Chapter 7

To get to the coffeemaker, Margaret would have to step past the mother, who was firmly planted in the center of the kitchen. Margaret couldn’t trust herself not to sigh or roll her eyes. It was always about pretending—this time, pretending not to be bothered by the insult of a shared kitchen.

Margaret had missed an hour of sleep. It wasn’t due to something normal like a dog barking or a child with a fever. It was a phone call in the middle of the night, which began with the mother’s loud, “Allo? Allo?”

All middle-of-the-night calls originated from the Middle East, where the family seemed unaware of the ten-hour time difference between Seattle and the West Bank. As if the phone call weren’t bad enough, the mother had come looking for Ahmed and gotten him out of bed, too. Afterward, he immediately fell back to sleep, his soft snoring filling the room. But Margaret flipped back and forth under the covers, her exasperation keeping her awake.

Now she sat at the counter, hunched over her coffee and newspaper. When the mother spoke, Margaret pretended not to hear.

The front page displayed news about the war in Iraq. Margaret could only cope with skimming the headlines. The international page was no better, with its news of violence from the West Bank. A subhead caught her eye. Nine-year-old Palestinian boy shot by Israeli soldiers. The same age as Tariq. Relieved they didn’t live anywhere near there, Margaret imagined the victim: a boy with black hair, wearing his school backpack. She turned the page before she could discover any more details that would stay lodged in her mind.

The mother asked for something and pointed to a shelf. Margaret got off her stool, reached to the top of the cupboard, and handed a bag of dried meramia leaves to the mother, who was talking about Nadia. Margaret comprehended little and suspected that even if she and the mother shared the same language, they still wouldn’t understand each other. The mother put a large pinch of meramia into her pot of tea, and the kitchen filled with the smell of the dried herb. Why couldn’t the mother just stop talking?

Ahmed strolled into the kitchen, refreshed and content from sleeping in. “Sabah al-khair,” he said to his mother. Morning of goodness.

“Sabah al-noor,” she replied. Morning of light.

Margaret rolled her eyes to such flowery greetings. So overly elaborate! She looked at Ahmed. “Who the hell called last night?” she asked. The fact that the mother didn’t understand English had its benefits.

Ahmed smiled. “Good morning to you, too.”

“And what’s she saying about Nadia?” Margaret glanced at the mother, who was arranging a tray for herself—tea, zataar, olive oil, bread, and yogurt—a reproduction of her breakfast back home.

Ahmed poured himself a cup of coffee. “Nadia’s getting married.”

The last time Margaret had seen Nadia, she’d been wearing a blue-and-white school uniform. “Isn’t she still a kid?”

“She’s nineteen.” Ahmed sat down as his mother slipped out of the kitchen with her breakfast tray. “She’s completed her certificate in English translation.”

Margaret nodded. “Who’s she marrying?”

“Mohammed, the son of Aunt Anysa.”

Margaret closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. First cousins. If she hadn’t married Ahmed, would he have chosen a cousin? Margaret tried to blink away that image. “Isn’t Anysa’s son already married?” she asked.

“Separated, planning to divorce,” Ahmed said. “That’s why they called—to make sure my mother and I agreed.”

“You?”

“I am Nadia’s oldest brother.” Ahmed crossed his arms. “I think he’ll be a good husband. Besides, it’s what she wants.”

Margaret hoped he was right. Nadia’s choice of a husband would be the most critical decision of her life. Of Ahmed’s five sisters, only Yasmine had married outside the family, and she lived an impoverished life in a refugee camp in the West Bank.

Ahmed continued, “The engagement will be official next month.”

Margaret conjured an image of the engagement party ahead: Nadia in a frilly dress, posing for photos and showing off her new gold jewelry.

Ahmed took a sip of coffee. “We’re all going.”

“What?” Margaret set her cup down and stared at him.

“I told them already.”

“We never went to Yasmine’s engagement party.”

“Things are different. I have to be there because my father can’t. Allah yarhamhu.”

“But you didn’t ask me.”

“Honey, we need to go. Last time I was there, everyone wanted to see the kids. They haven’t even met Leena yet.”

Margaret brought her hand to her cheek. “This is going to be expensive. Five of us, plus your mother.”

“We’ll manage.”

“I think it’s a bad idea.”

“I’ve already decided.”

The new family patriarch had spoken. He had made up his mind in the middle of the night with his mother. Then Margaret remembered the summer vacation they had planned for the next month. She had negotiated with Ahmed through all of the details, and they had settled on renting a cottage for ten days on San Juan Island—not an easy feat for August. There was even space for the mother. “And our trip to the islands?”

Ahmed leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “We’ll do it later.”

Margaret stood up without saying anything.

He reached out to her. “She’s my sister.”

Margaret flinched and pulled away. She left the kitchen and went to her bedroom, closed the door, and sat in her armchair. In her head, she could hear the voices of her neighbors: I don’t know how you do it. You’re a saint.

Damn! She tried to grasp what bothered her most. Was it the cancelled trip to the islands? The fact that he hadn’t consulted her? How he did anything to please his family?

Then she remembered someone else’s words, those of Aisha from her Qur’an study group. “You’ll receive blessings for all you’ve done for your husband’s family.” Margaret wondered just when she’d be able to cash in on these blessings. Would she get double points for having the mother move in?

She was aware, of course, that it was wrong to feel this way, so bitter and resentful, wallowing in self-pity. She was aware, too, of their anniversary the next day—twenty years. Yes, twenty years and three children and three restaurants and seven trips to Jordan.

There was a tap at the door. Ahmed stood in the doorway and Margaret turned away. He sat on the bed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy going to Jordan.” He looked down and ran his hand along the bedspread. “I’ll make it up to you.”

More promises. What could she do? She didn’t want to ruin their anniversary. Twenty years celebrated by not speaking to each other. Or worse.

“I’ll go to Jordan—under one condition.” As if she had any leverage. “I want to stay in a hotel. Not at your sister’s.”

“Fine. We’ll stay in a hotel.”

Some of the pressure left Margaret’s chest. At least they wouldn’t sleep on floor mats at Fatma’s house. “I can’t believe Nadia’s getting engaged,” she said.

“I know.” He shook his head. “She wasn’t even born when we got married.”

The next day, Margaret packed her sexy nightgown in her suitcase and tried to push away the troubles with Ahmed from the day before. Check-in time at the hotel was two o’clock. Then, for twenty-four hours, there would be no meals to prepare, no housework, no children, no yard work, and, most important, no mother-in-law. It would be just the two of them, a normal couple. And when was the last time she had felt that way? With that, Margaret turned to her closet and to the soft waves of memory.

Fall of 1983, the annual Culture Fest on the UW campus. Margaret had gone to watch the folk dancers as part of her anthropology research on the rituals of dance in daily life. Between performances, she went to the ethnic food booths run by students selling specialties from their countries. She decided on Middle Eastern food and took in the cheerful young man taking her order: his black curly hair, strong arms, and white apron tied across his fit body. He smiled at her as he placed two perfectly formed falafels onto the bread. He added tomatoes, pickles, and sauce and presented the sandwich with a flourish. She paid him, and he took his time with the change, the two of them lingering over the transaction.

Later that afternoon, she went to the Middle Eastern dance performances, sat in the front row, and took notes. There was a voice behind her. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

She turned and saw him, no longer wearing his apron, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Behind him was row after row of empty chairs.

She gestured to the seat next to her. “Please.” She lifted her chin toward the stage. “Do you know anything about this folk dance?” Somehow she sensed that he would.

He looked at the dancers, four women of uncertain origin, twisting their bare midriffs and swirling their wrists. “This is not really a folk dance.”

Thus began their first conversation, an interview on Arab dance customs. Margaret was amazed that any man could know so much about women’s dancing. She pulled out her camera and took photos of the dancers, who, according to Ahmed, were performing a variation of Egyptian cabaret. When he wasn’t looking, she snapped a photo of him, too.

They met again over tea, for the purpose of Margaret’s research, as Ahmed explained the role of dabke dancing at Palestinian weddings. He was an international student, a Business Administration major, working his way through university. Margaret took careless notes and focused more on Ahmed’s hands as he spoke and on his eyes—holding her gaze until she blushed.

At the end of their meeting, he invited her to dinner at a Lebanese restaurant in the U District. He ordered a generous sampler of his favorite Arab foods—he wanted her to try them all. A few days later, he came to her apartment and cooked maqluba. She was transfixed by the sight of him in her kitchen, arranging the platter of rice, chicken, and fried cauliflower. As he moved about her tiny space, he had a familiar, carefree way about himself.

The two of them sat on the floor and ate together at the coffee table in Margaret’s living room, which was decorated with foreign film posters and Iranian tablecloths. She noticed the way he garnished the food, set the table, and arranged it all. She felt taken care of, and at that moment she found herself falling in love with him.

They saw each other twice a week, then daily. They met quickly on campus, stealing moments together before dashing off to class or their part-time jobs. On his days off, Ahmed would prepare complex Arab meals for Margaret and describe in great detail the restaurant he planned to open. He struck her as sincere and hard-working, spontaneous and fun. Her love for him grew steadily, and she said yes without hesitation when he proposed to her one evening over a candlelit meal of savory lamb kabobs and fragrant rice pilaf.

Margaret’s parents, impressed by Ahmed’s respectful manner and earnest work ethic, accepted him right away. A year after meeting each other, the pair exchanged vows at the Seattle mosque. A month later, under the July sun, Ahmed and Margaret were married in a small ceremony in her parents’ rhododendron-filled backyard on Whidbey Island. Their university friends attended, as well as Margaret’s two brothers, who flew in from the East Coast.

In order to meet Ahmed’s parents, however, Margaret needed to get a passport and they had to save up for airline tickets. When they eventually traveled to the West Bank six months later, she took pleasure in getting to know his family and seeing their simple way of life. His mother gave Margaret three gold bangles, which surprised and touched her.

But at the same time, she was secretly overwhelmed by Ahmed’s family, by their noise level and sheer numbers. Granted, they were warm and welcoming, but the small house overflowed with people and chaos. So many siblings! Five already, and a sixth on the way. Margaret remained patient throughout the monthlong visit, reminding herself that she and Ahmed would be back in Seattle soon, just the two of them.

Meanwhile, Ahmed showed her the most historic sites in his country: Bethlehem, Jericho, Yaffa, and Jerusalem. It was years before the political problems of the intifada, and they were able to travel around freely. The high point was Jerusalem. Walking together through the covered alleyways of the Old City, they held hands, and she fell in love with him all over again. Margaret believed that she would love him all her life.

Two decades later, the memories from those early years swept through Margaret as she packed the small suitcase for their anniversary getaway. She thought back to that younger version of herself, so optimistic and full of confidence. What began as tiny adjustments to accommodate Ahmed’s culture had expanded over the years into a life that her younger self could never have imagined—the endless family obligations, savings sent overseas, the long trail of visitors and houseguests, the mother moving in—the main requirements of which were tolerance and flexibility of an extreme variety.

Ahmed walked into the bedroom. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. “Honey, let’s get out of here.”

“Yalla, let’s go.” Margaret closed the suitcase and handed it to him. She checked herself in the mirror and smoothed her long red hair. They went to the living room and kissed their three children good-bye. She gave Leena a tight hug. Margaret nodded good-bye to the mother. “Ma’a salama.”

While Ahmed was offering a lengthy good-bye to his mother, Margaret gave final instructions to Jenin. “Sweetheart, let your grandmother do the cooking. Keep Tariq from chasing Leena. Don’t call unless there’s an emergency. Make sure Leena keeps her clothes on.” She blew a last kiss to Leena and followed Ahmed out the front door. He turned and looked back at her expectantly, then grabbed her hand and led her to their waiting car. She felt a rush of anticipation, yet one question continued to disturb her.

Could she ever have a normal life with Ahmed?