Dreaming in English (14 page)

“Mmmm,” I say back in dreamy pleasure and stretch my arm to put around him.

He’s breathing very strangely. I open my eyes to see if he is okay, and instead of Ike beside me, it’s Old Sport lying in the middle of the bed—right next to me! I can’t help it—I scream. Old Sport watches me, giving me a look like,
What’s the problem?
Ike’s at the bedroom door within seconds, wearing faded jeans and a pale green T-shirt, the sleeves of which end at the halfway point of his biceps. He’s got his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, and he looks immensely handsome, perfectly American. And he’s laughing as hard as I’ve ever seen him.

“Ike! It’s not funny! I’m naked here!”

This just makes him laugh harder. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t think you’re his type.”

I pull the covers as tight as I can, although Old Sport’s big dog body makes this challenging. “Please make him go away.”

Ike sends Old Sport outside and then sits on the edge of the bed and smoothes my hair. “Poor baby. I’m sorry.”

“You’re still laughing,” I point out.

“I know, but . . . I went to get us bagels and when I got back, he was in the bed. I just couldn’t resist letting him stay.”

I knee him in the back. “Next time, resist.”

“I will.” He kisses my forehead, then asks, “Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”

I move to knee him in the back again, but he scoots up from the bed. “Kidding, kidding! Hey, I’ve got bagels and tea for you outside. It’s a beautiful morning.”

It’s also just six thirty. “Do you always get up so early?”

“The world belongs to the early risers.” Ike tells me that before he got the bagels, he ran five miles. “What are
you
going to do today?”

“A delicious amount of nothing,” I say. “Except I do have English class. It’s the first day of our new session. If that’s . . . is it okay for me to do this?”

“To do what?” Ike says, leaning against the doorway. “Take your English class?”

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I can’t do much else yet—get a permanent job, or take university classes—until my immigration paperwork comes through, and so I might as well keep working on my English, right?” Even though my language skills have gotten much better in the three months since I first arrived, I’m still tripped up by words every day—many times each day, actually. It’s constantly tricky as a foreigner, because no matter how much you’ve studied English before arriving, people change the most common words into something unrecognizable. Truly, it’s the casual words and phrases—simple things such as how people say
Hiya
and
Buh-bye
and
Seeya
—that most confuse me.

Ike frowns at me a little. “You don’t need to ask my permission,” he says. “Do whatever you want. Do what makes you happy.”

“Well . . . they
are
all my friends.”

“You don’t need to justify anything,” he says. “If you enjoy it, do it.”

“You’re sure?” I say. “I mean, I should still have plenty of time to cook dinner, and clean, and—”

“Oh, God, don’t.” He comes back to sit on the edge of the bed. “Don’t become this wifey-wife. Okay? That’s not what I want from you. I’d hate it, in fact. Your priorities shouldn’t be cooking and cleaning—those should be last on your list.”

That’s not what Maryam would say. She’d say a wife should cook for her husband and take care of his needs. “Yes, but someone has to—”

Ike shakes his head. “This place is tiny, which is a real advantage, actually. There’ll be very little cleaning to do. We can bust through it in an hour once a week, tops. And as far as cooking—well, this kitchen doesn’t lend itself to cooking. It lends itself to eating out, which is fine with me. Or grilling, which I love to do. We should buy ourselves a—Oh, wait! Hold on. I got something for you, but I left it in the truck. Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

While he gets up and goes outside, I quickly throw on jeans and a camisole. Because Ike likes my hair up, I put it in a ponytail. I wonder what he’s got for me. A wedding ring?

I can’t wait in the bedroom—I’m too excited—so I go out onto the patio where his coffee and my tea and our bagels are waiting for us, and inhale the desert-fresh air. It’s chilly and warm at the same time on this early April morning, and standing here barefoot on the patio, waiting for my husband, seeing my table set for two, I can’t help but marvel,
This is my life. My beautiful, beautiful life—a life that almost never was
. I can’t believe I almost lost this—that this exact morning, this precise moment, almost never happened.

My heart soars as Ike comes around the corner, and his smile is equally ebullient.
We did this! We made this happen!
He comes up to me, grips my shoulders, kisses my forehead, and says, “Okay. It’s in my back pocket.”

It could be a wedding ring. A wedding ring would fit in his back pocket, even if it’s in a box.

“So . . . I should . . . ?”

He grins. “Reach into my pocket and get it, yes.”

“Kiss me first.” After he does, I add, “I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too, Tami. Now reach into my pocket and get your gift.”

My heart is skipping beats from the excitement as I reach around him and pat his back pockets, first one and then the other. There’s nothing in either, except for . . .

It’s not a ring.

“A cell phone?” I pull it out. Yes, it’s definitely a cell phone. Okay. A cell phone, not a ring. I’ll admit it: I’d rather have a ring.

“I bumped up my service to the family plan.” Ike looks pleased with himself. “Because you’re my family now.”

Okay, this is seriously sweet.

I already have a phone my sister gave me, with prepaid minutes, but this one is special, because this one is from Ike. I press it to my heart. “Thank you, Ike! This is so great! Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“You like it?” he asks.

“I do, yes! Very much! And a family plan—that’s perfect!”

“We’ve got unlimited text and minutes between us,” he says. Again very proudly.

“You’re very practical!”

When I say this, Ike shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I can tell he’s secretly pleased that I’ve noticed his practical side. And how cute is that?

We enjoy our breakfast on the patio, and then, all too soon, it’s time for Ike to go to work. He changes into his Starbucks khakis and white shirt, and I walk him to his scooter. By scooter, Starbucks is maybe five minutes away, and I love that he’s so near. I kiss him good-bye and walk to the end of the driveway and wave until he’s out of sight, feeling very wifely as I do. And then I send him a text message with my new cell phone:
I miss you already.

After this, I go inside and shower, forgetting about the message I sent until I’m done showering and dressing in the bedroom. I decide today is a sundress kind of day, not a jeans-and-cami day, as I’d worn at breakfast. This way, the next time Ike sees me, I’ll look fresh and new to him. When the phone vibrates on the dresser, I jolt and then grab for it.
Miss U 2
, Ike has messaged back.
C U later?

It’s bad enough figuring out the English words for everything. Now I’ve got to add this shorthand text-message code?

Yes!
I text back.
On my way to class.

Sorry I banged your head yesterday
, he texts back. I smile, remembering how he carried me over the threshold with that silly sombrero on my head.

I text back,
You can bang me anytime.

His reply is quick.
LOL. Looking forward to it.

I puzzle over that acronym,
LOL
, until I realize it must mean Lots of Love. How sweet! I send one last message back:
LOL here, too.

It’s my first full day as a married woman living with her husband, and my goal is simply to embrace it. My sundress is yellow and bare-shouldered, and I wear my hair down so it covers most, but not all, of my shoulders. I think this might be sort of sexy—subtly sexy. My toenails are a pretty pink with bling sparkles on them, and I have found for myself a comfortable pair of high-heeled flip-flops, which will be fine for walking to English class. I’ll stop to see Ike on my way, and I’ll give him a public display of affection. I’ll apply for a library card today, too, now that I have a permanent address, and I might even go with Eva for a margarita this afternoon,
just because I can.
It’ll be an easy, perfect, ordinary day. A day to catch my breath. A day that tells the world: This is how free people live.

I tidy up the bedroom, and when I emerge, I nearly scream for the second time that day when I find Ike’s mother standing at the open half door. How long has she been there? Dealing with her—especially alone!—is
not
in my plans for an easy, perfect day.

“Oh, hi!” I rush to unlock the door and let her in. “I hope you haven’t been there long. I’m sorry, if you called, I didn’t hear you.”

She wears a blue linen dress that makes her eyes shine. Her hair is styled, and she wears lipstick and eye shadow. The only other time I saw her, she had an end-of-day look about her, but this morning she is fresh and sparkling.

“You were singing.” She smiles. Smiles, at me! “Is that a hobby of yours?”

“Oh, no. I just . . . sing when I’m happy.”

And when I think I’m alone!
I wonder if she will be the sort of mother-in-law who drops by unannounced all the time. I hope not!

And yet, it’s encouraging that she’s here.

“What a beautiful dress,” she says. “I can certainly see why my son finds you attractive.” She holds up a tin bread pan. “I heard your sister has a craving for bananas, so I thought she might enjoy some banana bread. How exciting that she’s pregnant—please offer her my congratulations.”

I’m absolutely
tingling
. She, my mother-in-law who definitely decided the other day to dislike me, made banana bread for my sister! If she wants to pretend the other day never happened, I’m very happy to go along with that.

“Thank you! That’s so nice!” I take the bread from her. It’s still warm and smells wonderful. “I know my sister would like to invite your family over for dinner soon.”

Mrs. Hanson maintains her smile as she looks around. “Ike’s at work?”

“Yes. Yes, he’s at work until three. Would you . . . like some tea, or coffee? Please, have a seat!” I gesture to the kitchen table. “I’m sorry my hair’s wet and, oh! I’m barefoot!” I slip on my fancy flip-flops, which are by the door. “I—” I stop myself from saying
I didn’t know I’d have a guest
, and instead ask, “How are you? How is your family?”

“We’re fine,” Mrs. Hanson says. “And coffee would be lovely.”

Only then do I realize that not only do I not have coffee, I don’t even have a coffeemaker. This is
not
good daughter-in-law behavior. “Oh! Um. Well. I’m very sorry, but I haven’t quite gone shopping yet. Would you”—I glance through my window to Rose’s house, but there’s no movement there—“like a glass of water, maybe?”

“No, thank you. I didn’t expect you’d have anything to offer.” Mrs. Hanson’s tone flattens. “Could we just talk? Outside, maybe?”

Still carrying the banana bread, I follow her to the patio table and sit across from her and smile, smile, smile. I’m worried by the change in her tone and how she said she didn’t expect me to have anything to offer. It sounded ominous, and to make matters worse, Old Sport, who ever since the incident of lying next to me in bed this morning has kept out of my way, claiming a spot in the backyard in the shade of a lemon tree, lopes over and settles at Mrs. Hanson’s feet, telling me with his eyes that he’s chosen sides and the side he’s chosen is hers. Traitor!

Mrs. Hanson looks at me with obvious discomfort. “Oh, boy,” she says eventually. “You’re quite lovely. This is going to be difficult.”

Don’t
, I think.
Please don’t make things difficult.

She carries a tote bag for a purse and reaches into it, pulling out a small bottle of Arrowhead water. She really
didn’t
expect me to have anything to offer! But then again, I remind myself, many people in Tucson carry around bottled water wherever they go.

“It’s going to be a hot one.” She unscrews the cap and takes a drink. “Does it get hot in Iran? It should—it’s the desert, right?”

“It gets very hot there, yes.” I neglect to tell her, as I do my friends who ask the question, that the Tucson heat is far preferable to Tehran’s, if only because of the lack of dress requirements here. Women in Tucson can barely bring themselves to wear short sleeves—yet even in Iran’s summer, we have to wear not only a headscarf and regular clothes but also a manteau, a raincoat sort of covering that the government has decided on our behalf will help us preserve our modesty.

She holds out the bottle of Arrowhead. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Your English,” she says. “It’s really very good.”

“Thank you. I’m taking classes which are very helpful.”

“And you’re so polite, too!”

In my country, this is all part of
tarof
, this politeness on both our parts. However, I know from being in America that this sort of back-and-forth complimenting is not required—which makes me wonder why she’s doing it. And yet, I’ll continue on as long as she does. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home the other night. I very much enjoyed your lasagna, and your family is very nice.”

“Yes,” she says. “Well. We’re all of us very upset about what’s going on here.”

My smile freezes. My whole body freezes, actually, despite the ninety-degree heat. “I’m sorry to upset you,” I say. Ike may not mind having his family upset with him, but I do. In Iran, one of the most important jobs of a wife is to take care of her in-laws and try to make them happy, even if it’s an impossible task—which it very often is.