A Good Wife Page 9
* * *
Then, at the end of February, Ahmed got a call from his parents. Their papers had come through, and they would be flying to Mississauga in a few weeks’ time. I was startled. I hadn’t expected things to move this quickly.
“Should we start looking for an apartment?” I asked Ahmed. When he first explained that we would be living in his parents’ condo, he had told me that we would relocate when they arrived.
“We will need our privacy,” he had said, “and besides, every woman wants her own home.”
But now he seemed reluctant to move too quickly. “We need to live with Amma and Abba for a bit. It would be rude to rush right out of the condo the moment they arrive.”
Remembering my time with Amma in Dubai, I was of course worried. But I tried to remember how disoriented I had felt on the streets of Mississauga when I first arrived. Ahmed’s parents were older and surely less adventuresome than I was. It seemed only kind to help them acclimate before we left them on their own. And perhaps with a new baby to bring them joy, Amma and Abba would be a bit more affectionate with their bahu, would behave like the parents I missed so much. At the very least, with a baby to focus on, Amma might be less insistent on my being by her side at all times.
I was disappointed to realize that before they arrived we needed to move out of the master bedroom and into the smaller room. My pregnancy had me up many times in the night, and I’d come to rely on that convenient en suite bathroom. And the other bedroom had no furniture. Reluctant to buy anything before we had our own place, Ahmed arranged to fill it with cast-offs from a friend.
As I watched him set up a lumpy mattress on the battered bed frame, my heart sank. It was just a bed and a bedroom now, but change seemed to hang over us like a dark cloud. I remembered how intimidated I had been by Amma, as she called the shots the entire week in Dubai.
“Ahmed,” I said as he wrestled with the furniture, “will we still be able to have time to ourselves when your parents get here? Will we be able to go out on our own?”
Ahmed shoved the mattress into place and then stood up. “Of course we will,” he said. “Things aren’t going to change.”
With all my heart, I wanted to believe him.
* * *
I awoke to the sound of banging and crashing. It was so early that the sky outside our bedroom window was still an inky grey. I got out of bed, pulled a housecoat over my swollen stomach and went into the kitchen.
Amma was standing before the open refrigerator. All of the kitchen cupboards were open. I could tell that she had been up for a while already. The cabinet where I had put all the spices now contained glasses. The cupboard where I had put the glasses now contained spices. Everywhere I looked, something had been moved or rearranged in some way.
She turned to me, a look of disapproval tightening her face. “Why don’t you have fresh chili peppers?” she asked. And then before I could respond, “I don’t know why you don’t have some meat in the freezer.”
I didn’t have an answer.
“Never mind.” She sighed. “You’ve clearly never been taught to run a household. I will teach you now that I am here.”
She turned back to the fridge and began moving things around again. “I have no idea how my son has been managing without me.”
I wanted to tell her how happy we’d been, how happy he’d been. But I had already been dismissed.
Our first day all together in the condo continued like that—a strange medley of kinetic activity and dull tension. After Amma finished in the kitchen, she began to unpack the boxes of her personal belongings that had arrived in December along with the furniture. Abba sat in the living room flicking through the TV channels, his expression, as always, unreadable. Ahmed moved between the two of them, oddly quiet and grim faced. Amma didn’t seem to want my help, so I escaped to our bedroom, exhausted from my early morning.
As soon as I got comfortable on the bed, Ahmed appeared in the doorway. Oh good, I thought. We hadn’t talked at all since we picked his parents up at the airport the night before. I was hoping he was coming in to cuddle with me while I rested. He probably wanted to ask if there was anything I wanted or needed, the way he usually did.
Instead, he remained in the doorway. “Samra,” he said. His tone was stern. “Come back into the living room. It’s rude to be in here when everyone is out there.”
“I just wanted to rest a bit,” I said. “My back hurts, and I’m tired.”
I looked over at him. His arms were crossed and his expression dark. “You’re not the first woman to be pregnant you know.”
My stomach dropped. He had never been upset like this with me before. As he turned his back, I scrambled out of bed and followed him into the living room, still tired but now worried that I had angered him.
I joined him on the sofa, hoping he might give me a sign of reassurance—perhaps put his arm around me or reach for my hand. Instead he stared intently at the television. As I turned my attention to the screen, I wondered if he too was unsettled by his mother’s criticism and all her efforts to underline that this home was hers, not ours. Perhaps we would talk about this when we got to bed that night, and then Ahmed’s mood would pass.
But we didn’t speak. Not that night or in the many nights to come.
Instead, our life immediately shifted into a gloomy new routine. Each morning I rose at about 6:00 a.m. to make Ahmed’s lunch. Amma had chastised me for sleeping in. “It’s shameful for you to be sleeping when your husband leaves for work,” she said heatedly.
After Ahmed took the lunch I had prepared and left for work, I would help Amma in the kitchen or sit with her and Abba in the living room, watching TV or listening to Amma talk about family and friends. In the afternoon, Amma and Abba would nap, and as much as I would have liked to do my homework then or even talk on the phone with my parents, I was often too exhausted and would sleep as well. Once Ahmed came home, we’d have dinner and then return once again to the living room couch to watch more TV. If Amma went into the kitchen, Ahmed would shoot me a look that made it clear I should accompany her. Just like in Dubai, Amma was never to be unattended by her bahu. When Ahmed’s parents were finally ready for bed, we would be allowed to retire as well. Ahmed would crawl silently into bed and immediately roll over to go to sleep. If I tried to chat or engage him in any way, he would mutter that he was tired and then refuse to respond further.
Sometimes, Ahmed came into our room only to leave it once his parents were settled in their bed. Once when I tried to join him, he shooed me back. “It looks bad if you and I are by ourselves in the living room.”
I retreated to our room feeling wounded and alone. From then on, I used that time to finish my homework or do my readings for school. But I couldn’t stop thinking of Ahmed sitting by himself, just on the other side of the wall but remarkably far away.
Any time I tried to speak to him about the dramatic change in his behaviour towards me, he would glower and wave me off. I was both hurt and confused. All I knew was that there was something about living with his parents that made Ahmed put a great distance between us. But it was bound to disappear, I reasoned, once the baby arrived, and would certainly be gone once we had moved into a place of our own.
For now, however, our former happy life together seemed to have blown away as if by a mighty typhoon.
* * *
Perhaps because Ahmed found those evenings on the sofa with his parents almost as tedious as I did, he began to go out with his friends quite often. I was expected to stay home and keep Amma company. One night, I decided to call him, curious about where he was and hoping that he might come home soon. He was furious. “I’ll come home when I come home. You have Amma and Abba. Stop bothering me and go to them,” he barked, before hanging up on me.
While I found his mute chilliness deeply unsettling, this anger shattered me. I was still shaking from it the next day. Ahmed was at work, Abba was watching TV and Amma was in her bedroom, preoccupied with something. I slipped i
nto my room and shut the door. I sat down on the bed, thinking about the phone call and about how my world seemed to be getting smaller and sadder by the day. I began to cry. The next thing I knew, Amma was standing before me near the bed, her face softened with concern.
“Samra, what’s the matter?” she said gently. She sat down on the bed next to me. “Tell me what’s wrong. You’re my daughter now. You can tell me everything.”
Her voice was soft and inviting. It felt like an embrace—and made me ache for my own parents. Perhaps, I thought, Amma had not realized how difficult things had been between Ahmed and me since she arrived. Perhaps she really didn’t know how much I loved him and how much I wanted to make him happy. Perhaps she could help me reach him.
“Ahmed has been acting so differently since you and Abba got here.” I looked up at her pleadingly. “He doesn’t take me out. He doesn’t want to spent time with me. He doesn’t give me love or attention anymore.”
“Oh dear, that’s not right,” Amma said with concern. She was patting my hand. “Don’t you worry. I will talk with Ahmed. I will let him know that he needs to pay more attention to you.”
Amma’s warm reassurance was exactly what I wanted to hear. I gave her a tiny, grateful smile.
“But right now, go dry your tears and brush your hair. Perk yourself up for when he gets home. And don’t worry—everything will be okay.” At the sound of this unfamiliar compassion in her tone, a wave of relief washed over me.
I was in my room, putting on makeup and tidying myself up, when I heard Ahmed walk through the front door. The next sound that reached my ears was a high-pitched scream followed by a burst of sobbing.
Amma.
As I came out of the room Ahmed was running to his mother, who was standing, hunched over and gripping the edge of the dining room table as if for support. Abba had got to her before Ahmed did. He was gripping her shoulders as she sagged.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ahmed, alarm sharpening his voice.
“I thought of Samra as a daughter,” she wailed. “I thought she loved me. But she says I’ve ruined her marriage. She says I’ve turned you against her.” She was looking at Ahmed, tears racing down her cheeks. “I want to go back,” she continued. “I can’t live here anymore with this pain.” And then, “Just kill me now.”
“Amma, what are you talking about?” I said. I moved towards her with my arms outstretched, but she struggled up and pushed me away.
“Go away. Just go away. You’ve broken my heart.”
I glanced over at Ahmed. His face was contorted in fury.
“Look what you’ve done to her!” Ahmed’s father was now spitting at me. “What if she has a heart attack from this stress? You know we have no health insurance yet!”
Then the three voices united in a chorus, all telling me to leave the room.
I sat on my bed in shocked silence. What had just happened? I was trying to catch my breath and clear my head, when Ahmed burst into the room. “What did you do?” he shouted.
I tried to explain what I had said to Amma. I told him that she had been fine when we spoke and for the several hours since. She’d even brought me a glass of juice and said more soothing words. Then we had stood shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, cooking the evening meal together, joking and laughing.
Ahmed didn’t believe me. “You bitch!” he said. “You’re trying to create problems between me and my parents.” With that, he stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door.
I slumped down in bed, Ahmed’s words coming back at me like a knife. You bitch.
I couldn’t understand any of it. Ahmed was now further away than ever, and while I didn’t enjoy Amma’s company, I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I certainly didn’t want to be on bad terms with her. Guilt and sadness and anxiety churned through me. I felt as if a storm were tearing apart my little world, and somehow I had brought it into being all by myself.
An hour or so later, Ahmed came back into the room. “Go apologize to Amma,” he said.
When I went into her room, Amma was sitting up in bed, a wad of Kleenex in her hands. She refused to look at me. “I’m so sorry if I hurt you,” I said. “I really didn’t mean to.”
“I came here with so many hopes,” said Amma, now sounding sorrowfully resigned. “I loved you more than I love my own daughters. But you have hurt me so much.”
* * *
For the following days and weeks, I moved around the condo as if I were walking on a thin sheet of ice that might give way at any moment. Ahmed refused to talk to me. Abba fussed about health insurance and Amma’s heart (although she had never had a problem with her heart). And Amma treated me with icy disdain. I tried to be as helpful as I could, working in the kitchen, bringing her food and tea, listening to her stories with greater attention. All the while, I watched her carefully, looking for signs of forgiveness, waiting for the silent treatment to end. I knew that Ahmed would never forgive me until Amma did.
Instead Amma became more overt with her criticism of me and my family. Since she had arrived, she’d been muttering about my failings—I had not been taught the proper way to cook a meal, or scrub a floor, or treat my elders. Now she began to complain about my parents, too. In particular about what they had given for my dowry.
My parents had never thought much about dowries, focusing instead on saving for their daughters’ education. Despite their feeling that dowry giving was an outdated practice, during the original arrangements for my wedding they had asked Ahmed’s parents about their expectations.
Amma had been vague. “We don’t want anything. You should just give your daughter whatever you would like,” she told my father.
Amma may have expected something, but she wasn’t going to admit it. My parents were unsure how to proceed. They decided to talk with Ahmed. Shipping furniture and other household goods would be expensive and impractical. They offered him money instead.
Ahmed, however, refused. He told them that he too thought dowries were a thing of the past. He wanted nothing from them. My parents, already financially strained by the wedding celebrations, had taken Ahmed at his word. They did insist that he and I accept a small amount of cash, nevertheless.
Now, almost a year after the rukhsati, Amma expressed her shock at their frugality. “I don’t understand your parents sending you here with nothing.” She waved her hand around the room. “Everything here belongs to me.”
She began to list all the items she had purchased for both her daughters’ dowries. “No fewer than one hundred shalwar kameezes for each of them! So many lovely bangle sets. Thousands of dollars in gold jewellery. And, of course, for their homes—everything! The fancy LG washing machine, the stainless Whirlpool dishwasher. So many shopping trips I made. Dishes, pots and pans, a microwave . . .”
I tried to challenge her. “You said that you weren’t interested in a dowry.”
Amma snorted. “If you love your daughters,” she said, “this is what you do. You give a good dowry.”
* * *
As April began, my stomach ballooned, and my May due date loomed ever larger in my mind. The arrival of a baby was becoming more real with each passing day. I hadn’t gone to any prenatal classes and was aware I had no idea what lay ahead. What’s more, the crisis with Amma had proven that I was on my own. The thought of going through childbirth with my kind, loving husband now buried somewhere deep inside Ahmed, and with no other family or friends whom I could trust or rely on, had me lying awake at night, sweating and terrified.
Since Amma and Abba had arrived, I had managed to share some of what was going on in the condo with my parents. I could not, however, talk freely to them on the phone. For one thing, Ahmed’s mother spent enormous amounts of time on the home line, so it wasn’t often free. But more important, the condo was just too small to give me the privacy to discuss anything other than my school work and the weather. In the early months of my pregnancy, it had been decided that my mother would travel to Mississauga for the birth. But when m
y father heard about the strain in the condo, he thought my mother’s presence might heighten it, so had discouraged the idea. Now I knew I couldn’t manage without her. I wrote an email to my mother begging her to come. She immediately booked a flight that would have her arrive on my nineteenth birthday—April 19th.
I had hoped that with my mother’s arrival, Ahmed and his parents might allow all our misunderstandings and the lingering resentments to be swept aside. But Amma’s obsession with the dowry and my lack of wifely training should have taught me better. My mother was immediately caught up in the domestic turmoil.
Mama was tired and hungry after her long flight, but Amma, after greeting her with an icy hello, retreated to the living room without offering any refreshments. I peered into the fridge, hunting for something to serve, but everything seemed designated for a dinner party Amma was hosting the following night. I eventually scrounged up some cookies, a glass of milk and a mug of tea. As I set this paltry supper down in front of my mother, Amma sniffed.
“Until today, I do everything around the house, and you don’t even lift a finger. Now your mother wants to be waited on, and you suddenly have the energy? Doesn’t she care about you?”
The chill did not disappear, and during the dinner party the next evening, Amma interrupted anyone who tried to draw my mother into the conversation. The next day, when my mother suggested she could make me one of my favourite dishes, Amma told her that she didn’t want another woman cooking in her kitchen. During the afternoons and evenings, sitting in the living room, any time my mother and I actually addressed one another, the exchange was met with sighs and frowns from Amma and Abba.
Eventually, Mama and I retreated to the bedroom when we wanted to talk.
* * *
Ahmed had set up the solarium as his sleeping area, so Mom could sleep with me. This at least had the advantage of allowing us to chat at night before we went to sleep, and for a few evenings, we retired before Amma and Abba had left the living room. We sat on the bed together and talked in hushed tones about the tension in the condo and the strained relationship between Ahmed and me. My mother suggested that I push a little harder for some private time with him—the occasional evening out, she felt, could set things right. She told me that she was worried about me, that I needed to start taking care of myself, resting a little more, sleeping when I needed to.