Chapter 25

Alison drove out of the Pine View complex, headed to her baby shower. It was a week into the new year, and next to her was her mother, who had flown in from Chicago just to attend the shower. Poised on her knees was a wrapped gift with an oversized ribbon. Later in the spring, both of Alison’s parents would fly out after the baby was born and when they both had time off from work.

The baby pressed against Alison’s bladder. In the past month, her ankles had swollen, her nipples darkened, her belly button protruded, and her face had grown puffy. She overate and had stopped exercising. Strangest of all, she didn’t care.

As they neared the party, Alison’s mind filled with worries. How would her mother behave? Would she finally see something good in Khalid’s family? Alison hoped the shower wouldn’t be like the childbirth classes—something she had looked forward to but turned out to be awful. After dragging Khalid to the first class, it was Alison who grew to dread it. She despised the moments in the dimmed room when the two of them had to lie on the floor alongside other couples practicing relaxation techniques. Somehow the exercises made her mind race, and her heart, too. Alison simply could not relax.

Her mother looked out the car window, commenting on how many homes still had their Christmas lights up. The two of them hadn’t shared any meaningful conversation since her mother’s arrival. Naturally her mother had asked about Christmas. But what was there to say? A tabletop Christmas tree, a few gifts from her parents. Her mother also posed a few questions about Alison’s pregnancy but didn’t probe further. Had her mother always been like this? So detached? Couldn’t she see something was wrong?

Alison had been waiting for her mother to get there, hoping finally for some understanding, some empathy. Since their telephone conversation during Ramadan, Alison had avoided the topic of her marriage. Now she longed to delve into what was bothering her.

Alison began, “Married life is sort of interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

How could she explain? Sometimes she felt connected to Khalid, like when she grabbed his hand and put it on her belly to feel the baby kick. Yet other times their differences cast a shadow, like when he maintained that violence could serve the Palestinian cause, or said he hoped his mother would move in with them, or insisted his future daughter would never date. When he spoke like that, she stared at him, a sudden stranger.

“I’ve been trying to sort out Khalid from his culture,” Alison said. “Some of it’s from his religion, some from his family. Some of it’s just Khalid.”

“Some of what?”

Alison glanced at her mother. “His attitudes, his behavior.”

“What behavior?”

“How he wants me to dress more modestly.” Alison kept her eyes straight ahead. “How he doesn’t want me socializing with his friends. How—”

“Sweetheart,” her mother said, “this is what you signed up for.”

Alison ignored her mother’s words and turned into Margaret’s cul-de-sac. Pastel-colored balloons hung on Margaret’s front door. Several cars were already there. Alison parked and turned off the engine.

Alison touched her mother’s sleeve. “Mom, I need to tell you something.” She looked down at her giant belly. “It’s about my due date.”

“January 12th—right?

“Yes, right. Well … Khalid’s mom and sister think it’s the end of February.”

“Why would you lie about something like this?”

Alison pinched the bridge of her nose. “It was Khalid’s idea. Because I got pregnant before we married.”

Her mother fluffed the ribbon on the gift. “Not a great reason to marry, if you ask me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alison glimpsed Margaret in the front window. “That’s not why we got married, Mom. I found out after.”

“I see. So, what’s the point of the lie?”

“Khalid’s mother. She’s a bit religious. Khalid thinks she’ll freak out if she knows.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “Are the women going to be wearing that garb on their head today?” “I don’t know, Mom.” Alison remembered that Margaret had invited Aisha and Lateefa from the Qur’an study group. “Probably some will.” Alison hadn’t bothered inviting her college friends. After graduation, most everyone scattered off to different cities. Besides, how could she invite friends whom she had practically ignored for the past year?

Her mother got out and smoothed the front of her skirt. They approached the front door, and Margaret welcomed them up to the living room. Khalid’s mother and sisters were already there, as well as Margaret’s friend Liz.

As they entered the room, Alison’s mother mumbled, “Salaam alaikum.”

Alison went straight to Khalid’s mother and greeted her warmly—an attempt to show her own mother, See? They’re not so bad.

After handshakes, the women sat in a circle.

Liz asked, “How are you feeling?”

Alison explained that her fingers were so swollen she had to remove her wedding ring.

Liz looked at her belly. “It won’t be long now.”

It was true. Alison was huge, larger than she had ever imagined she would be.

Margaret whispered to Alison, “About the due date, I wouldn’t worry. The baby will come when she comes.”

There was a knock at the door, and Margaret jumped up. Alison recognized the voices, Aisha’s murmur of Islamic greetings and that contrived accent of Lateefa’s. They reached the living room and made a beeline for Alison.

Aisha embraced her. “As-salaamu alaikum. You’re looking well, masha’Allah.” She wore a black abaya, her head wrapped in a matching shayla; meanwhile, Lateefa was swathed in glittering fabric.

“Sorry we’re late,” Lateefa said. “I had to wait for my husband to pick up the boys.” She gave a sly smile, lowered her voice, and said, “Soon to be ex-husband.”

As Aisha and Lateefa added gifts to the pile on the fireplace hearth, Alison’s mother stared openly at the two women. It was hard not to. They were a study in opposites: flamboyant Lateefa, and Aisha, severe in black.

Alison’s mother asked them, “How do you know Alison?”

Alison held her breath as Aisha spoke. “Our Qur’an study group. Masha’Allah, Alison comes regularly.”

Alison’s mother arched an eyebrow and said nothing.

Margaret invited everyone to help themselves to the food. As the women moved toward the table, Alison whispered to her mother, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to convert.”

“Then why are you going?”

“Research.”

Her mother shot her a look. Apparently this was not acceptable, either. Alison approached the buffet: a spread of finger sandwiches, savory Arab pastries, and in the center, a frosted almond layer cake from Ahmed’s restaurant. The cake read BEST WISHES ALISON.

The women ate and chatted politely. Alison steered the conversation away from religion and described her and Khalid’s preparations for the baby.

Lateefa complained bitterly that her husband had never helped when her boys were babies. She said to Alison, “You should be happy if your husband helps at all.”

Alison nodded but kept it to herself that she and Khalid spent most of their free time arguing, a new theme each week. Their current disagreement was about whether or not Khalid’s mother would babysit. Khalid stipulated that it was the only way for Alison to return to work. After all, his mother had raised seven babies. Alison argued that his mother couldn’t read directions or use the telephone.

Margaret stood. “Instead of games, we’re doing something different.” She picked up a small brown tube. “Henna!”

This part of the shower had slipped Alison’s mind. Margaret handed the henna tube to Nadia and said, “Nadia can do your hand, your shoulder, your ankle … whatever you want.”

Alison could sense her mother next to her shifting in her chair.

Liz pointed at Alison. “You should do your bump.” “I think I’ll do my hand.”

“Oh no, you have to do your belly,” Liz said with mock seriousness. “It’s a requirement.”

Khalid’s mother volunteered to be first. She sat next to Nadia, who squeezed the tube, and just like decorating a cake, she drew a swirly Arab motif on the top of her mother’s hand.

Alison whispered to her mother, “You must have done henna before?”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh come on, Mom.”

“It’s not my sort of thing.”

“Even Khalid’s mother did it,” Alison said, but her mother shook her head.

Alison was last. She pointed to her hand, but the room broke into a chorus of chanting: “Bel-ly! Bel-ly!”

She wasn’t sure why she gave in, perhaps to make up for her mother’s refusal to participate. Alison sat and slid her maternity top up, revealing her protruding abdomen.

Nadia knelt in front of Alison’s belly. She held up the tube and Alison closed her eyes. There was a cold sensation, and she threw her head back and laughed. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother sitting rod-straight, her purse in her lap.

Margaret patted Alison’s shoulder. “It’s good to have fun now. Your life’s going to change soon.”

When Nadia finished, Margaret brought out a hand mirror so Alison could properly see the henna swirls radiating off her belly button. Her mother glanced at it and looked away. By then, the other women’s henna had dried and was flaking off.

Without warning, Khalid’s mother began to clap and sing a traditional chant.

Alison’s mother whispered, “What’s the song about? The baby?”

Alison paused to listen. “Yes, she’s wishing us well. I’m sure you can understand some of the words.”

Her mother leaned in. “Their accent is different from ours. It’s a village dialect.”

By then, everyone was clapping. A drum appeared, and Mona put it under her arm and beat it rhythmically. The others joined in with trills.

Alison’s mother said, “I never knew a bunch of Muslim women could be so loud.”

Alison looked at her. There are a lot of things you don’t know.

Margaret pushed back the coffee table. Nadia was up first, her arms raised, flicking her hips. Lateefa was next, dancing as well as any Arab woman. Even Khalid’s mother danced to the drumming, and finally, Margaret and Liz, who danced in their own almost-Arab way.

After several rounds of this, they sat, and Alison opened her gifts: minuscule onesies, sleepers and sweaters, and from her mother—little dresses, ridiculously frilly. Alison looked at each piece and tried to picture a baby inside. She couldn’t. She simply could not see a baby, nor see herself as a mother.

There were bigger gifts, as well: a swing from Mona, a car seat from Margaret, and a gift certificate from her parents. When the living room was littered with ribbon and paper, Margaret presented one more gift, a large white baby album. Alison turned the pages. Baby’s Bath. Watch Me Grow. Baby’s First Steps. It all seemed so impossibly unreal.

At last, the shower ended. As they were driving away, Alison’s mother said, “Such a sensuous dance for such modest women.”

“It’s a complicated culture, Mom.” Alison turned out of the cul-de-sac. “That’s why Khalid’s so aggravating.” She laughed, but her mother did not.

“With this baby,” her mother said, “it might get worse.” She turned to Alison. “If things get unbearable, you can always come home.”

Her mother’s words calmed her at first. She could always go home. A vision formed: Alison and her baby, together on an airplane, then back at her parent’s home in Chicago. She could start a new life, maybe apply to graduate school out there. Another image: a crib and changing table crammed into Alison’s childhood bedroom—and she, a single mother, living like a child back at home. Then came the flush of anger. “Mom, would you stop!”

“I want you to know you can always come home.”

“You think you’re being helpful, but you’re not.” Alison gripped the steering wheel and drove home in silence.

The next day, Alison’s mother departed. That week, Alison went into labor.

Khalid paced the living room. “Are you sure?”

“The contractions are regular, babe, just like they said.”

“It’s too soon.”

“The midwife said it could be any time now.” Another contraction arrived, and Alison closed her eyes and performed her breathing exercises.

Khalid scratched his head. “First babies don’t come early.”

She waited for the contraction to pass. “Why don’t you time it?” She slid the notepad and pencil across the coffee table. He timed the contractions, six minutes apart, then five.

“They’re getting stronger,” Alison said.

He continued to pace. She could see he was mulling over the situation, perhaps figuring out how to explain it to his family. She bit her lip and wished her mom were still there.

Finally, she said, “Get my bag.” She gestured to her small suitcase, ready and waiting.

Outside, Alison clutched Khalid’s arm. He opened the car door and helped her in. As they drove to the hospital, he periodically patted her knee. From his cell phone, he called his mother. Alison concentrated on her contractions, marveling at how rock hard her belly became.

At the hospital, Alison was admitted and led to a room. So far, everything was going according to her plan: no complications, a natural birth, and the baby to be delivered by midwife. As Alison’s contractions intensified, she focused on the face of the midwife while Khalid faded into the beige walls. The midwife asked Alison if she wanted to sit in the bathtub. Alison agreed, and the midwife led her to the adjoined bathroom and helped her in. As Alison slipped into the water, she glimpsed the henna design on her belly.

The midwife knelt close to Alison and guided her breathing. Between contractions, Alison maintained her zone of focus. She handled each wave of pain and readied herself for the next one. At once, she was seized by a sensation of power. Her body was preparing for childbirth and she was coping, just as she had laid out in her birth plan. With discipline and planning, she could do anything. She could even raise this baby by herself if she had to.

Alison turned to the midwife. “I’m ready to push.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Alison said, and they waited through one more contraction. The midwife helped her out of the tub, dried her off, and guided her back to the bed. Khalid was in the room, pacing and chatting breezily in Arabic on his cell phone. Before Alison could arrange herself on the bed, another contraction came. This time, her attention was elsewhere, and the contraction hit her like an ax cleaving through the center of her body. She screamed and thrashed about. The midwife tried to calm her. When the contraction finished, she checked Alison’s cervix.

“Oh my. You’re ten centimeters. You’re ready.”

I told you so. The words would not come.

Khalid came to Alison’s side and patted her absentmindedly, his phone still at his ear. “It’s okay,” he said.

Shut up and get off the phone. Again, the words floated in Alison’s head.

She was aware of a flurry of activity in the room. At the next contraction, she winced, and the midwife told her to push. Alison tried to follow the directions, but her pushing had none of the precision of her earlier breathing. Her screams were loud and guttural. Each push brought no satisfaction, but rather a sense that her insides were ripping apart.

This went on until the midwife announced that the baby’s head was crowning. A renewed surge of strength came over Alison, and finally the baby slid out of her body. Alison opened her eyes. Sunlight filled the room. Was it morning already?

Alison was conscious of only one thing: across the room was her baby, pink and screaming, her arms trembling.

Then the midwife brought her to Alison. “Here’s your daughter.”

Alison sat up, took the bare infant and held her against her breasts. She drew the baby’s face into focus, acquainting herself with the delicate features, so tiny, so striking. The baby was unmistakably Khalid’s, the same eyes, chin, and lips. But her coloring was all Alison, shockingly fair with a fuzz of blond hair.

The baby stared back at Alison. They locked eyes until the midwife said, “See if she’ll latch on.” Alison performed the breast-feeding technique she had learned. The baby gradually began to suckle.

“Excellent,” the midwife said.

As the baby nursed, Alison studied her newborn fingers, her nose, the shape of her head. She whispered, “You’re the one who’s been inside me.”

“Have you decided on a name?” the midwife asked.

“Eman,” Khalid said from behind Alison’s shoulder. The name, which meant faith, was the only Arabic name they could agree on from the dozens—hundreds?—of Islamic names they had considered.

“Can I hold her?” Khalid asked.

Alison stroked the baby’s head. “She’s nursing. Can’t you see?”

He leaned in closely. “She looks like my mother.”

Annoyed, Alison pulled away. When the baby stopped nursing, he insisted on holding her. The midwife took the baby, bundled her in a receiving blanket, and handed her to Khalid. He looked at her tenderly. Then he raised her head to his and began reciting Arabic in her ear.

He said, “The first words she hears should be the call to prayer.” He shifted the baby to his other arm.

Alison called out, “Be careful!”

“What? She’s my daughter.”

Later, when Baby Eman was bathed, dressed, and swaddled, Khalid held her in his arms and studied her face. Each time he shifted the baby in his arms, Alison’s heart beat faster.

The nurse came in and told Alison it was time for her to take a shower. Alison preferred to keep an eye on Khalid and the baby. “Later,” she said.

“Your family’s in the waiting room. I think you’ll want to clean up now.”

Alison closed her eyes. Khalid’s family. She yearned to have her Teytey Miriam there to comfort and reassure her. As this was not possible, her focus shifted to her mother, the only other person Alison wanted to see. She allowed the nurse to help her off the bed. Before going into the bathroom, she turned to Khalid. “Put her back in the bassinet.” She waited until he did so.

Baby Eman was only six pounds, smaller than average, so Alison planned on a disciplined routine of breastfeeding. But what preoccupied her most was how vulnerable the baby was. Anyone could hold her improperly or drop her. It was utter torture sitting in the hospital bed watching Khalid’s relatives pass Eman from one to another. Mona brought her four boys to the hospital and allowed them each to hold the baby, which was agonizing for Alison, who imagined Eman slipping from their arms and onto the tile floor.

The only one who didn’t hold the baby was Margaret. Instead, she gave Alison encouraging words: “You’re doing a great job nursing” and “I heard you were awesome during labor.” Alison wondered why she had been so critical of Margaret before.

By the time the family had left, it was evening. Only Khalid’s mother remained, cuddling the baby as if she belonged to her. Alison told Khalid enough was enough; the baby needed to go back in her bassinet. But Khalid shook his head. Eventually Alison convinced him that it was time for another feeding. With the baby back in her arms, she felt a rush of relief. Then Khalid’s mother asked to be taken home, and the show was over.

Alone with her baby at last, Alison brought her in close and felt her first moment of peace. The baby latched on—a prickly tingle followed by a pleasing flow. Eman clenched a tiny fist next to her cheek as she nursed.