Wedding-Night Pajamas

The night of my wedding I went to bed wearing ridiculous cotton pajamas: blue pants flecked with white and a white top with a smiling and winking yellow tulip in the middle. Ridiculous and comfortable pajamas that served their purpose. Pajamas that said, “Don’t think about touching me!”

I had no interest in getting to know the man who had become my husband, or to ease his fright over the way our wedding had been conducted, with my brother’s thick hand pushing me toward him with barely a congratulations.

As the cars parked in rows outside the house, the guests thought perhaps they had the wrong place. Where were the drums and the guests? they wondered. Where were the ululations? Where were the festive lights? The Sri Lankan maid opened the door and waved them inside to the sitting room. There sat Faris with his mom, two sisters, five aunts, and a few female cousins, waiting for the “celebration” to begin. His mom, seeking reassurance, asked, Is it today? Everyone searched themselves and their mobiles for the date. His sisters were annoyed with their skyscraper-high hairdos; were annoyed as well with the joke of calling this a celebration, given the screaming indifference of the residents of the house, our house. After a few minutes Wadha went downstairs and told them the bride was still getting ready. After a few more minutes Badriya entered, covered in her abaya, and asked Faris to sit in the salon because Saqr would meet him there in a few minutes.

It wasn’t a few minutes. Faris had waited nearly an hour when the door opened and Saqr came in, sat back against the cushions next to him, and offered him some sunflower seeds, avoiding any conversation that might lead to me, the skinny sacrificial bride.

A half hour later I went upstairs to them, like the dead rising from the grave, the body wasted away in the soil. Badriya had bought me a white chiffon outfit, the closest thing possible to a wedding dress, given the glaring absence of all signs of a wedding. The guests mumbled in disbelief because I came in alone, without any procession or ululations, carrying the heavy suitcase of my clothing, until Chandra rushed to take it from me. I looked around for the man who’d become my husband.

Badriya hugged me as she took my hand to lead me to the salon to see the groom. I wasn’t thinking about Faris, I was thinking about Saqr, about what he’d say had he seen me in a gauzy chiffon dress. My body felt hot. The women started their ululations, and Badriya joined them. Wadha averted her eyes and just walked at the end of the procession. At the door of the salon, Badriya pushed me inside. I didn’t look at Faris, and Saqr didn’t look at me. Congratulations. He said it while staring at the carpet.

Those are the details of my wedding day, with its suspicious calm and funerary silence. I climbed into the limousine next to Faris. Our hands accidentally brushed against each other and I pulled mine away, drawing it up inside my sleeve. He looked at me, baffled; I averted my eyes. To the Hilton, he said to the driver. He looked at me the whole way, at my painted fingernails hiding inside the sleeves of this disaster.

We entered the hotel suite. It was very beautiful. The couches wrapped around the corner of the room, beige with brown, red, and olive cushions. The bedspread was white cotton like a drifting cloud. There was a twenty-two-inch television and a shiny black kitchenette. The windows went on forever. I felt dizzy. I pulled all the curtains closed and turned to Faris, who was sitting on the edge of the double bed, examining me in great confusion and fighting to overcome his feelings of cowardice. He got control of himself and gave me a little smile. I saw in that smile that he was handsome. I should have smiled back.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“I made us dinner reservations.”

“I’m a little under the weather.”

“Oh?”

I hesitated, then said, “I have my period.”

His face reddened and he answered politely: “I hope you feel better. There’s no need to go out. We’ll eat in the suite.”

He lifted the phone to order dinner. I was in the bathroom, ponderingin great disbeliefthe size of the Jacuzzi, after seven years of showering standing up. I locked the bathroom door and sat on the cold marble edge. The mirror in front of me was smiling. You devil, Fatima! You like the Jacuzzi more than your husband outside. I laughed, sliding my hand across the white polished surface of this perfectly beautiful thing that I would soon sink into. I turned on the faucet. A waterfall of hot water rushed out and the room filled with steam and the scent of lavender. I emptied all the bottles of soap into the tub and made many bubbles. I soaked there for an hour. For an hour I played, for an hour I was the child I used to be.

When I came out of the bathroom, drying my hair with a towel, Faris was sitting on the couch in front of the television looking for a movie to watch. When he saw me and my ridiculous pajamas he forced a smile and looked at the ground. He’d gotten the message.

“Dinner is cold!” he scolded me gently, pointing at the dinner table with its covered metal trays. I sat on the chair opposite and ate some french fries. I looked at the lasagna, but didn’t dare eat it. The presence of this man who’d become my husband made me anxious. I barely ate, and he barely ate. Neither of us were happy with the other. Silence prevailed.

I thanked him and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I came out I found that he’d pushed the long couch closer to the television and spread some pillows out on it. Come here, next to me. We’ll watch a movie for a little while then we’ll sleep. As he spoke, he patted the spot next to him on the couch.

“I’m tired. I’ll go to bed,” I said as I buried myself under the comforter. I wrapped the comforter around me for more protection. I smothered my body, shuttered my pores, and disappeared far into myself, an earthworm.

“Are you cold?” Faris asked.

“There’s another blanket in the closet,” I said. “Good night.”

Silence.

“Good night,” came his response.