Chapter 17

Zainab sat in Fatma’s courtyard next to the jasmine vines. The low table in front of her held a pan of meat filling and a lopsided pile of dough. Next to her was Nadia, humming and smiling as the two of them worked together, Nadia rolling out balls of dough, and Zainab filling them. As she folded and pinched the dough, her thoughts floated to the events of the past week.

What a relief, alhamdulillah, she forgave her sister in the salon of the show-off villa in Jabal Amman. Zainab’s resentment had been visible to everyone. Ahmed had told her, “You must forgive her, Yama.” He said it in front of Anysa. Right in front of her! Then a strange thing had happened. As soon as Zainab mumbled the words, Anysa embraced her and Zainab’s heart filled with mercy. The rage had drained out of her body and she’d cried.

Zainab cried again a few days later at the engagement party, held on the roof of that villa. She had danced with Anysa, the two of them swaying, waving white handkerchiefs, and admiring their children as music boomed across the rooftop. Nadia sat next to Mohammed, each perched under the colorful tent canopy. Zainab could see the effort that had gone into her daughter’s hair and eye makeup, which was now smudged with tears across her childlike expression. It was then that Zainab’s own tears began to fall. Her daughter, her last child, would marry. Soon Zainab would be an old woman on her own. So much to cry over!

Meanwhile, Anysa had started crying, too. Surrounded by family members, the two women looked at each other. After all that had happened between them, they were still able to celebrate together over the joining of their children and over future grandchildren, inshallah.

Anysa gestured for Zainab to come closer. She leaned in. Anysa shouted over the music, “I hope Nadia’s grateful for this party!”

At this, Zainab’s face contorted. “And your son should be grateful for Nadia!” She pushed past her sister and made her way to the edge of the tent.

Anysa was immediately by her side. “Nadia’s lucky to get such a party!” Her face was so close, Zainab could smell her breath.

“It’s nice,” she yelled back, “but it could be better!”

Anysa threw her head back in disdain, put a hand on her hip, and waddled away. How dare she walk away like that!

This sequence of events from the engagement party now ran through Zainab’s mind as she furrowed her brow and wiped her hand on the dishtowel slung over her shoulder. Her mind was clogged with bitter thoughts, stuck with nowhere to go. She would allow herself three more sambusik pies to think about Anysa. Zainab moved her hands unconsciously: a spoonful of filling, fold, pinch, and place. The nerve of Anysa to keep bringing up this favor for Nadia. Oh, how Zainab wished their mother and Waleed had been there to keep Anysa in her place.

When the third sambusik was set in the pan, Zainab tucked away her last thought of her sister. There were other matters that needed her attention. Fatma’s cooking, for example. When Zainab had insisted on sambusik for the day’s meal, Fatma said, “Yama, it’s too much work.”

Zainab had tried to explain that cooking was a time to slow down and think about life. Now, as she pinched closed another pastry, she glanced at Nadia. Here was another problem, a girl who had to be pulled by force from her cross-stitch embroidery to help with the cooking.

Nadia smiled wistfully and caressed the dough. “I wonder what he’s doing right now.”

“Who?”

“Mohammed, silly!”

“You need to focus. I’d like to get this finished before dhuhr prayer.”

Nadia touched the charm on her necklace. “I wonder if he’s at his uncle’s.” Her hands became still; a distracted look moved across her face.

Was she blushing? Zainab studied Nadia, staring skyward, clearly oblivious to everything but her own daydream.

Ya Allah. These love matches were always doomed. Too many expectations. It never lasted. There was nowhere for the marriage to go except down. Sometimes these couples didn’t even make it to the wedding. One misunderstanding and the whole engagement was off.

Zainab took the dishtowel from her shoulder and flicked it at Nadia. “Get back to work.”

Nadia jumped in her seat and laughed.

“Don’t fret about Mohammed. You’ll see him tomorrow.”

Zainab caught the scent of the jasmine, and for a moment she was sitting by Abed’s side in front of the sheikh of their village; she was a young bride sitting with her groom. As Zainab’s dim memories stirred, the images grew sharper. She was barely a woman, and they were performing the katb el-kitab, the marriage contract to make their engagement official. Abed was near her, but the space between them was wide. Yes, they had seen each other many times. They were cousins after all. But Zainab had lowered her gaze around him, covered her hair, and behaved modestly, just as her parents had instructed. As she recited a surah after the sheikh, she had few expectations of the man she was about to marry, only a fear of the wedding night. Therefore, she wasn’t disappointed when they were awkward strangers together—an unease that continued for years. It was only when the last of their children started school that Zainab truly enjoyed her husband’s company and took pleasure in his touch. It was then they became companions.

Zainab raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She cradled a sambusik in her hand. That last decade with Abed had been the happiest time in her marriage.

Then he died. Allah yarhamhu. Her chest tightened and she dabbed her eyes with the ends of her headscarf.

“Yama?”

Zainab coughed. “What, my love?”

“Are you all right?”

Zainab glanced at the nearly-noon sun. “It’s almost dhuhr prayer.”

There was hope for Nadia, though. Zainab still had time to make an impression on her. But only if Nadia’s visa came through. Zainab might never have pursued the visa if she had understood the work involved: photographs, documents, letters to write. That was nearly all behind them now, as Nadia’s appointment at the American embassy was the following day.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Zainab took another ball of dough, her swollen hands brushing against her daughter’s graceful fingers.

“Mohammed’s writing a letter, and I’m putting together my own file.”

“Really?” A file of what, Zainab could not imagine. It was Ahmed who had made all the arrangements, completed the application, written a letter of support, and paid the fee. But under one condition: no one was to mention it to Margaret. Zainab had agreed to the condition, but she found it pretty foolish.

Ahmed had insisted. “I’ll tell her if the visa goes through.”

If the visa goes through. Why did her son have no faith? Her sister Anysa didn’t have faith, either. She told Zainab to save the money. No one was getting visas to the US these days.

Zainab had faith. At each prayer, she made a special du’a for Nadia’s visa. If it were God’s will, Nadia would pass the months of her engagement in America at her mother’s side learning the necessary skills to be a wife.

After pinching the final sambusik, Zainab eased herself up from the ground and went into the house to make wudu. After she finished at the sink, she sat at the tub to wash her feet.

Nadia entered and turned on the faucet. “Any news from Alison?”

Zainab washed between her toes. “She’s at Huda’s but will visit Yasmine, inshallah.”

Nadia splashed water on her face. “I can’t imagine her there. In the refugee camp.”

Zainab tried to picture Alison in Huda’s salon or in Waleed’s courtyard next to the lemon tree, but her mind drew a blank. It was all so unexpected, Alison’s trip to the West Bank, traveling by herself to meet Khalid’s sisters. Still, truth be told, Alison was a foreigner, barely Arab, and not a Muslim. Here was an area where it was hard to have faith.

Zainab reached for a towel, dried her feet, and reflected on her surprise when Khalid had told her Alison would accompany her back to America. He said that Alison would never allow her mother-in-law to travel alone.

Zainab passed the towel to Nadia. “May God keep her safe.”

In the bedroom, Nadia spread out the prayer carpets, and they began their silent prayer. As Zainab knelt, her mind wandered back to Anysa, but she stopped herself. She would not get swept up with spiteful thoughts. It would be a shame to spend her du’a asking for forgiveness.

Zainab tried to refocus, but Surah Al-Kafirun became muddled in her mind. She had recited this surah about the disbelievers thousands of times. Yet now she mixed it up and forgot whole ayat, as her mind flitted between Alison, Nadia, and Anysa. Out of the corner of her eye, Zainab saw that Nadia had already left the room.

Palms held open, Zainab prayed hard for Ahmed to pass his job interview. How peculiar. Years ago, Zainab had made du’a for Ahmed to go to America. Now she made du’a for him to leave. In her mind’s eye, she held a picture of him living in the Gulf. He had a large villa where Zainab lived, too.

She snapped herself out of her reverie and squeezed her eyes shut in intense concentration. This time she prayed for Margaret to agree.