Dreaming in English (31 page)

I’m happy for them, but I want
my
family here. Homa Nasseri will stay for several months, I’m sure, and she’ll be of great help, but she’ll take the bedroom that would have been my parents’, and then if they
are
able to come, where will they stay? We’d find room, of course, but Homa Nasseri’s visit is like an admonition, a reminder of how unlikely it is that my parents will ever come.

“Look what I brought!” Maryam holds up the paint cans. “This one’s a rustic red, which I think would look great on that wall, and then you could complement it with a dusty gray with silver flecks. Let’s try them, yes? Maybe on that wall?” She indicates the main wall customers will see as they enter the shop.

“Oh, well ...” I hide a sigh. I’m tired of her involvement, too. “Ike already knows what color he wants. It’s a really pretty golden color.”

“Gold’s so last year.” Maryam holds the cans out for me to take. “Here. These are nontoxic. You can put them on right now and it’s not bad for the baby. I’m sure Ike would appreciate seeing other colors, even if he thinks he knows what he wants.”

Ike doesn’t
think
he knows what he wants. He
knows
what he wants.

“Maryam, you know how Americans have such a need for individualism?”

“No,” she says.

I laugh. “Yes, you do.” We talk about it all the time. “You know, how they break away from their families and create brand-new lives for themselves.”

“That’s not individualism,” she says. “It’s selfishness.”

“It’s not,” I say. It’s
The Jazz Singer.
“It’s
living
, Americanstyle—life on their own terms. Ike’s a lot like that. It’s really important for him to make his own decisions.”

“That’s why you, as his wife, have to guide him into making the
right
decisions,” she says. “I’m just helping with ideas. I’m not trying to—” She stops talking and grimaces. With her right hand, she massages her stomach like she’s trying to get the baby to shift position. Something about the gesture alarms me, and I step closer.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, sure,” she says. “She’s just elbowing me. It’s better now.” But Maryam is pale, and her skin is stretched tight like she’s trying not to wince.

“Are you sure?” I say. “Is it that stomachache feeling again?”

“It’s nothing,” she says. “Just heartburn. I shouldn’t have had those jalapeños for lunch.”

Ike wanders into the front of the store. He’s on his cell phone, but he pauses and raises his eyebrows at me, questioning if Maryam is okay. I give him a look back, telling him I don’t know.

“What if you’re in labor, Maryam? We should go to the hospital !”

“I’m not in labor.” She walks toward the wall she wants me to paint, but halfway there, she stops and again presses her side. From behind, it looks like she’s going to crumple to the ground. Both Ike and I rush over and lead her to a chair.

“I’m fine,” she insists. “I just need to get off my feet for a while.”

“We need to get you to a doctor,” Ike says.

“I’m not going into labor,” she insists. “I’m taking those shots, remember? It’s just my ligaments stretching again.”

“Ligaments stretching
is
labor,” Ike says. “They’re stretching so the baby can get through the birth canal.”

Maryam’s eyes tear up. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“One way to find out,” Ike says.

“It’s too soon,” Maryam says.

“They can stop it,” I say. “They can probably stop it, if you go in right now.”

“I can’t go on bed rest again!” Maryam wails. “I have too much to do! I have to get ready for Homa Nasseri’s visit, and there’s my baby shower, and your interview—I’ve got to help you get ready for that! And there’s—” She moans, straightens, and tries to smooth away her pain.

Ike sits in the chair next to her. “The goal is a healthy baby, Maryam. Right? That’s the end goal.”

“I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll see what he says then.”

“Maryam.” I give her a stern-sister look.

“The baby’s
fine
, Tami
.
” She grimaces. “She’s just shifting position, that’s all.”

But I don’t think so. I think the baby’s struggling. I think maybe she’s being strangled by the umbilical cord like so many of those sad stories we’ve heard. I look at Ike, and it’s clear he’s thinking the same thing, and I remember what happened to his little brother, Charlie Bongo, and
it can’t happen to Baby Hope.

And yet Maryam has that stubborn look on her face that means she’s not going to listen to us, as if sheer willpower will make everything okay. I know it’s fear that’s driving her, but I don’t know what to do about it. What she needs is a mother’s guidance. And since our mother’s not here ...

I lock eyes with Ike. My heart pounds like it always does at the very idea of his mother and the memory of how she tried to ruin our marriage. But she
was
a labor and delivery nurse, and that’s exactly what my sister needs. “Would you call your mother, please, Ike?”

Maryam protests, but Ike nods and moves away from us to make the call. Less than fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Hanson arrives and convinces Maryam she must go to the doctor. Just as Maryam feared, she’s placed on hospital bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. Secretly, I’m glad. I like to know the baby’s safe and that help is always near.

This week, the movie we watch is
Green Card
with Andie MacDowell and a really ugly French actor named Gerard Depardieu. It’s funny and charming and I pay very close attention. Afterward, Ike and I begin questioning each other in earnest in preparation for our upcoming interview.

Here are some facts about Ike: His middle name is Howard, which is also his mother’s maiden name. He will only use Crest toothpaste and Tide laundry detergent, original scent. Disorganization stresses him out. Every morning, he plans every task he wants to do that day and prioritizes the order in which he’ll do them, using an A-B-C, 1-2-3 system. He had chicken pox when he was seven years old and he had his appendix taken out in college. His favorite type of beer is Hefeweisen, and his shoe size is eleven. He likes the side of the bed closest to the door. He likes plain vanilla ice cream with strawberries on top. He likes me in my turquoise bikini, and he likes prettily pedicured toenails. He likes to see movies at the theater in the afternoons, and he doesn’t mind seeing them alone. He likes running and racquetball. He pushes himself in everything he does.

Here are some things about me: I like walking barefoot through the grass at the University of Arizona campus mall. I like watching kids play soccer at Himmel Park. I like seeing Ike shirtless. I like
all
bumper stickers—I like the very idea of bumper stickers—and I especially like the one on my neighbor’s car:
Well-behaved women rarely make history.
I like live music, any kind, but especially I like women singers. I like watching Ike play Texas Hold ’Em with his poker friends and seeing the way his Tiffany wedding band looks so good on his left hand. I like being outdoors late at night, when our side of the earth has rotated away from the throbbing summer sun and the pavement stops radiating heat. I like lying back on our patio lounge chairs with Ike and watching the stars, talking about everything and nothing. I like front doors open to the world. I like seeing my neighbor lady walk down her driveway every morning in her hanging-open robe and curlers in her hair to collect her newspaper. I like the lack of smog here, the absence of Tehran’s early-morning noise and its too many pairs of judgmental eyes. I like American grocery stores, the bigger the better, and fashion magazines. I like the sight of little girls jumping rope. I like ringing the cheerful bell on my Schwinn bicycle and waving to people. I like wearing short skirts and high heels. I like how people mind their own business. I like being left alone.

“Well, Persian Girl,” Ike says. “This is it. Are you ready?”

I smile at him. I asked him this same question once, and I still remember his answer. “No,” I say, like he’d said that day on the airplane, on our way back to Tucson from getting married in Las Vegas. “But what the hell, let’s do it anyway.”

We’re at Common Grounds, holding hands across the table. It’s night, dark out, but we’ve left the lights off because the super-expensive and very cool Common Grounds sign was finally delivered and installed today, and we’re basking in its spooky purple glow. We’ve hired our employees and the restaurant is ready to open. All that’s left is for the city inspector to grant us the certificate of occupancy, which we hope will happen tomorrow after the interview. And then, we can open the day after that if we want.

It’ll be the first day of the rest of our lives.

It’s not true that I’m not ready. I am.
We
are—all of us. My father has filed their paperwork and is waiting. Maryam waits, too, safely in her hospital bed at University Medical Center, thanks to the no-nonsense efforts of Ike’s mom. Maryam’s not happy about being on bed rest again, but she’s relieved that her doctors have been able to stop her early labor and keep the baby in her stomach. We know that every day counts. Every day, the baby gets stronger and more able to thrive in the greater world.

That’s how I feel about myself, too. In the seven months I’ve been here, in the four months I’ve been Ike’s wife, I’ve gotten so much stronger. America has infiltrated my soul and allowed me to grow, to blossom, to bloom. Ike has helped me be the very best version of myself, the best person I’m capable of being. That’s what real love does—it inspires.

He flashes his trademark grin at me. “Favorite food?”

I smile back—he knows I know the answer. “Lasagna. My favorite animal?”

His smile broadens. “Old Sport, of course. Do you think at this point there’s anything we don’t know about each other?”

We spend a minute staring into each other’s eyes, looking for anything new, anything unexpected, but our knowledge of each other is complete. We’ve done our homework. We’ve been tested—by Ike’s parents, by Jenna, by the considerable challenge of opening a business together—and we’ve flourished. Despite my nervousness about tomorrow’s interview, I feel certain of its outcome.

We’ve already triumphed.

Tomorrow is just a formality, just one more beautiful day in what will be a lifetime of beautiful days.

I
t’s almost morning.

The big day.

I don’t feel quite so invincible anymore.

I feel like I want to cower in the corner, like I want to slink away in shame. Who am I to ask for refuge? How do I deserve this chance more than the millions of others who want their freedom, too, but who’ll never have an opportunity?

This is my scared self talking, the one I thought I’d banished. She came back in the darkest hours of the night, after Ike was asleep, after the whole world was asleep. Old Sport and I snuck outside and curled up on a patio chair. The moon was full, the air perfect, and as I looked around Rose’s backyard, which she lights at night with white holiday lights and which she has so graciously shared with us, I would have given anything to freeze the moment, to hang suspended forever in the beautiful limbo of what has been and what might yet be. We all have those moments, I think—those perfect moments when we realize we could die right then and it would be okay, for we’ve had our happiness. We’ve had our moments of glory, and we realize they’re enough, that no one’s promised us an entire lifetime of them.

It was last night that I finally felt as if I understood my mother, and understood, too, why she doesn’t fight to come back. It’s because she already had her once-upon-a-time. She already had her happily-ever-after. She already had as much as anyone ever has the right to expect, and much more than most people will ever get.

I have loved it here so much.

I fall asleep before the darkness becomes dawn, and when the alarm sounds and Ike reaches for me with his warm, sure hand and suggests we have good-luck sex before our interview, I tell him I can’t, that I think I might throw up.

“I have a bad feeling about today, Ike.”

He pulls me close and shushes me. “That’s just your fear talking.”

But I’m not so sure. There’s a difference between fear and dread, and this is dread, the same feeling I’d get in Tehran when I’d find myself alone in an alley with a group of low-class men, anticipating with certainty the jeering and jostling that never failed to follow. Fear is something to overcome, but dread is something to be endured, and that’s how I feel now. Today is going to be horrible, and it can’t be avoided, and I’ll never meet Maryam’s baby and I’ll never bear Ike’s children, and knowing this, I begin to cry—tearlessly, so the interviewer won’t see the evidence of my sorrow. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

Ike holds me and kisses me and whispers that it’s going to be all right. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s
not
going to be all right. I let him comfort me; I let him have his last moments of hope.

When we can stay in bed no longer, I go through the motions of showering, dressing, and making myself pretty, even though I feel completely dull inside, like a used-up, punched-around floppy doll. Ike continues to think it’s just nerves, and I continue to let him, and he chats casually to help put me at ease, looking handsomely American in pressed khakis and a black polo shirt.

Oh, how I’ve loved him.

We join Rose for orange juice and muffins. I don’t eat much, and I can tell she’s worried about me. I clasp her to me as we’re leaving, since you never know when you’ll say the last good-bye. I’ve heard stories that if you fail your immigration interview, they can take you away immediately. It doesn’t usually happen, I’m told, but it can, and so I embrace her extra tight and breathe her in and try to memorize the feel of her curved shoulders, the old-lady-soft skin that covers her jawbone, the creaky, fragile bones that often cause her pain.