strained things were between them, she remained silent, and they spoke only about a few mundane topics—his work, some family logistics, and their last conversations with Aliya. Better than nothing, Mariam rationalized, but the lack of real connection with her husband was wearing on her with every moment it prolonged. Raj had been such a big part of her life since they left Kuwait, even before that, and the loss of that connection left a tremendous gap, as if she were trying to walk after losing a leg.
Mariam wished Raj was standing next to her, maybe she could open up to him, tell him everything. She had no doubt that he would be kind, that he would be empathetic and understanding—along with angry that anyone could have treated her that way, much less her husband and her family.
They should have protected me, not hurt me, she repeated the words from her therapy session. She could even have let herself be angry at them, she could imagine confronting them and cornering them to tell them how much better she had, and still did, deserve.
Why wasn’t I enough? What did I do to deserve to be treated that way? Did I deserve it?
Why couldn’t you just love me?
With a deep breath, Mariam pushed those questions aside and ventured down the hall to Dinah’s room. John had already left for poker night at a friend’s house, so she opened the door immediately afte
r knocking.
Dinah was dressed in a flowing evergreen gown that skimmed the floor, and she turned around to look at her. “Mariam, wow, I don’t think you’ve aged at all. Do you know when the last time was that I saw you dressed like this?”
Mariam tilted her head to the side, considering when that might have been, “I don’t think so. It must have been back before the war? I guess we haven’t been to a party together in a while.”
“I think it was when we went shopping together.” Dinah broke into a wistful smile, “You tried on this incredible dress that I convinced you to buy—it was stunning, this brilliant fuchsia color.” She gestured toward Mariam’s dress, “Maybe a little bit more revealing than what you’re wearing now.” Dinah paused, “Actually you came to a diwaniya at Reema’s house, maybe a month before the invasion. I think you were supposed to wear the fuchsia dress, but in the end, you decided to wear something else.”
Mariam returned her smile tentatively, she remembered that diwaniya well, more than she cared to admit. She drew in a quick breath, that was when Dinah had first explicitly told her that she should leave Tareq, after he had severely wrenched her wrist because she hadn’t properly organized her closet. And then he tore up that dress because it was too revealing…. It was also the night she had crashed into the coffee table. I’m so glad he’s gone, she thought, relieved to find that the recollection was no longer accompanied by a deep sense of guilt. I wish he hadn’t had to die for us to get away. She looked at Dinah, grateful that they had both escaped him and built new lives for themselves after the Gulf War.