Читать книгу You Exist Too Much - Zaina Arafat - Страница 11

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THE NEXT DAY ANNA AND I MET UP AT OUR APARTMENT before dinner. She was wearing a V-neck sweater and a corduroy skirt, an awkward effort to look feminine in spite of her boyishness. Maybe she thought it would better ingratiate her to my mother. But her efforts were in vain—I knew my mother wouldn’t be all right with this situation, especially if she looked even more like a woman.

We took the Q train into Manhattan, and as it hurtled across the bridge over the East River, I had a brief image of it derailing. Wouldn’t that make things easier? I felt nauseated with worry at the thought of the three of us sitting there, attempting to have a normal dinner, my mother potentially piecing things together. Before that night I’d tried coming out to her once; after things ended with Kate, my college roommate and secret girlfriend, and I was desperate for comfort. “I like both,” I’d confessed into the phone. I could practically hear my mother weakening down the line; all the strength she seemed to normally possess had disintegrated. “Is it official?” she’d asked.

I was unsure of what “official” meant, in the context of sexuality. I imagined it to mean “are you sure” or “is there no way you could just not be that way?”

She hung up before I could respond. In the weeks after, she would complain to me about her life, as though I were an objective observer. “I should’ve had better,” she’d say. “I deserved so much more than this.”

I supposed my phone confession counted as official, but still I couldn’t imagine how my mother would handle it, face-to-face.

“What are you thinking about?” Anna asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

It was dark by the time we ascended the subway steps onto Canal Street. We passed vendors folding up their makeshift shops selling fake designer bags and sunglasses. We turned the corner onto the narrow street where the restaurant was. We walked in and I looked around for my mother. She wasn’t there yet, a temporary relief. I checked my phone and saw a text from her: Still shopping. Will b there in 15.

We put our name down at the hostess desk. It was still relatively early; we wouldn’t have to wait too long for a table. We sat down at the bar and ordered drinks: me prosecco, Anna a beer. “You seem nervous,” she said.

“I am,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be upset if you wanted me to leave,” she said. “I would understand.”

I considered taking her up on it, but I knew it would make me feel terrible. I touched her arm gently. “Of course not.”

We didn’t speak much, and soon the hostess called out Anna’s name. “Are you all here?” she asked.

“Almost,” I said. “The third person’s a few blocks away.”

She led us to our table. I sat down, giving Anna the booth side. My eyes glazed over the menu without processing anything. Moments later, I could feel my mother’s presence as she entered the restaurant. “Hello!” I heard her call out to no one in particular, in her thick Arabic accent, which hadn’t subsided in the twenty-seven years she’d been in the States. As she made her way toward me, I watched her reflection in the mirror above the booth: her almond-shaped eyes flanked by Palestine-reputed cheekbones, her thick brown hair reaching the small of her back and framing her face. We caught eyes in the mirror just as she approached. We greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek. Anna stood up to introduce herself, but my mother preempted her. “Hi, I’m Laila Abu Sa’ab,” she said in one breath. I had already told her that Andrew couldn’t make it, and that Anna would be joining us instead. “Why can’t he?” she’d asked over the phone, suspicious that something was off.

“Another business trip,” I’d said, then quickly changed the subject.

“So, ladies!” she draped her coat over the back of the chair beside me before scooting into the booth. “What shall we order?” She assumed we would want to share, which Anna and I usually didn’t. Part of eating-disorder recovery meant controlling your portions, which was easier to do with individual meals. “I’m open to anything!” Anna said, trying to be flexible. We chose two salads and two pizzas—arugula and beet, margherita and prosciutto. Until the food arrived, my mother talked about her work. Anna pretended like it was all new to her. Our waitress brought everything all out at once, overwhelming the table. We piled salad onto our plates while the pizza cooled. As we were taking our first bites, my mother mentioned a friend whose daughter was getting married. I felt a burn of jealousy. Anytime I heard of another Arab girl’s engagement, it immediately snapped me out of my gayness. “How’d she meet him?” I asked.

“Through the community,” she said. Years ago I’d drifted away from the community, which consisted of Syrians, Lebanese, and Palestinians living in the D.C. area. When I moved back to D.C. after a year in Italy post-college, I’d taken part in weekends of pregaming at posh lounges followed by bass-pumping, douchebag-frequented clubs, an activity I would’ve gladly traded for, say, cleaning toilets. “He’s from a very good family.”

Anna silently observed this interaction. I could tell she felt left out; my mother had taken no interest in her, hadn’t asked her a single question. She was selectively observant—a female roommate’s background was of no consequence. In a misguided attempt to ease the tension and make Anna feel included, I decided to broach the topic of our relationship. I started with a hypothetical. It was a risky one, but at the restaurant that night, I felt safe with my mother. “How would you feel if I married a woman?” I asked. It was too much—I could’ve started with “dated”—but for some reason I chose to go extreme.

My mother dragged a slice from the plate in the center of the table and placed it onto her own. “I would be very upset,” she said, avoiding eye contact. She took a bite and chewed it slowly, her breaths getting louder and deeper, her eyes blinking faster. Her instincts were onto us. I was becoming increasingly nervous—I knew all the signs. “Why?” she asked. She looked directly at Anna before turning back to me. “Are you planning on it?”

I panicked. “I was just wondering—”

“Because if you are, then stay away,” she threatened. “Stay away from me and the rest of my family.” In her mind, her lineage didn’t trickle down to me.

Her breaths now sounded like crashing waves. She began to twitch. I tried to backtrack. “I’m not saying I’m going to.”

“You know what . . .” She stood up, pushing the table forward, knocking over a glass and soaking the kitschy checkered tablecloth with red wine. “Do whatever you want.”

Anna immediately grabbed napkins and started mopping up the wine. The people seated beside us looked over, then scooted in the opposite direction before turning back to their conversation. I gave them an apologetic look.

My mother ran out of the restaurant, forgetting her coat. I grabbed it before pulling on my own. “Can you get the bill?” I asked Anna. “I’ll pay you back.”

She nodded. “Just go.”

I burst out the door and spotted her in the distance ahead. I tried to catch up. “Mama, please,” I cried. “I’m sorry. I won’t. I’m not!” By the time I caught up to her, I could see a tear streaming down her cheek. I could think of nothing more shameful—why was I doing this to her? At the time I thought the same thing: she should’ve had better. She didn’t deserve this at all.