Three Daughters: A Novel (15 page)

When the time came, he entered her with a force that was unlike him. Was it fear or anger? She couldn’t be sure. Much later, it occurred to her that for the first time since they had begun their intimacy, he had not stopped to put on the protective sheath.

The linen shop at the Grand was shut tight and the Mishwes returned to their little house—Nadeem to recuperate and Miriam to nurse him. Their village had a look of prosperity and progress, but for the moment it made them feel alienated. The weather had warmed considerably and the year’s fresh crop of flowers pushed through the soaked ground. Delicate ferns wrapped themselves around the stones, especially near the cisterns and winter streams.

Their own yard looked remarkably tidy and Nadeem thought of his father and his ever-present broom. “My father has been here. Look, nothing is neglected.” He sat on a stump and put his face into his hands. “I’m afraid to face them. My mother will be inconsolable. It will hurt them to see me like this.” Miriam placed a hand on his shoulder and said nothing. She felt awkward, as if she had forgotten how to comfort anyone. Then she caught sight of Hanna, who was pitching stones and looking lonely and unsure.

“Come,” she said, rushing to embrace him. “Come say hello to Baba.”

Zareefa had dusted the furniture and left food on the table to welcome them. The irresistible aroma of wilted onions, refried lentils, and fresh bread soothed them. Miriam immediately brewed coffee, for they had been too harried to have a proper breakfast and that earthy aroma now added to the coziness.

When Nadeem saw his house, he stood perfectly still and looked at every corner. The children scattered, searching for forgotten belongings and treasures. “Mama, will we stay here now?” Esa asked in his direct way.

“Yes, Esa,” Nadeem answered, placing a hand around the little boy’s shoulders. “We’ll stay here now, all together.” His voice lacked conviction and Miriam knew it would be a while before he could have confidence in the future. His anguish tore at her heart.

“What about Mrs. Spafford at the American school? She’ll wonder where I’ve gone.”

“She knows where you are, don’t worry.” Miriam soothed him burying her face in his silky, loose curls. He was the only one she could touch without equating it with the pain of not having Max to touch. She felt tender and bruised, although there was no mark on her body. His words echoed in her head during every quiet moment.
Don’t ever leave me.
If she had believed that he would feel that way forever, she might have gone with him. And leave Nadeem? Leave her maimed and needy husband whose faith in her had never wavered?

It was heartbreak either way, but right now the pull toward Max was stronger. She was not foolish enough to believe she could hold onto Max in his homeland, where he would eventually return. In this way station, the Orient, his involvement with her was one more sign of freedom. But to bring home an uneducated foreign woman with three foreign children, one of whom limped? How long would that stern matriarch in the photograph tolerate that? What’s more, she, too, would find the price too high. It was delirium to believe she could leave with the children. She was a product of the clan: its traditions had shaped her; its customs had nurtured her; its vengeance for her dishonor would destroy her. Her love for Max would not survive. Still, right now, the pain of losing him was so fresh, so poignant. She felt it repeatedly as a wave of sadness washing over her, isolating her from all other feeling.

Khalil ran in from the outside, moving faster than she had ever hoped on his disfigured leg. “Will I have to go to school now? Mama, please say I don’t.”

“Not go to school? How could you ask such a foolish thing? You see how I struggled to make sense of the business because I had not been taught as a young girl? I don’t want to hear any more. You will go to school next week. Baba will make arrangements with the Franciscans right away.”

“But Mama, my leg. The boys will laugh at me.”

“Then stop limping,” said Miriam coldly. Max had suggested that there was no medical reason for Khalil’s pronounced limp. It might be a bid for sympathy, he had warned Miriam. She tried to recall his exact words as she often did, as if recalling his voice would keep him near her. Several times she walked resolutely toward the carriage road, determined to board the carriage and not stop until she was once more in his arms, but the thought of a new parting and all the anguish it would bring sent her back home again.

“You don’t look well.” Nadeem’s voice broke into a deep reverie as they sat together one morning. Usually she was hovering over him, placing food on the table, fetching, carrying, smoothing some child’s hair so that he would start out for school looking presentable. But today she had sat down in the middle of breakfast, unaware that she had done so, and was staring out at a room that was revolving. The shelves showed double and she felt as if she might be sick to her stomach. “What is it?” asked Nadeem, and when there was no response, “Miriam, are you ill?”

“I’m fine.” She tried to shrug it off. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Why had she lied? She didn’t feel fine and she had slept as she always slept. A realization was fluttering on the edge of consciousness like a weary moth. This was a special kind of illness.
Mary, Mother of God!
She made herself busy packing food for everyone, delaying any thought until she was alone.

The older children left for school and Nadeem walked to the market street to buy nails. She went to a small hanging mirror. “You’re with child,” she whispered to her image and became giddy with happiness. She and Nadeem had not been together since his return. The child had to belong to Max. She put her hands over her stomach protectively. “Now he will be with me forever.”

That night Nadeem held her, stretching himself along the length of her body, but made no move to be intimate. He wanted to talk more than usual and he told her of George and some of the other soldiers. He spoke of the men he had seen die two or three feet away from him. “I wouldn’t have thought death was so ordinary,” he said. “It just happens like breathing or eating. One minute you’re standing and the next you’re slumped in an odd position. Miriam”—he tightened his grip on her—“there were so many moments when I was afraid. I was afraid like a child. Like Esa.”

“Of course,” said Miriam, validating his feelings. “Who wouldn’t be afraid of death? Death is the end of what we know.” As she said it, she realized Max was no longer dead to her. He was alive in her womb. She wanted to express her gladness. Instead she began to move her hands along her husband’s body, pausing to caress him deftly. For a long time he lay still without responding, but as her hand slid down, she felt a tremor move through him, although he still remained passive. She continued her fondling, reawakening each part of his body. He let sound escape his lips, a sweet, gentle groan of relief and rebirth. He took over then and began to kiss her shoulders and her breasts and stroked her thighs with patience and tenderness. She urged him on top of her, aware at each moment that this act was her salvation. There was no mistaking his climax—a deep release of tension, fear, all of the demons that had haunted him.

“Nadeem, Nadeem,” she whispered when it was over. He mistook her relief for ardor and fell asleep somewhat surprised that his previously shy wife had become an active sexual partner.

The following day, Nadeem rose early and proclaimed that he wanted to visit the shop with Miriam so she could explain the state of affairs.

“Are you well enough?” she asked, alarmed at his sudden energetic mood.

“Yes. I feel hopeful of the future, my dear, and you are responsible.” He took hold of her hand and looked into her face with total love. Miriam’s heart stirred.

“Perhaps you should rest a few more days. Your feet are not healed yet. It’s no good to walk too much.” She feared going to Jerusalem. What would keep her from rushing to the hospital and blurting out to Max that she was carrying their child? “You don’t want to have a relapse.”

“If we just go through the inventory together, then I can look over the books at home. Please. I want to return to work. There’s so much I want to do.”

She didn’t feel well enough to take the carriage ride, but she didn’t want to admit to illness either. She would just have to hope the ride didn’t upset her stomach. Each time she thought of the child inside her, nothing seemed too difficult. It was as if she had been given a second chance with Max without hurting anyone. “I’ll go with you, but you must promise not to stay on your feet more than a few minutes at a time. We’ll have to leave Esa with your mother, so we’d best allow an extra half hour, for she will become emotional when she sees you again.” Each time Umm Jameel saw her son’s clouded eye she wept and wrung her hands with grief and would not be comforted until she was near collapse.

The ride to Jerusalem was more difficult than Miriam had imagined. With each passing mile, she felt a longing for Max that was frightening. She kept her face toward the countryside in an effort to discourage conversation, for she found it difficult to concentrate on anything that was said. A man was smoking a cigar and it gave her an excuse to seek air. Nadeem, too, seemed to prefer silence. His face had lost some of its paleness and he looked remarkably healed.

When they reached the shop, he had an anxious moment. “At times I feel that I’m still in some army tent dreaming of this.”

“When you see how poorly I’ve maintained the books, you’ll realize this is not a dream at all.”

“Don’t belittle your efforts. It’s because of you that I have something to come back to.” He looked over at the untended counters of the apothecary shop. The merchandise in the cases was dusty and faded. “That poor fellow has lost his business. Perhaps he’s been killed. Have you heard?”

“He lost an arm,” said Miriam, suddenly remembering that she had meant to visit the druggist’s wife and had forgotten to do so.

“I will not complain again.” Nadeem’s voice was resolute. “Now, let’s see what we have.”

He began by inspecting the stacks of regular merchandise, riffling through the soft materials with pleasure. “It’s good that we have some inventory. I feel things will become scarce now that Turkey is losing its hold in Europe.” They spent the next two hours itemizing what they had in stock and making an order for items that needed replenishing. “Freneau will give me time to pay,” said Nadeem. “I’ll tell him our situation.”

He would have been happy to work until dusk, but he saw that Miriam looked fatigued and they walked out into the bustle of Latin Patriarchate Road to buy food from the street vendors. As they strolled, they unintentionally passed Max’s house and Miriam’s heart began to race. The idea of seeing Max became so seductive she sent Nadeem back to the shop and stopped to pray in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. She knelt in the first pew of one of the small side chapels facing a replica of the madonna. How kind and loving was the expression on the Holy Mother’s face. If only she could pour out her feelings to her and gain forgiveness.

“Mother Mary,” she murmured softly, “teach me to understand my own nature. Why are we made to feel so strongly? If it is sinful, why did I feel desire that overwhelmed? I betrayed my marriage vows. I betrayed every social law of my clan, but I feel no remorse. I am overjoyed to bear this child inside me. If it is born healthy and whole, I will devote myself to my family and do what I can to drive the thought of Max out of my mind. Hold me to this vow but grant me this request.”

When she left the church, the sun had shifted, lighting up the faces of the smooth-stoned houses on the street. Was this beautiful scene an omen that her request had been heard? She felt at peace. Her heart was quiet; her body had lost its expectations.

When she entered the shop, Nadeem looked puzzled. His face was pale and strained. “Nadeem, we must return. You’ve done too much.”

“In a moment. Look here”—he pointed to the intricate monogram on a stack of face towels—“the initials are all wrong. The order says ASB but the towels are ASR. We can’t ask for payment.”

She took the order form and looked closely. “The order is right. Look”—she pointed to the letters with her finger—“It’s an
R
here.”

Nadeem looked at the paper and then let it drop to the floor. He was quiet for a moment. “My eyes play tricks on me. Perhaps they will get worse. If you hadn’t been here to verify it, I would have believed we had made a mistake.”

“Don’t be harsh with yourself, Nadeem. Dr. Ticho said you had to expect some difficulty. But he also said your sight would improve. You mustn’t tire yourself out.”

“I’ll have to depend on you a little longer.”

“For what?” she said lightly. “To verify a number? That’s nothing. I have depended on you all these years.” She saw his face soften with gratitude and relief. “Come, let’s go home. The children will be wondering if we’re coming back at all.”