Dreaming in English (21 page)

“Wow.” Disgust spreads across his face, and he presses back in his patio chair as if I have an ugly smell he’s trying to escape. “I don’t know what to say, Tami. What do you want me to say, after you’ve made this oh-so-generous offer? Am I supposed to thank you? Do you want me to be happy, grateful, that you’re basically
abdicating
your position as my wife?” He laughs in a this-is-not-funny-at-all way. “God. What the hell? Jesus! You probably don’t even know what
abdicating
means! I’m dealing with someone here who—”

“I want the best for you, Ike.”

His eyes drill his anger into me. “And you don’t think that’s you?”

“I know you loved Jenna. You still do, Ike.”

He shakes his head no, but I think he’s fooling himself, or maybe it’s that he’s just too decent to admit it. He does still care about her. This isn’t intuition or the worries of a jealous wife. It’s an obvious fact—the way he looked at her yesterday was filled with not only the same sort of love he shows for me, but also nostalgia, and yearning, too. Eva saw it, I saw it, and I’m sure Josh did, too. Plus, Ike was far away from me last night, all night. His body was with me, but his imagination was filled with her.

“It doesn’t make you a bad person for feeling this way,” I assure him. “Remember how you told me what your mother said to you when Jenna left? How she was a bird you had to set free, and if she came back to you, your love was meant to be?”

“That’s just a stupid cliché, Tami.”

“Maybe she’s your destiny, Ike. Who am I to get in the way of your destiny?”

“Maybe
you’re
my destiny. Did that ever occur to you?” His eyes are . . . what’s the word? Insulted. “She’s not my destiny. We choose our destiny.”

Yes, well, that’s such an American thing for my American Boy to say.

“The timing’s just a little bit tricky, isn’t it?” I say.

“You’re starting to seriously piss me off.” He glares at me. “I value plainspokenness, Tami. You should know that by now.”

“Will you help me get my residency?” I say. “No matter what? If you want to be with her, I mean? Could you at least promise me that?”

“God damn it,” he says.

“I know. I’m really very sorry.”

“You
don’t
know.” The edge in his voice is pickax sharp. “If you don’t want Jenna around, say it. Say forget it, no coffee shop with her, and I’ll forget it. But none of this
Oh, if you want to be with her, go ahead.
That makes me feel—
God.
” He presses his lips together. “I choose you, remember? We’ve already had this discussion. I choose you above all others. Above my parents. Above any former girlfriend who happens to show up. No matter what, I choose you. That’s what being married means. So
why
are you so willing to give me up? Why are you so willing to let me go at the least little potential problem?”

“I’m not, Ike!”

“Aren’t I worth fighting for, Tami? Isn’t what we have worth fighting for?”

“Of course it is!”

“Then why won’t you?”

“That’s not how I meant for it to come across, Ike. It’s just that—”

“Stop.”

“I
know
you’re worth fighting for.”

“You’re worth fighting for, too,” he says. “That’s the missing link, isn’t it? That’s what you don’t get. And don’t tell me you do, because when you pull crap like this
—oh, if you want Jenna, go ahead—
or when I hear stories of some of the stupid-ass shit you did to find a husband, I look at you and think,
Who did I marry?
It’s sure as hell not the girl I thought I knew, and it’s sure as hell not the girl I fell in love with. I mean, I always knew you were shy, but really, this is ridiculous. This isn’t shyness. It’s something well beyond that. It’s like a crater in your heart where your sense of self-worth should be.”

I’m in tears. “Ike—”

“Let me tell you something, Tami.” He stands, making clear that he’s readying to leave, readying to get as far away from me as he possibly can. “I can’t talk to you anymore right now.”

“Okay.”
Oh, my God. He’s leaving me, and not even for her.
“I understand. I understand you’re mad. But please don’t go.”

“I’m worth fighting for,” he says.

“I know you are.”

“You’re worth fighting for, too,” he says. “And I wish like hell you’d start acting like you know it.”

“I will.” With my imploring, tearstained eyes, I try to pull him back down in his chair, try to convince him to stay. “I love you, Ike.”

But there’s resolve in his eyes as he whistles for Old Sport. No sympathy, and I don’t see any love, only a new hardness toward me, a new wall between us. I sit perfectly still, legs crossed properly at the ankles, hands folded together with their newly pink-manicured nails—
I did this for you, Ike! So you’d think I’m beautiful, so you’d be proud to be seen with me! Can’t you see I’m trying?

He gives me a look that says he does see me. He’s just not impressed. “If our marriage falls apart, Tami, it’s not going to be because of Jenna. It’s not going to be because of my parents. It’s not going to be because of Immigration, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be because of me. You know what that leaves, right?”

Ashamed, I shake my head no, although I do know. Of course I know.

“It’s going to be because of you.” His voice catches and he swallows hard before continuing. “It’s going to be because you don’t think you deserve to be happy. And that sort of thinking is bullshit, and it has consequences, and one of those consequences is that you’ll lose me. We’ll lose each other. You understand? I can’t live this way. I
won’t
live this way. I won’t love you better, or harder, or deeper, than you love me. We’ve got to be equals. Equals in our love.”

I look up at him, standing there, so strong. So sure. So right and so direct and so
real
, with the sun setting behind him, trying its pastel-watercolor best to steal the moment with its beauty, but it’s impossible. It can’t be done, because Ike’s a god to me, a literal, true, life-on-Earth god to me. And he expects me to be his equal?

“I’ll try,” I promise. “I will try my best.”

“Trying’s not enough.” His disappointed look says,
Don’t you get it? Didn’t you hear a word I said?
“You’ve got to
do.
You’ve got to
be
what we both need for you to be, or we’ve got no chance together.”

I nod, unspeaking. What more can I say but that I’ll try? Faith is a hard thing for me. People have tried to force me to have faith my entire life, and I would if I could—life would certainly be easier, yes, to go along and simply believe what other people tell you to believe, right? But you can’t force faith. You can’t force faith in religion, and you can’t force faith in yourself. You either believe or you don’t, and the ugly truth is that Ike has far more faith in me than I have in myself.

But even his faith is not absolute. I see it waver as he watches, as he waits for me to affirm myself and express my ability to be the sort of wife he needs. Old Sport has made his way over and stands by Ike’s side. Old Sport is waiting for Ike, and Ike is waiting for me, waiting for me to give him a reason to stay. And I wait, too, for myself to say the words he needs to hear:
I am good enough for you. You are as lucky to be with me as I am to be with you.
But these words are a lie. I don’t believe them. I can’t say them.

Instead, I sit perfectly still and watch as my world-weary Ike collects his keys from the patio table and turns from me. There’s not even a kiss good-bye, not even a backward glance. Like a scene from a sad movie, Ike and Old Sport drive off into the sunset in their beat-up truck and leave me behind, alone in the dying daylight. My heart is breaking, but I think maybe this is how it should be, for a part of me has always known that when night came, I’d find myself alone.

“T
his is cute,” Ardishir says in his misguided attempt to comfort me. “Your first fight as a married couple. That’s all this is, each side just letting off a little steam. You’ve both been on your best behavior for so long; you’re just settling back down on earth with us mere mortals. Couples fight sometimes. It’s the nature of the marriage beast.”

We’re at his house in the living room. After Ike left, I threw myself on our bed and cried, cried, cried. I kept expecting him to come back—any minute!—and find me there, weeping into my pillow. He’d feel so bad. He’d have apology flowers and he’d try to get me to look at them and see how pretty they were and see how they meant he wasn’t mad anymore—but I wouldn’t look at them. I’d be so upset that it would take more than just flowers to make things okay again between us. I’d keep crying until he felt
really
bad. And he’d kiss me—sweet little kisses everywhere until finally I’d calm down, maybe even start to laugh from how they tickled. But he never came back.

Two hours I waited, and by then I had such a bad headache from crying that I took a double dose of aspirin and came here. Honestly, I’d rather seek comfort from Rose, but she wasn’t back from her book club. When I arrived, Maryam was on the couch reading
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
, and Ardishir was in his favorite chair reading a biography called
John Adams
. Both set their books aside, and I told them everything, the whole horrible story of Jenna’s appearance and her offer to go into business with Ike, and about our fight and the horrible things Ike said to me.

And now Ardishir has the nerve to tell me it’s cute.

“It’s not cute,” I say. “He was
really
mad.”

“Of course he was really mad!” Maryam says. “Are you crazy, telling him he can be with that . . . that . . . that
woman
? Men like you to show a little . . . oomph. They like you to show a little possessiveness. A little jealousy!” Ardishir raises an eyebrow, like,
Oh, really?
“What were you
thinking
?” she goes on. “Seriously, Tami. Where did you
get
such a horrible idea?”

She won’t like my answer.

“From Maman,” I say.

“Maman?”
Maryam looks like she wants to throw her
What to Expect
book at me. “Maman doesn’t know anything about keeping a man happy!”

“Now, now,” Ardishir says.

“Why would you go to Maman and not me? Who’s here for you? Who’s always been here for you?”

“She did help me, actually,” I say. “Her advice was really good.”

“This is what you call helpful, driving your husband away?” To Ardishir, she says, “Don’t you
now, now
me!”

He smiles. “I don’t think Squishy appreciates your anger, and I don’t think Tami does either.”

Maryam’s hand goes to her swollen stomach.

“Squishy?” I say. “This is your name for the baby?”

Maryam rolls her eyes with a smile. “I’m not wild about it, but it’s better than Squid, which is what he was calling the baby last week.”

“Hope,” I say. “I really love the name Hope.”

“We don’t know it’s a girl,” Ardishir says.

“I can’t believe you’re not finding out! This is critical information!”

“Right, for shopping purposes, I know!” Maryam says. “But Ardishir doesn’t want us to find out. He wants a surprise in the delivery room.”

“An extra dose of good news,” he says. “All we need to know right now is that we’re having a Squishy.” Ardishir’s eyes gleam. “A beautiful, healthy little Squishy.”

Smiling, I glance down at my cell phone again. Nothing. “Should I call him?”

“Yes,” Maryam says.

“No.”

“Why not?” I ask Ardishir.

“Men need their space.”

“Oh, please,” Maryam says.

“We do.” He grins. “Why do you think my office is so far from home?”

“What if he’s with her?” I ask.

Maryam gasps. “Tami, he wouldn’t! This isn’t good! Do you think he is?”

“This is what I’m saying—maybe he
is
with her!”

“He’s not,” Ardishir says.

“Well, then, where is he?”

“Maybe he went to his parents’ house,” Maryam says.

“That’s not good either! They hate me! They think he
should
be with her!”

“I thought you said his father has been decent to you,” Ardishir says.

“Well, he has, but—”

“And his mother hasn’t done anything rude since that one time,” he says.

“But she—”

“She’s just worried about her son,” Maryam interrupts. “This is natural, for a mother to worry. They’re your in-laws. It’s important to think the best of them, and to win them over. We should have them over soon. We really should. Don’t you think, Ardi?”

“But if he goes there, in this mood . . .” In desperation, I look to Ardishir. “He’s never raised his voice to me before. Maybe he won’t come back.”

“Well, then he’s a baby,” Maryam says. “Call him. Find him, go to him, bring him home. This is what he wants. Men are like little boys who run away from home. They want you to find them and bring them back.”

I give Ardishir a questioning look.

“He does seem to want you to show a little initiative,” he says. “So if it’ll make you feel better, by all means, give him a call. Just don’t snivel. No sniveling.”

Snivel?
This is a new word for me, but after Ardishir mimics me being babyish, I understand what it means. I dial Ike’s cell phone, and it goes straight to voice mail. “I think he turned off his phone.”

“Leave a message,” Maryam says.

“Yes, Ike. This is Tami.”
Your wife, where are you?
“Please call me when you get this message.”

I hang up, satisfied with my nonsniveling tone. Ardishir, however, is laughing at me.

“Send a text,” Maryam says.

“Don’t,” Ardishir counters.