Ismail checked his roster for the day, then glanced at his watch. He had about thirty minutes before his first patient was scheduled, so he picked up his niece’s medical report to study. Abdul had e-mailed it only this morning, but his cousin had already called twice to get Ismail’s feedback. Ismail planned to have a hematologist look it over, but at first glance it did appear that Majida’s leukemia was at an advanced stage.
His cell phone vibrated on his desk, and he glanced at the ID and sighed.
“Hello, Abdul. I’m just now looking over the report.”
His cousin started speaking to him in Urdu. Ismail interrupted him. “Abdul, you’re going too fast. I can’t understand you.”
“News for my Majida is not that of good you will tell me.”
Ismail was used to delivering bad news, but it was always more difficult when it was family. And even more so when it was a child.
“I’m going to have a specialist look at Majida’s report, a hematologist. But it does look like her condition is quite serious.” He rubbed his forehead. The sixteen-year-old was unlikely to get good health care in Peshawar. But money talked in Pakistan, and if Majida was going to have a chance at survival, Abdul was going to need money. And lots of it. Even though Ismail hadn’t seen his cousin in fifteen years, he couldn’t imagine that Abdul had worked his way into a better financial situation. There just wasn’t much opportunity in their homeland, and Ismail lived each day feeling fortunate and blessed that he was no longer there.
“Abdul, I think you should bring Majida to the United States for treatment.” Ismail spoke slowly. “Is she well enough to travel? Is this something you or Fozia might be able to do?” He stood up and walked to the window. Opening the blinds, he could see the medical center from his office. “There is a hospital here called MD Anderson. It is the best facility in the world for Majida to receive treatment. Texas Children’s Hospital is another possibility. It is also here in Houston. The Children’s Hospital usually doesn’t turn anyone away.”
After a few moments of silence, Ismail said, “Abdul, I can purchase plane tickets for either you or Fozia to bring Majida here.”
His cousin started speaking in Urdu again, but Ismail was only getting bits and pieces.
“Abdul, Abdul. You are going too fast again.”
His cousin slowed down and spoke to him in chopped English, explaining the reasons he couldn’t get travel visas for himself and Majida. Ismail knew that it was hard to get out of Pakistan these days, much harder than when he’d left prior to 9/11.
“Does that apply to Fozia as well?” He wasn’t sure if it was any easier for a woman to get a visa to the United States. Sometimes an American could sponsor someone from Pakistan, but neither Ismail nor Soraya would be a candidate since they weren’t born in the United States. Even then, sponsorship often took months. Ismail wasn’t sure Majida had that long.
“It is with a sad heart that marriage to Fozia is no longer. We divorced.”
Ismail stiffened. Divorce among Muslims was rare. To divorce in their homeland, the person seeking the separation only had to say, “I divorce thee,” three times, and it was done. But it didn’t happen very often since a man was allowed to have more than one wife.
“I am sorry to hear this, Abdul.” He knew that Abdul and Fozia’s marriage had been arranged by their families, but he assumed that over the years Abdul had grown to love her.
“She will live on third floor with children. And as I am expected, I provide to children and her.”
Ismail had been here long enough to know all about divorces in America. They were often very ugly, and no man would ever live in the same house with the woman he was divorcing. But in his home country, a Muslim man was expected to take care of his ex-wife for the rest of his life.
“This is hard news to hear. I wish you the grace of Allah during these troubling times. Did you consider jirga?”
Ismail’s great-aunt and great-uncle had been part of a jirga when they were having troubles. Ismail was just a young boy at the time, but he still remembered the gathering of the tribal elders to decide the fate of the couple. What he remembered the most was his aunt crying because she was not allowed to divorce his uncle, and the decision of the elders was always final. Years later, his aunt disappeared.
“Fozia and I are to agree that no jirga. Thank you, my cousin, for your nice words. No visa is for Fozia. Rules not allow us in United States.”
“Let me think for a moment.” Ismail walked back around his desk and sat down again. He’d made a successful career as a urologist, but even he didn’t have the kind of money Abdul would need to seek proper care in Pakistan. “Majida is a very sick girl, Abdul. She really needs to come here if she is able. Let me think on this, and I will also talk with my doctor friend who specializes in children with leukemia. Then I will call you.”
“In what time is it for call?”
Ismail thought about his trip to Italy. “I will be going on vacation with my fiancée in a couple days, but I will gather as much information as I can before I go.” There was a knock at his office door. “I must go now. But I will call you again.”
“Mrs. Irvin is here,” Erin said as she peeked her head in. “And Mallory needs you to sign a couple of things at the front desk.”
Ismail nodded at his nurse, his heart heavy with thoughts of Majida. The last time he’d seen the child, she was only a year old. “Thank you,” he said as he stood up. If Abdul couldn’t get a visa to come here, the only option was for him to get her the best medical care he could in Pakistan. A nearly hopeless task.
MALLORY LISTENED AS RHONDA IRVIN TOLD HER HOW much pain she was in. The woman was thirty, only a year older than Mallory, and had given her sister a kidney two months before. Ismail said that she apparently didn’t have much tolerance for pain and that the surgery had been very successful for both Rhonda and her sister. Mallory wasn’t sure if Ismail was just telling her that because he knew she would one day be a donor in the operating room.
“Oh, Rhonda, I’m so sorry. I’m sure Dr. Fahim will give you something to help with the pain,” Mallory said, resting her hand on the frosted window that separated her from the waiting room. “He should be with you shortly, okay?”
Rhonda nodded as Ismail walked up behind Mallory.
“Can you sign these, Dr. Fahim?” she asked. In front of patients she addressed him formally, but he’d insisted that she call him Ismail the rest of the time. His two nurses, Erin and Amber, called him Ismail too. They had been with him for years, and both of them had confirmed what Mallory had thought early on—that Ismail was a wonderful doctor and a very kind man.
After fourteen years in the United States, he still had a hint of a Middle Eastern accent. His close-trimmed facial hair reminded her of Tate’s, although Ismail’s hair was much shorter and there wasn’t a strand out of place. Ismail was smaller than Mallory’s muscle-bound boyfriend, but he was a really nice-looking man. They both had that perfect blend of clean-cut with a dash of ruggedness.
The doctor pulled a pen from the pocket of his white coat and scribbled his name in the spots Mallory pointed to. “I see we have a full day today, but when I’m on vacation it will be very quiet here.”
Amber would be taking her vacation at the same time. A few patients were scheduled to see Erin for routine followups, and Mallory planned to get caught up on insurance filings. But overall, she was looking forward to a little down time.
Mallory smiled. “We’ll see about that.”
BY THE TIME SHE GOT TO THE OLIVE GARDEN, MALLORY was pooped. Tate and his mother were waiting for her outside the restaurant. Sweating. July had been brutal, and August was already looking worse.
“So,” Regina said after they’d gotten settled at a table and ordered, “Tate said you told your parents that you signed up in the kidney exchange program. Didn’t go so well, huh?”
Mallory wasn’t sure what Regina’s position was on the issue. “No, not really. They feel the same way now as they did when I was seventeen.” She paused. “Plus they can’t stand the fact that I work for a Muslim. I’d never introduce my parents to Soraya. I’m afraid they’d embarrass me.”
They were quiet while the waitress placed salads in front of them. Then Regina reached for Mallory’s and Tate’s hands. Tate prayed silently before every meal, which was fine with Mallory, but his mother’s out-loud blessings in public made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t recall her family ever praying before meals, silently or aloud.
“Amen.” Regina let go of their hands and picked up her fork. “You know, Ramadan just ended a few days ago. They don’t eat or drink anything during the daylight hours for a month.”
Mallory popped an olive into her mouth. “Yeah, I know. Soraya and Ismail are really liberal Muslims, but they do observe Ramadan. And I saw Ismail pulling out his prayer mat more than usual. He usually closes his door, but we’ve had to interrupt him during prayer a few times.”
“I went to a mosque once.”
Tate sat taller as he swallowed a piece of bread. “Really, Mom?”
“Yes, I know,” Regina said. “It’s surprising that this staunch Catholic would do that, but I had a friend who was Muslim. It was before you were born, so it was long before September 11. I’d made a deal with the woman.” She paused, frowning. “Good grief, I can’t even remember her name. Anyway, I told her I’d go with her to the mosque if she’d attend Mass with me. And she did.”
Tate smiled. “Were you trying to convert her?”
Regina shook her head. “Not really. We were both checkers at the grocery store, and we worked the same shift. We became friends and were curious about each other’s religion, but neither of us had any interest in converting. I remember a few things about Islam; it’s really a very peaceful religion. Unfortunately, after what happened in New York and the Pentagon, I think most Americans see Muslims in a different light now.” Regina got quiet. “I wonder what ever happened to her . . .”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that my parents see them all as terrorists.” Mallory sighed.
“The woman I was friends with was a kind and loving person. I can’t seem to remember her name, but I do remember that. I haven’t thought about her in years.”
“Soraya is like that,” Mallory said. “Kind and loving. We’ve gotten to be good friends, and I don’t care what God she prays to.”
TATE WASN’T SURE IF CHRISTIANS AND MUSLIMS prayed to the same God or not. Or Allah, as they called him. Mallory’s casual attitude about the Lord bothered him sometimes, but he wrote it off to the very different ways they were raised. And by the time he and Mallory got back to his place, religious preferences weren’t foremost in his thoughts.
She’d followed him home, and they’d barely crossed the threshold of Tate’s house when he pulled her into his arms. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and covered her mouth with his, and as she responded, Tate edged them toward his bedroom—and was disappointed when she gently held him at arm’s length.
“We need to talk,” she said softly.
Tate sighed, never sure what that meant. “Good talk or bad talk?”
Mallory walked to the couch and sat down. She patted the spot beside her. “It’s not really good or bad, I don’t think. I mean . . . I just think we need to talk about us in the event that you get the job in Chicago.”
Tate plopped down on the couch and forced a smile. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
She grinned. “I know you have other things in mind for this evening, but I really think we should talk about this first.”
Tate knew Mallory well enough to know that she was probably still analyzing the situation. This conversation was part of the process, and he doubted much would be resolved tonight. Especially since it would all be speculative. “Okay. So you’ve been thinking about it. What have you come up with?”
She twisted on the couch and tucked one leg beneath her. “Well, first of all, I have a few questions. Number one . . . if you are offered the job, when would they want you to start?”
“I don’t know. Les, the guy I know who teaches there, said he doubted they would make a decision before school starts up in a couple of weeks. So it could be that I wouldn’t start until after Christmas. They’re actually creating the position because they’re expanding. It’s not like I’m replacing someone, so I don’t think there’s a huge sense of urgency.”
Mallory tapped a finger to her chin. “Okay, let’s just assume you are offered the job.”
“Okay.” Tate shifted his weight on the couch, eager to hear her thoughts but fearful at the same time.
“You would move to Chicago. I would stay here, and—”
“Wait a minute. I know you love your job, but you wouldn’t move with me? I’m sure there are plenty of jobs for office managers in Chicago, at a doctor’s office or anywhere else.”
“So my job is less important than yours?”
She smiled, but in Tate’s opinion it was one of those thin-lipped smiles women offer up, often in an effort to trip a guy up.
“I didn’t say that. But jobs like this for me don’t come up very often. I’d be crazy not to jump on it.”
She was quiet for a while, and Tate could practically hear the wheels in her head turning.
“I love you, Mallory. If you don’t go with me, I won’t take the job.” His stomach flipped as he said it. How could I pass this up?
“Oh no,” she said quickly. “Then you would resent me.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ll resent me if you have to quit your job. So what’s the solution?”
They were quiet again. For much longer. Finally, Mallory said, “I’m not relocating with a man I’m not married to.”
Oh, thank You, God. Every time he’d hinted to Mallory that he wanted to get married, she’d changed the subject. “Oh, baby.” He reached for her hand and squeezed, then brought it to his lips. “I know this isn’t the right kind of proposal, but marry me. I didn’t think you wanted to get married. Or that you were ready.”
The color drained from her face, and Tate was glad he was sitting down.
“That’s just it.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m not ready to get married. And I don’t know when I will be.”
Tate felt the sting of her words, but he willed himself to be calm and took a deep breath. “What does that mean?”
Mallory dabbed at her eye with one finger. “If you get the job in Chicago, Tate, you have to take it. I understand how big an opportunity this is. But . . .”
Tate held his breath.
“I won’t be going.”
ISMAIL FLIPPED THROUGH HIS MAIL WITH HIS CELL phone to his ear. When he heard Soraya opening the door with her key, he told his cousin that he needed to go. He hadn’t yet told his fiancée that he had wired Abdul a substantial amount of money to help with Majida’s care in Pakistan. Not nearly enough, but all he could spare right now. He hadn’t been close to his cousin since they were kids, but Abdul was family and it was Ismail’s responsibility to help however he could.
Soraya fell into his arms, and he kissed her gently, then eased her away. “What is the matter, my love? Tell me. What is wrong?”
“Nothing, really,” she said as they walked to Ismail’s black leather couch. “I’m just tired. It was a long day filled with many customers.” Soraya owned a high-end rug shop, and one of her favorites was spread beneath his living room furniture.
She had decorated Ismail’s condo, and the woman had a thing for black, white, and red. But somehow it all worked, and even if it didn’t he would never say so. The forty-gallon fish tank lent some color to the space. Soraya had filled it with exotic fish, but Ismail forgot to feed them sometimes.
He moved a red throw pillow out of the way as he twisted to face her. Soraya was beautiful inside and out. A silken mass of black hair hung in graceful waves past her shoulders, and her dark eyes were set above high cheekbones against an olive complexion. She looked extra stunning today in a deep purple pantsuit.
After she’d filled him in on her day, he told her about his phone call from Abdul, leaving out the part about the wire transfer.
“Ismail, that makes me so sad.” Soraya shook her head. “Is he sure he can’t get Majida here for treatment?”
“He says he can’t. And I do know it is difficult to get a visa from there to here.” He sighed, deciding he didn’t want to keep anything from his future wife. “I wired Abdul some money today. Hopefully it will help him find good care for her.”
Soraya smiled. “You are a good man.”
“I try,” he said. He smiled back at her, glad she didn’t ask how much.
“Oh, I hired a wedding planner today,” she said as she pressed her palms together. “He said eight months isn’t long enough to plan the kind of wedding we want, but I explained to him that we are working around Ramadan next July as well as planning two celebrations.”
Ismail wished they didn’t have to travel so soon after their wedding here, just to have another wedding in Lahore, but it was important to Soraya. “I would think that’s plenty of time to plan.”
Soraya giggled. “And just how many weddings have you planned?”
Ismail shrugged, grinning. “Not so many.” He leaned over and kissed his future wife. “I know it will be wonderful. Both weddings.” He briefly thought about the cost of two weddings—thankfully, Soraya’s parents were paying for both. Ismail had more money than most, but spending a half million dollars to get married seemed extravagant, even in America. And he wouldn’t have been able to send nearly as much to Abdul if he was paying for the weddings.
“I hear your stomach growling.” Soraya laid her hand across Ismail’s stomach.
“And I’m happy that fasting is over.”
She gave his stomach a gentle pat. “Fasting has been written down upon you as it was upon those before you.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. Soraya came from a very liberal Muslim family in Lahore, but she could cite the Quran better than most people. “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered as he leaned forward and kissed her.
She didn’t answer as she got up off the couch and rounded the corner. Ismail heard the bathroom door close, then listened to his stomach growl some more. During the past month of Ramadan, he wasn’t sure which had been more difficult—abstaining from food during the daylight hours or abstaining from Soraya in the nights. Ismail knew they weren’t the best Muslims in the world, and they seldom went to the mosque. But they did practice the call to prayer five times per day, and they did abstain from things that would be displeasing to Allah during Ramadan.
Despite the rumbling in his belly, when Soraya came back into the room in a flowing black dressing gown, he was clear about his priorities. The phone vibrating in his pocket was an unwelcome distraction, but he was a doctor, so he pulled it out and checked the caller ID. He quickly pressed Ignore, stood up, and walked toward his beautiful Soraya, with no plans to return his father’s call. The man still terrified him. Even from across the world.