Sister of Silence (9 page)

It had happened so often already. What was one more time? I told myself.

As he slept, I tried to tell myself how much I loved him, that he loved me in return. I felt guilty for being pretty, for tempting him so much, and then and there, I wished I had been born ugly.

Maybe that would have saved me from him.

Sitting there parked at the rest stop, I felt a sense of profound shame, because every time he touched me, I became aroused. I had tried to keep from feeling anything, steeling myself against what I knew would happen, but it never worked. If anything, his touch caused a burning sensation within me, so I knew Eddie must be right. I must have wanted it—waited for it to happen.

I couldn’t sleep at all, so after awhile, I turned on the radio, slammed the glove box open and closed, and made all kinds of noise, deliberately waking him up. I wanted to get home, so I could take a bath and forget everything.

I don’t know how I faced everyone the next morning as if nothing had happened, since his mother asked why we didn’t get there until long after they had gone to bed. Eddie lied and told her he couldn’t stay awake, so
he’d pulled over to sleep for our safety. I didn’t say anything, and my silence served to corroborate his story. By then I had been quiet for so long, it had become easy.

I wished
again I could tell someone. Then we could get married and everything would be okay. Secretly I wondered, perhaps even hoped, that if Mom ever found out she would yell and scream at Eddie. Maybe even drive him away.

But I knew, deep within, that it was my fault, because I let him have what he wanted all the time. Mom would know that, too, and hate me. So I remained silent.

Bruce was taking me to the airport a couple of weeks later because Dad had arranged for me to fly from Washington, D.C., to Jordan to visit for a month. “Can I drive your car? I’ve been practicing with Kim,” I told Bruce.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’s a four-lane highway and the cars just fly.” He sounded worried.

“I promise I won’t wreck. I’m a good driver. You’ll see. Please let me,” I begged him, as excited as a child with a lollipop.

Smiling, he said, “Well, I guess I’ll let you drive part of the way, at least. That way I can see how you do.” He handed me the keys with a smile.

I jumped up and down, hugging him. “Oh thank you!” I could hardly wait to get behind the steering wheel.

On the way, we stopped for dinner and Bruce teased me about the Arabic men I would meet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some sheik didn’t kidnap you and take you to his harem,” he joked.

“Bruce, you’re silly. That won’t happen.” I laughed.

After dinner he let me drive all the way to the airport, about forty-five minutes away. Bruce kept saying how well I was doing, and seemed impressed, so my ego received a healthy dose of self-esteem along the way. At the terminal, we stood in line together as I checked my luggage, walked easily and quickly through the metal detector at the security checkpoint, and then sat down to wait together until it was time to leave. My hair was in a chignon, I had on mascara and lipstick, and I wore a cream-colored cotton dress and strappy high-heeled sandals. I bought the outfit especially to wear on the trip, with money my parents had given me. I felt quite grown up.

By the time I boarded the jet, I was so excited I couldn’t contain myself. I was going to be flying for twelve hours, from North America to the Middle East, over the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, to a continent and a country I had never been to—my very first transatlantic flight.

We taxied along the tarmac and I silently prayed for a safe journey. Then it was time for take-off. The huge jet lined up with the dashed white line on the runway and began rolling swiftly, picking up more and more speed. The momentum pushed me back against my seat and, looking out the window, I saw the plane’s wheels lift off from the ground. I watched as everything below us began shrinking. I couldn’t believe we were actually airborne!

For the next hour I just sat there, mesmerized by the white, billowy clouds that floated by. I had a bird’s eye view as we flew right through, and often above, them. It looked like we were floating on dozens of soft, fluffy balls of cotton.

Eventually I dozed off, waking a few hours later to watch the in-flight movie. After it ended and darkness surrounded us, I pulled out the novel I brought along to read. Two meals and another nap later, I heard the pilot announce we would reach our destination in an hour. I thought about my family, who had been living in Amman for two months.

I wondered about the city I would soon be in, and imagined meeting Queen Noor, the American beauty who had become Jordan’s queen just a year earlier. I recalled my father’s voice when he told the story of Lisa Halaby, the young Arab-American woman who had agreed to marry King al-Hussein. Fifteen years and an entire culture separated them.

“King al-Hussein gave Lisa Halaby her Arabic name, Queen Noor al-Hussein, which meant “light of the king,” he said.

I saw the look that passed between my parents, a certain sparkle in their eyes, and I noticed something in their faces as they smiled at each other. I didn’t understand my parents, or how their lives had ended up as they had, but I sensed that their own
fifteen-year age difference made them feel a connection to the royal couple.

It was light again when the plane began its descent. I peered out the window to see hilly, sand-covered terrain peppered with military vehicles that looked like Matchbox cars. Neighboring Iraq was in the midst of a civil war, so the local militia was always alert for possible terrorist activity. All too soon, I found myself shuffling toward the exit ramp.

The sun’s scorching rays hit me as soon as I stepped into the sunshine. My fair-skinned father stood out from the dark Arabs, sandwiched like a piece of Swiss cheese between two slices of pumpernickel bread.

“Dad!” I yelled, hugging him. Not known for being physically demonstrative unless he was drunk, Dad tried to hug me but was obviously embarrassed.

“You look older. I almost didn’t recognize you,” he teased. “Your mother’s waiting
by the car.”

Dad stowed my suitcases in the trunk as Mom and the girls took turns hugging me.
Mom’s belly was big enough by then she wore a maternity smock. The sight of her belly made me realize that I might be pregnant, that very minute. I refused to think about it as everyone got into the car and we headed through what looked like desert into Amman. Dad said the city was laid out on seven “jabals,” the Arabic word for mountains. Each one was named Jabal—like Jabal Amman or Jabal al-Hussein.

“We’ll bring you to see the ruins next week,” Mom promised.

I was mesmerized as Dad drove through the city, passing old buildings decorated with bold-colored tiles and ornate Arabic script. Floral gardens bloomed everywhere, and the people seemed to come from all walks of life, from every corner of the world. I couldn’t wait to return and explore everything.

Everyone tried to talk at once as Dad wound the car through busy city streets. Mom described their luxurious rental home, while Carla told me about the cute neighbor boys, and little Jackie jabbered away. I looked at my
suntanned family, amazed and excited we were actually together.

I felt like I had just stepped into the pages of a storybook where there really was a happy ending. When I entered my parent’s house, I believed it might just happen. I walked around, finding something more beautiful in each room. Exotic Arabic rugs covered the chipped marble floors. Ornate brass chandeliers hung suspended from the ceilings, while hundreds of pieces of cut crystal caught and held the sunbeams. There was even a bidet in the bathroom. I only knew what it was because our friend Shirley had one in her house. “They’re in all the Jordanian homes,” Mom
said, laughing.

Near daybreak I woke to the sound of ringing bells, and thought the sound came through my open bedroom window. My eyes didn’t open again until late that morning, when I traipsed into the kitchen and found Mom making breakfast.

“Did I hear bells ringing?” I asked, leafing through a newspaper.

“Yes, the Muslims stop whatever they’re doing and pray five times a day. You’ll get used to it. We don’t even notice them anymore.”

“Like the trains?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mom said.

I walked onto the balcony and stood looking at the large city sprawled below us and far into the distance. Even the air felt foreign. It was hot and dry and had an unusual fragrance. Neutral-toned stone structures with flat roofs filled the city, their plain beige or brown exteriors no doubt belying the same elegant interior our own home had.

“I promised our landlord I would bring you over for coffee this morning,” Mom said. “The people here are very hospitable and love to entertain. They live next door and their daughter Aminah is a little older than you.”

After breakfast, I showered and went with Mom, who made introductions as an older woman cheerfully waved us inside.

“I make coffee,” Mrs. Dabdoub said, bustling into the kitchen. “Have you ever had Turkish coffee?”

“No.”

“Then I make you some. Come and sit down.” She took a small, long-handled ceramic pot and scooped a scented, fine powder into it, before adding a mound of sugar. Then Mrs. Daubdoub asked me about life in America. “You meet my Aminah tonight at dinner,” she said.

We chatted until she turned to remove the steaming liquid, pouring the beverage into tiny porcelain cups with even tinier handles, before placing them on matching saucers.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, tracing the etched gold.

“Thank you,” she beamed proudly. “Let grounds settle to bottom before you drink. I hope you like.”

I was soon sipping a rich, sugary coffee unlike anything at home. “It’s delicious,” I said.

Mom took me to the local market later, and I watched her buy foodstuffs and pay with Arabic currency, laughing as she tried to understand the man behind the cash register. That night we went to the Dabdoubs for a small dinner party and I fell in love with Middle Eastern food after eating a delicious chicken and rice dish called
mensef
. It was made with pine nuts and yogurt. I also met Aminah, whose lovely full figure captivated us when she put on a colorful traditional costume and belly danced for us. As I watched her, the music captivated me. Before I knew it, Aminah was reaching for me, leading me onto the floor. Everyone clapped, encouraging me to join her.

I blushed and grew embarrassed. “I don’t know how,” I said, trying to pull away.

“You see, you dance,” Aminah smiled, “like me.” I tried to imitate her graceful gestures, but she had to stop and show me how to move my hips. In my blue jeans and cropped top, I felt out of place among my new neighbors, but they encouraged me as I tried to learn their native dance.

The next day Aminah took me by taxi into downtown Amman. “Stay close,” she said, as she warned me about the throngs of people.

We were just emerging from the taxi and Aminah was paying our driver, when I felt a pinch on my backside. I quickly turned and saw an elderly man swathed in black hurrying away.

“He pinched me,” I stammered, pointing. Immediately Aminah began yelling in Arabic, a long string of what I could only assume was obscenities.

“You have to be careful. Some men here are just bad,” she said.

I found the open air markets amazing, and stared at row after row of dried meats, clothing and other items that hung from the ceilings and the walls. The odors combined, reminding me of a cross between the time Dad had butchered our two hogs and the
scent of the new fabric from which I used to make some of my clothes.

For the next few hours, we walked throughout downtown Amman, and Aminah pointed out the best shops for bargains, showing me how to barter with the shopkeepers.

“I don’t know if I could do that,” I said.

“They expect it,” she said.

What surprised me most was seeing that many women were not covered from head to toe in fabric, especially the younger ones. Like Aminah and me, they opted for a more Western style of dress, and wore no head covering, or
hijab
. But every time I passed a woman wearing a
niqab
, or face covering, I tried to look at her eyes. I wondered how she felt about being covered in such a way. I didn’t know if I could do it, although I did have to admit it had an exotic appeal to it.

The days evaporated as I met Dad’s colleagues, the teenage sons of an ambassador who lived next door, and Mom’s new friends. We visited several places in the city and beyond and it was almost time for me to leave when Dad took us on the Dead Sea outing he had promised us. I peered out the car window at miles of rocky pastures. There were camels and other livestock, and far in the distance I saw a group of people walking together.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

Dad looked in the direction I was pointing. “They’re Bedouins, wanderers. They travel from place to place on foot.”

As we descended the narrow road leading to a huge body of water below, Dad gave us a short geography lesson. “The Dead Sea has four times the amount of salt as other oceans, with a high mineral content. It sits below sea level and all of the rocks look white because of the salt,” Dad said.

As soon as the car came to a stop, Carla and I jumped out, running to the warm water. Mom played with Jackie at the water’s edge, and we laughed as the salt-saturated sea caused our bodies to float to the top. I tried repeatedly to dive beneath the water, but the buoyancy kept pushing me back up.

“Here,” Dad handed me a newspaper. “Try reading it while you’re floating.”

I took the folded newspaper and leaned back, opening it with both hands. “It’s amazing!” I cried. Hours after we left I could still taste the salt on my tongue, and remembered how wonderful it felt to read while floating.

Dad’s drinking had begun much earlier, and once we were back on the road, we ended up getting lost. Dad tried to find his way back home but after several beers, his normally good sense of direction had disappeared. After what seemed like hours of aimless driving, the car screeched to a halt and Dad turned around in the middle of the road. As he pointed the car in the opposite direction, Carla and Jackie began to whine.

“Shut the hell up,” Dad yelled.

Dad only swore when he was really drunk or aggravated, and he rarely swore at us, so the girls immediately grew silent. Before long Dad turned the car onto a road with several official looking signs posted in Arabic. The heavy black text seemed to be warning us away.

“Dale, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Mom said.

“It’s fine,” Dad said, driving through the open gate. We passed more signs, ones that looked like they were warning people to keep out. Dad finally slammed on the brakes, backed up and headed out the way we came in.