A Good Wife Read online

  The solution was to get Canadian citizenship and a Canadian passport.

  When my father first made the offer, I suspect we were both still thinking that the trip would simply be a visit. Yes, during many of the dark days since Amma and Abba had moved in, I fantasized about escaping my marriage and returning to live with my own parents. But whenever the clouds lifted slightly, I’d find myself thinking of another future—one in which I attended university, in which Ahmed and I lived in our own home, in which I had a career that gave us a bright financial future.

  And I knew that this was my parents’ hope for me as well. But now that I had been forced to abandon my postsecondary education, I found myself looking at the prospect of returning home a little differently. Neither my parents nor I talked about the visit as a way to leave the marriage, but the possibility hung in the air between us.

  In August 2004, I had my citizenship test, and in the early days of 2005, my paperwork came through. And then, in March, the passports I’d applied for came. The day the heavy envelope arrived in the mailbox, I felt my spirits lift. I phoned my parents immediately. In whispers, we discussed my visit home. My father said he would book one-way tickets for the following week for Aisha and me.

  “No, Papa,” I said. “They have to be return tickets. I don’t want Ahmed or his parents thinking that I’m not coming back.”

  I knew that if they guessed there was a chance of that, they might not let me go. My parents and I agreed that my return trip would be booked for August—to get Aisha back in time to start junior kindergarten.

  * * *

  The following week was frenetic and emotional.

  I was both excited and a little dazed. For four and a half years, I had gone virtually nowhere on my own. My conversations with my family had been conducted in hushed tones. My Internet chats had been monitored. I had lived in a world with no privacy and no autonomy, a world that had stripped my voice and my independence away. Now, I was about to leave that all behind. I could hardly believe it. As I went about collecting the things Aisha and I would need for our trip, I often found myself holding my breath, as if a wrong move or a misguided word might slam the door shut.

  No one appeared suspicious that I wouldn’t return, but Amma and Abba were skittish and on edge. They didn’t seem prepared to stop me from leaving—that would have been a clear indication they weren’t the loving family they claimed to be. But they weren’t happy about my absence either. Perhaps they worried about what I might tell my parents. And Amma was clearly embarrassed that my father had purchased the plane tickets himself. She phoned my parents after I had told her about the trip.

  “Oh, Zafar-bhai, this country is so bad. All our paycheques go to taxes and the mortgage. There is never any money left,” she said, to explain why she and Ahmed couldn’t pay for the flights.

  She then flew into a shopping frenzy, making trip after trip to the mall to purchase gifts that I was to deliver to her relatives in Pakistan and Dubai. Of the four suitcases I would be taking with me, only one held clothes for Aisha and me. The rest were Amma’s presents.

  While Ahmed’s parents were unnerved by my departure, Ahmed seemed somewhat sad. Of course: he would miss Aisha terribly.

  * * *

  As I packed my suitcase, I made sure to take every bit of paperwork I had—school report cards, Aisha’s birth certificate and vaccination records, bank account information and anything else I thought I might need in the future. Slipping the papers under my folded clothes, I reminded myself not to give Ahmed any hint that I wanted to remain in Ruwais. A week’s worth of relative peace had not expelled my thoughts of escape.

  The morning of my departure, Ahmed reminded me once again of why I felt so desperate to return to my family. He was sitting at the kitchen table, not talking to me, and I could see that his mood was dark. Something was brewing. I didn’t want to find out what it was.

  These days I always felt jumpy whenever Ahmed and I interacted, but today, with so much at stake, that mix of uncertainty and fear slowed my steps, had me almost tiptoeing as I moved in his direction. What words might soften his brow rather than harden his eyes? What can I tell him that will make him speak calmly rather than erupt with invectives?

  When I got to his side, I put my hand gently on his shoulder. “Ahmed,” I said as sweetly as I could. “I’m going to miss you. Are you going to miss me?”

  He made no response. I paused. Perhaps I shouldn’t push him into emotional territory. Perhaps I should focus on something practical as a way to get through our goodbyes.

  “Do you have ten dollars to give me for the trip? We have a layover in Heathrow, and I will probably need to buy us a little something to eat.”

  Ahmed shrugged my hand away. “Haramzadi! Ask your dad for the ten dollars, too!” His voice was brimming with resentment.

  I was taken aback by his anger, but I also felt bad. By asking for money, I had reminded him of his own powerlessness. All his money was going into the house. Even if he had wanted to buy the plane tickets, or to come with us, he didn’t have the financial resources. I suspected that since he couldn’t take his frustrations out on his parents, he was taking them out on me. Or perhaps he was just sad about Aisha and me being away and didn’t know how to express that.

  I decided not to press the issue. Besides, despite Ahmed’s outburst, despite the fact that I would be flying across the ocean without a penny—or a credit card—I was buoyant. I just had to be careful not to let my cheerfulness show, in case my good humour provoked Ahmed further and he refused to let me go.

  That fear—that my return home would be derailed—kept my heart pounding as the day went on. Once we arrived at the airport, Ahmed stayed close beside me at the check-in counter. As we moved towards the security gate, he put his hand on my arm and stopped me. I felt a stab of panic.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Let’s have a coffee first.”

  As we sat in the airport Tim Hortons, I felt as if a bird were caught beneath my rib cage. It was hard to concentrate on what Ahmed was saying. He was talking to me as if I were a child, giving me instructions on how I was to behave once we parted. I can only recall one of the many rules.

  “Remember,” he said, “now you are someone’s wife. You must wear your hijab at all times—even at home.”

  Eventually, there was no more time to delay. Ahmed got up and reluctantly walked Aisha and me to the security gate. I tried to look sombre as I passed through the checkpoint, but as soon as Ahmed was out of sight, I burst into a huge smile.

  As I pushed Aisha in her stroller, I was almost skipping. An hour later, safely on the plane, I pulled the hijab from my head. I was going home, and I was going to be myself again.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE STICKY WEB

  The restaurant was filled with my family and friends. All about us were decorations that my mother had put up. In the centre of our long table was a large cake. Gifts for both Aisha and me were piled at one end.

  When the group broke out into “Happy Birthday,” my throat caught, and I felt the sharp pain that happens when joy washes over an open wound. It had been five years since I celebrated my birthday. In Canada, April 19th came and went with little fanfare. Amma would wish me happy birthday in the morning and give me a present—perhaps a tube of lipstick or a small bottle of perfume. My family would call; a card or two might arrive in the mail. But Ahmed never acknowledged the occasion, and the rest of the day always unfolded like any other. To be here on my twenty-third birthday, surrounded by people who loved me and whom I loved, was the best gift I had ever received. When a slab of cake appeared before me, I dug into it with guiltless pleasure.

  A little more than two weeks before the party, I had burst through the arrival gates in Abu Dhabi, propelled by a wave of happiness and relief.

  It had been an eighteen-hour journey with a four-year-old child, but the moment I stepped into the terminal my exhaustion fell away. As soon as I saw my family standing by the gate I ran, Aisha’s litt
le hand in mine, straight to them. The poor porter who had loaded a cart with Amma’s bulging suitcases had to jog along beside me. I threw myself into my father’s arms and immediately burst into tears. It was as if a dam had broken and every sorrow and pain that I had felt over the last years was flowing through the breach. Between sobs, I moved into my mother’s embrace. She hugged me hard and then pulled back, putting a hand to my face. She looked aghast.

  “You’re skin and bones, Samra,” she said. “I feel like I’m looking at a ghost.”

  I moved from her to my sisters, as my mother and father fussed over Aisha. We began to walk to the car, but I simply could not let go of my sisters. We moved awkwardly together, our arms locked around each other, like some sort of human crab. At times, I felt as if they were actually carrying me along.

  Once we were in the car, I began to tell everyone what had happened in the time I’d been away. All the things I hadn’t been able to say on the phone—because of lack of time or lack of privacy—spilled forth in an unbroken stream. The drive from Abu Dhabi to Ruwais was long. For the entire journey, I talked and I talked and I talked.

  As we pulled into Ruwais my father was grinning, but there was sadness in his eyes. “Four and a half years of conversation in two and a half hours!” He chuckled ruefully.

  * * *

  Walking through the front door of the house was as disorienting as a dream. This was not the house I grew up in. My parents had been assigned a new address by my father’s employer when my mother and sisters moved back from Pakistan. But while the floor plan was different, this house was filled with all the furniture and decorations of my childhood. It was at once familiar and yet distorted. But then, I was changed too—a different person than the one who had packed up all her belongings for the move to Pakistan over five years ago. Now I was a mother, as well as a wife, and lived a life that would have been unimaginable to my sixteen-year-old self. Holding Aisha’s hand, I walked through the living room, leading her upstairs to the bedroom my parents had set up for me. My bed. My desk. My bookshelf. I felt a rush of bittersweet nostalgia.

  That night, lying beneath the covers with Aisha beside me, I was overcome by echoes of my distant childhood. The bedsheets smelled like home, the quiet rustling sounds that drifted through the windows were soothingly familiar, even the shadows in the room were comforting. I sensed the deep, dark weight of sleep reaching for me, and I let go, feeling safer than I had since I was a tiny child. I was finally back.

  * * *

  My first days in Ruwais were spent close to home. My two middle sisters were working in Abu Dhabi, but they had arranged to have some time off with me for the first week, and then they returned on weekends. During the day, I drank tea with my sisters and parents, watched movies, took Aisha out to the park and spent hours happily cooking in the kitchen with my mother.

  Even though I was free to go where I pleased and do what I wanted, even though I was safe in the arms of my family, I felt anxious. Every time the phone rang I jumped up to get it.

  “Why are you doing that?” asked one of my sisters after I had rushed to the phone only to discover that the call was for someone else.

  “Ahmed wouldn’t like it if I let it ring for too long,” I explained with embarrassment. I could see how ridiculous it must seem to them—that while thousands of miles separated me from my husband, I was still worried about meeting his demanding expectations.

  As the days passed, I began to relax, some of the confidence that I’d had in my youth pulsing again through my veins. That confidence took me to the recreation centre with my sisters to play tennis and squash, as my parents watched Aisha. And to the market, where I puttered around the stores and window-shopped, enjoying the breeze through my hair once more. My loose hair and my old jeans made me feel as if my married life were far away.

  My father offered to teach me to drive, so we went out together, me behind the wheel, slowly navigating the quiet streets of Ruwais. A couple of times, I left Aisha with my parents and took the bus to Abu Dhabi, where I stayed with my sisters in the apartment they shared with another family. I found it hard at first to venture out of the building on my own when they were at work. It seemed incredible to me that so many women walked freely down the streets, unafraid of strangers. My sisters scoffed at my nervousness. They were right. What had happened to Samra-baji, their intrepid older sister?

  I worked at bringing her back.

  * * *

  I was beginning to feel like myself again, but it didn’t take much to knock me back down. Ahmed called the house one evening a little over a month after I arrived. This time, I wasn’t at home to take the call. My father told Ahmed that my sisters and I were out at the movies. Ahmed said he would call back.

  The next evening, Ahmed called again. As soon as I got on the phone, I could tell he was upset.

  “What are you doing, going out to the movies with your sisters? Girls don’t go out alone!”

  “It’s okay, Ahmed. I was wearing my hijab,” I lied. “And there were four of us together.” I felt as if he had reached right across the ocean and grabbed my wrist. I could see his clenched jaw and creased brow hovering in front of me.

  Ahmed wasn’t interested in my defence. I listened for several minutes while he upbraided me, reminding me of my duty and my role as a wife. I got off the phone as soon as I could. When I hung up the receiver, I looked over at my parents. My mother stared back at me with an expression of sympathy, but my father did not raise his eyes from his teacup. His expression was stormy.

  For days to come, the first thing Ahmed asked when he called was “Where have you been?”

  Finally, after a half dozen of these phone calls, my father had had enough. “That’s it,” he said to me. “I’m not sending you back to that man. You are staying here with us.”

  I wasn’t sure how to feel. Relieved, yes. This was what I had hoped for, after all, when I packed my bags in Mississauga. But also sad that my marriage had come to this. And ashamed that I hadn’t been able to make it work. But perhaps more than anything frightened—frightened of telling Ahmed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said my father. “I’ll talk with him.”

  For the next few weeks, back in the safe embrace of my family, I tried to put even more distance between Ahmed and me. I avoided his phone calls when I could. And when we did talk, I challenged him about the way he had treated me, the names he had called me. I made it clear that I had not been happy with him.

  I also thought a lot about what it would mean to not return to Canada.

  I would be separating Aisha from her doting father, yes, but she would still be surrounded by a loving family. My parents and sisters adored her. I saw how the idea that a wife and her children belonged to a husband’s family had robbed my parents of time and connection with their only grandchild. If Aisha could be close to only one set of grandparents, I knew which ones I would choose.

  And then there was my own future. My sisters Warda and Saira did not have university educations and yet both had found good jobs. They had had to move to Abu Dhabi to do so, but perhaps I could find something in Ruwais so my parents could help me with Aisha—at least for the short term. And maybe I would take a few university courses through correspondence. I asked my sisters to help me put together my resumé.

  By the end of June, my father decided it was time to break the news to my husband. When Ahmed called, Papa gestured for me to hand him the phone. He told Ahmed that come August, Aisha and I would be staying put. He didn’t want us to return to Canada. His voice was firm.

  * * *

  Ahmed was too shocked when my father initially spoke to him to say much, but over the next weeks he called frequently to speak to both my father and me. He pleaded with us, crying, apologizing and making promises about the future. And he sent me long, sad emails in which he professed his love for me again and again. He had lost his temper only because he adored me so much, he explained. It caused him pain when I wasn’t being modest or wh
en I wasn’t my best self. He swore that if I returned, we would get our own apartment and start over. He told me he would work on his professional qualifications so he could get a better job that would allow us to pay for my tuition and to get our own house eventually. He was full of hope and ambition for us.

  Amma contacted my parents as well. She tried to distance herself from everything that had happened since her arrival in Canada. She and Abba were shocked by her son’s behaviour, she claimed. They had no idea why he acted the way he did. His anger was certainly a problem. They had tried to talk about it with him. When I came back, they would make sure that he changed his ways.

  But my parents were not fooled.

  “The days when daughters were told that they would leave their married homes only on their deathbeds are gone,” my mother told Amma. “Daughters are not burdens anymore.”

  We all agreed that Amma and Abba were deeply entwined in my marital problems. They had misled my whole family about their attitudes and intentions. And the expectations and pressures they were foisting on Ahmed were clearly beyond his ability to resist—or tolerate. He had become an unkind husband, and I had been turned into a quivering wreck.

  Bolstered by my parents’ support, I continued to reject Ahmed’s weepy pleas to return. One evening, I held the receiver tightly and made myself say the words I had been thinking for so long. “Ahmed, I can’t live like this anymore.” He heard what I was saying, but I had no idea if he believed me.

  While I was trying to push Ahmed away, I couldn’t help thinking about the promises he had been making. I was fairly certain that if I returned, nothing would change. It was true that I didn’t want to be with the person Ahmed was now. But perhaps there was another way for the old Ahmed to return and for us to have a happy life.