The Stories We Choose to Tell by Fatima Alharthi

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I am expired. I have no growing cancer, no failing kidney, or Alzheimer’s, none of the lethal 21st century common causes of death. I have a history of anemia that I sporadically keep under control with the iron tablets, and the lump in my pit turned out to be an enlarged zest caused by ingrown hair. I work out at least five times a week, drink four glasses of water, replace maple syrup and honey for sugar, and meditate. You can consider my verbose hyperbole given that the expiration is for my residency in the States only, not a disconnection of some oxygen mask to breathe. In grad school, a rudimentary orientation acquaints you with the school’s facilities, healthcare insurance, and how to react during the hurricane season. Yet, what that orientation lacks is beyond keeping passports and essential documents in Ziploc bags. It is learning how not to fall in love with a country that’ll eventually kick you out. 

Mothers are right in wanting their kids to be physicians. Neither my husband nor I fulfilled this maternal wish. Hence our chances to find jobs in the States have been scarce. My daughter came one day telling me that she is embarrassed, that almost all her friends have parents who are either doctors or CEOs. I suddenly felt like that daughter of the Arabic language teacher, how out of place she was, the only foreigner among locals, who heard us talking of our fathers’ professions as businessmen, architects, engineers, TV directors, and her parents were only teachers. Truth is, she never raised her hands during the English class. The rest of us competed to prowess new vocabulary. I’m not a full professor nor a full writer. The first needs a job beyond the ridiculous teaching load and modicum pay for graduate assistants, and the second requires a published book. Hammers bang my head. 

 …………………“No way I am going to sleep here.”

I can’t tell if my daughter’s “here” means the duvet, two pillows, the Queen flat sheet on the ground, or the gourd-size purple stain on the beige carpet. My husband is south in town playing cards and saying goodbye to his Saudi friends, capsizing the plan of coming home early to take some hours of sleep before the 5 am flight. You did a great job packing everything, he had said. His voice was clear and lively against a distant song of Fairooz. He is correct, but I worry about the t-shirt and underwear he is wearing, the time of his shower, and the Dracaena he promised to give away before we leave. Contractors try to extradite a four-year-old Moroccan kid from a hole thousands of miles away. My daughter is standing akimbo, wearing sweatpants, a white tee, and smells of Johnson & Johnson’s shampoo. I squint at the red object in her hand. 

 …………………“ّIs that Tylenol?”

 …………………“No, it is my gum.”

 …………………“Not allowed.”

 …………………“I know. I was about to put it in my bag.”

Her I know sounds borrowed from some Netflix or Disney show, a tone unfamiliar in our Arabian household. Her eyebrows arched, head and chest perched as if ready for a fight, an appearance that makes me think of the baby shampoo as a misfit to her growing out of babyhood, out of my molding. She is still seven years old.                  

 …………………“Lower your voice. This is not how you should talk to your mom.”

She huffs and rolls the fan’s switch to the maximum speed. The four blades merge like a Sufi’s white skirt, billowing. I swallow my desire to lecture her on the dangers of turning on the fan with her hair still wet and keep my grandmother’s story to myself. Perhaps our living in the States for five years diminished the power of cautionary tales. The story goes like this: a woman got paralized because she came out of the bathroom dripping, her towel showing her bare shoulders when the air conditioner’s cold breeze left her stiff forever. Which woman? Plus, the fan is just air, not cold air, but moving air at will; I hear my voice pulsating the tale’s veracity in my head.

My daughter unzips the front pocket of her floral Vera Bradley backpack and rearranges the contents; UNO wrapped in a scrunchie, pocket Kleenex, and three bags of jelly fruit snacks. She puts the cylindrical gum container in the front pocket that once had a card and a pendant of a half-broken heart dangling from a silver plated chain. The half heart had chopped words, incomplete Friends Forever that after two weeks of wearing the necklace, it got lost. My head throbs, missing the third coffee cup for a second day. Mr. Coffee is packed, and Tylenol is nowhere to be found. 

I open the medicine cabinet and the sink drawers to locate the Tylenol. The image of the white bottle with its red cap lingers in my vision. The toilet is bare except for my daughter’s clothes on the damp floor. Calling her out to pick them up will only confirm her statement that I’m always mad. I pick the wet underwear and clothes, wondering whether to put them in a plastic bag, then in the outer pocket of her suitcase, or to wait for my husband’s clothes and mine and wash all items before we head to the airport. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, four hours seem enough to wash, dry, fold and pack the clothes. I leave the damp clothes on the white counter of gray vines, opening the kitchen’s drawers and cupboards. Bereft of spices, cutlery, pots, pans, or any traces of dwelling. Pills took up the drawer furthest from the oven and closer to the living room. Empty. My Twitter feeds sizzle with digital drawings, poems, and prayers for the Moroccan kid. He is crouched between giant boulders, the thin vertical gap like the earth’s umbilical cord. The pain intensifies. Near the living room’s windows overlooking the complex, my Dracaena waits for a home. Michael, I called it after the 2018 hurricane that hit North Florida.

Empty Shelves of parsley and cilantro. No packed spinach or lettuce, or guacamole. Empty refrigerators that once had yogurt and many kinds of cream cheese but not up to the standard of Philadelphia plain cheese. Empty freezers of eggwich, pizzas, ice cream, and loose corn. Even if I don’t purchase my produce from Walmart, witnessing the clear aisles signified humans’ incompetence in the face of natural disasters. Near the checkout, the Dracaena stood with a bunch of others, wilted, half-priced, and with soil so dry that if the pot flipped accidentally, the soil would have spilled on the ground, released from the pot’s circumventing shape. There on the largest wall, I taped my creative dissertation, a scene per post-it-note only to have my advisor say that I need at least two years to find a publisher, that it’s almost impossible for a hijabi woman to find a teaching job in an American institution. 

There, lounged a gray three-seat sofa facing the TV. Next to it was a similar two-seat sofa facing the windows that my husband shuts down whenever he decides to nap in the middle of the day watching Seinfeld or Larry David. In the center was a rectangular walnut coffee table with my daughter’s paint marks and my husband’s stains of coffee cup rings. Of my scant times watching with my husband, an episode of Larry David stuck with me featuring white rings and respect for wood. Thinking of my husband’s not using coasters then selling the table for only twenty dollars augments my headache. It’s a sunk cost, he had said. The TV stand contained an Arabic book that I intended to train my daughter with, a Scrabble, Chutes and Ladder, and a Monopoly board, all with tattered edges and replaced with new ones. Except for the Arabic book, I packed it in its unused condition. My daughter comes near me, sniffing. 

 …………………“You smell of crayons.”

 …………………“Do I?”

 …………………“Ah-huh.”

 …………………“That’s weird. I haven’t touched crayons since you were in preschool.”

 …………………“Oh, never mind.”

She swats the air and goes back to her empty room. Then, she comes out again, wheeling her suitcase to the room, laying it against the wall, and sitting on it. I pass the living room to my bedroom, rummaging for the Tylenol in my purse. I dump the contents, the garnet purse containing our passports, my wallet, Lauren Groff’s Florida, my Moleskine pocket notebook, a Pilot G-2 pen, CVS receipt with unredeemed coupons. I unzip the travel-size toiletry. Carmex lip balm, Nivea hand lotion, kohl, BB cream, blusher, nude-colored rouge, a few Life Savers mint, a hand sanitizer, four KN95 masks, and a vale of Prada perfume; a gratuitous sample. Rebecca Zamalo screams from my daughter’s iPad.

 …………………“Hey guys, today we are doing the fast-medium-slow food challenge to keep Daniel safe..”

The voice gets louder, then stops. 

 …………………“Mom, I don’t have a mask.”

 …………………“Take this.”

She looks at the black folded mask in my hand, disgusted.  

 …………………“No. I want one of my cloth masks.”

 …………………“Sorry, I packed them. “

She unpauses the YouTube video. A male voice comes through explaining the challenge. She walks and watches simultaneously. I raise my voice.  

 …………………“I would keep the iPad charged and not use it until the trip starts.”

 …………………“It’s at 32 percent.”

She shouts back. 

 …………………“Not enough. Charge it and do something else.”

More voices join the video of screams and laughter. Then, rummaging in her backpack, she must have fished a crumpled tie-dye mask. 

 …………………“Never mind. I found a mask.”

Two suitcases per passenger in addition to the cabin-sized bag, the airline instructs. I wrapped my Amazon-bought Babushka with a headwrap and tucked it between my clothes. Ziploc bags containing white sand from Daytona beach, a coaster-sized seashell, a shaft of an oak tree bark, and a 1930’s rag doll bought online and had an oil stain on its white dress. Goodwill has our scent now, our memories, and two-thirds of the clothes we wore in the past five years. The Dryer pimped our clothes, leaving them in a dilapidated condition, unfitting to pack them to Saudi Arabia. There, between the slats of the blinds, I air-dried the few expensive clothes we had. My husband’s Boss shirt and Tommy Hilfiger polo shirts, my daughter’s Ralph Lauren dresses, my silk scarf and Escada shirt. 

 …………………“Can you color with me?”

My daughter holds a coloring book of affirmations and a pencil case bulged with Crayola coloring pencils. I am the best version of myself, the cover says. 

 …………………“I’d love to, but I want to finish packing. Why don’t you sharpen all colors, so we have them ready when we start the trip?”

She tilts her head, then says okay, though unconvinced. A tweet confirms dropping a phone, water bottle, and some food for the Moroccan kid. Wilted, the night vision portrait is similar to the 4D sonogram of my daughter, except that hers showed fuller cheeks and closed eyes, while the eyes of the kid are wide open, sparking with defeat. I sit on the kitchen’s calico counter, cross-legged, and close my eyes.

 …………………“One, two, three, four, inhale. One, two, three, four, hold your breath. One, two, three, four, release. One, two, three, four, inhale. One, two, three, four, hold your breath. One, two, three, four, release. One, two, three, four, in..”

The power goes off. I feel the sudden light blinking off and open my eyes to my daughter’s scream. Mama? I hop off the counter feeling my way. Behind me is the apartment’s door, and to my right, the laundry room is quiet of whirring. Coming, I say. The parquet floor has wet splotches, traces of my daughter’s bathing. 

 …………………“Stay where you are.”

 …………………“But my iPad.”

 …………………“The power will be back soon.”

 …………………“What if it doesn’t?”

 …………………“I have a power bank, plus we can charge in the airplane.”

 …………………“Really?”

I nod, then voice my confirmation when I realize that she can’t see me in the dark. 

The two pillows and the duvet will be dropped in Goodwill on our way to the airport. My daughter’s body twitches as she yields the last shaft of consciousness to sleep. The power outage eased the way to coax her to sleep on the ground. Mattresses sold, beds sold, the desk sold, and books shipped to our Saudi address. Mr. Coffee, my daughter’s Barbie house, my elegant miniature dollhouse, My husband’s paintings that he gathered over the years from estate sales, many plush toys, LOL and Barbie dolls, and most of my kitchen items took up forty boxes. Forty for only three people, my husband was ghast. Twenty to contain my bookshelf only. I turn off the fan and light switch, not wanting them to suddenly flicker when the little body has already submitted to the dark. I hear her voice correcting me that she isn’t little and that she lost most of her baby teeth and can make smoothies, ramen, and hot dogs by herself. I cover her with the five-year-old flat sheet, bought cheaply from T.J.Maxx, and cup my palms to recite prayers.

Outside, a faraway, yellow-lit window intimidates our residential complex for its lack of lights. Part of me is relieved to know that the problem is not peculiar to our apartment. Having trusted my husband with the utility bill, the first thought I had when the power went out was of him having the bill slipped off his to-do list. The white balcony rail is visible, and until yesterday, the space contained two chairs. Three deer graze near the lake. Fenced off the property, there have been times of drought when the lake was totally dry, greenish, brown, then white, covered in frost. Finally, the fluorescent moon gives enough light to observe. A woman is carrying a box of groceries. She must have come from Costco. The orange plastic bags of meat shimmer. She stands behind the locked gates trying in vain to swipe her white card, then walks to the front office and comes back aware that the staff leaves at 6 pm. Blood must have leaked from the minced beef, soaking the cardboard box and preying on the pineapple. She clicks the trunk, puts the box back, and dials some number on her phone. 

It has been said that a full moon is associated with madness and that the word lunatic is derived from lunar. It has also been noted that Richardson claimed to have read books at the light of the full moon to the doubt of critics and 21st-century scholars. I come back to the porch with my journal and a pen. The Costco woman is in her car. I lean toward the pollen-spotted handrail, edging closer to the moon’s shadow. 

Things I’ll miss in the States, I start writing:

• cheap strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries.
• Folgers coffee.
• The sound of woodpeckers between February and May. 
• Azalea in March, Dandelions in April, and deer all year round. 
• Amazon Prime delivery.
• One week maximum delivery of any book, used or new. 
• Naughty, carefree, noisy squirrels.
• Fifteen-minute walk to Walmart, twenty to Starbucks and Chillis, Thirty to Target. 
• Change of seasons.
• No stray dogs, mating and fighting cats, or loud honks, especially after 7 pm. 
• NOT being rushed to finish things.
• NOT being told to visit, pay condolences, attend parties or weddings.
• Having complete control of my time. 
• Kind people. Smiles and hand waves before pouts. 

The woman leaves her car, meeting a man who squats near the edge of the large gate then pushes it open. Two cars get through before the woman starts off her engine. I brush off the thought on what would happen to the seven pounds of minced beef. Ice must have begun to melt in the woman’s freezer by now. The next page in my journal has May 15 on its crest. I leaf the pages backward to May 13. 

Things I wish I’d done in the States:

• Making more friends. 
• Lived in a house with a white picket fence and took a mortgage
• Went hiking, canoeing, and on photography errands
• Took driving lessons
• Shed more pounds in learning a sport or, at best, walking five times a week
• learned painting with watercolors
• Spent more time writing in cafes than at home
• Went to the library more often to finish a book a week
• Attended the annual football games. 
• Went to the Fresh Market more often. 
• Submitted more stories after my daughter went to bed instead of crouching next to her or wasting time on Instagram and online shopping 
• Participated in more conferences
• Applied to 20 jobs instead of the 3 that rejected me. 
• Applied four more times to the diversity visa that didn’t select us in the first year. 
• Laughed more. 
• Worried about grades, ironed clothes, what to cook for dinner, less. 
• Taught my daughter how to ride a bicycle
• Taught my daughter Arabic
• Had our photos printed in a photo album.

My husband turns in the key, calling my name, followed by a question mark the size of the moon. Darkness has its weight of intimidation, especially when something precious is no longer visible. This might be the reason why, unlike any time before, I’m now dreading the future. It no longer seems like a big round sun with circumnavigating spikes or a straight spine walking on a wide set of stairs. Future is a black sheet. Dark. Future is a power outage. 

 …………………“Here,” I say to my husband’s repetitive calling of my name. I close the journal and get inside, where the gray floor has a speck of marinara sauce, dried with time and overlooked by Swiffer. 

 …………………“Why didn’t you put candles or use flashlights?”

 …………………“The tealights are in the shipped boxes, and we sent the flashlights to Goodwill.”

 …………………“Ready for the trip?”

 …………………“I think so.”

My husband pulls the blinds’ tassels, compressing the white slats. Showered and changed into sweatpants, we face the night. My husband and I cram on a single pillow. I’m in the middle between him and our daughter, though I despise being in the middle. I am an aisle, not a window person. It’s one of the things that when you advance in age and get squished between passengers’ sour pits, foul breaths, and invading elbows, you let go. The floor is hard, and both the carpet and duvet don’t assist in cushioning the stiff feeling of the hard floor. Still, no lights in the residential complex flicker, and this room is far from the moon. Bleak sheet of nothingness. I turn my head to the right, my gaze at the dark night. Dazzles of light flutter. I feel my husband’s stare joins mine. 

 …………………“It would’ve been good to stay, to make Tallahassee our home.”

I wonder if in his hole, the Moroccan kid was able to tilt his head and look upward at the stars or if a firefly descended in the shaft to flicker some hope of survival. To our right, the night has metamorphosed into a festival of yellow light in motion. 

 …………………“Yes,” I say. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

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Fatima Alharthi was born and raised in Saudi Arabia. She is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at Florida State University. Her work appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Tahoma Literary Review and Santa Clara Review among others. 

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26 August 2022