Abdul had not changed from when Leila saw him three years ago. He still had a large nose and wide-set eyes, a neat combed mustache, and a receding hairline. And he still had a son.
Little Mohammed was a small kid with a round belly and short hair. He sat on the tile floor of the front hall, grasping his knee like he was terribly wounded. One glance told Leila the scrape was minor; she doubted it was even bleeding. But after Umm Naji threw her a warning glance, Leila knelt and patted Mohammed on the head. He scowled in return. Leila sighed. She glanced around for her elder sister to take the burden of Mohammed off her hands. Fatima must have been in the kitchen, avoiding the company as Leila had tried.
“Abu Mohammed!” Tamir’s thin voice echoed from the courtyard door.
Abdul greeted the head of the al-Ghani house with a “Salaam” and a hug and double kiss. The men put their arms around each other’s shoulders and retreated into the sitting room, leaving the women with the battered luggage, the cooking, and the child.
“Mama,” Leila pleaded, as Mohammed tugged at the bottom of her dress with vicious force, threatening to rip the hem.
“Mohammed, Mohammed,” Umm Naji said.
“What?” Mohammed said.
Leila thought he seemed immature for a five-year-old. Perhaps he did not get enough nutrition, although with a doctor for a father that was unlikely.
“Let’s go into the kitchen and you can have a honeycomb. Would you like that?” Umm Naji said, grabbing the boy’s hand.
“I want a big honeycomb,” Mohammed said, “but I don’t like the white parts.”
“I’ll cut off the white parts,” Umm Naji said. “Leila, get the luggage and take it to the best guest room.”
Leila nodded. There were three suitcases: one large, dusty red cloth rolling one, a smaller hard case, and a duffel bag. She put the hard case on top of the rolling one and slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, grunting with the effort. Leila was five foot five and very slender, taking after her father’s side, so she was not built for porter’s work. The best guest bedroom was on the ground floor, down the left-hand corridor and overlooking the courtyard. She wheeled the suitcases along and opened the door to the pleasant but strong scent of incense; her mother must have set it burning for the welcome. Leila stacked the bags in a neat pile at the foot of the bed and brushed off her hands.
Next came an afternoon of cooking over the hot gas and serving the men their food. Fatima seemed to enjoy it, but for Leila it was grim work, and only the prospect of her job the next day put a slight smile back onto her face.
As it turned out, the day was not so difficult as Leila had anticipated. She and Fatima chattered over their tasks, and as expected, Fatima enthusiastically congratulated Leila for finding a good job. They made bread. The lamb was set to stew. And blessedly, Fatima took over the responsibility for watching little Mohammed.
Then it was six in the evening and they joined their father and cousin Abdul in the sitting room for a family reunion over minted, sugared shai. Leila sat with her legs tucked beneath her and her hands clasped in her lap, keeping out of the conversation. She wanted to avoid Abdul’s attention if possible.
“And Leila still wants to be a doctor,” Umm Naji said brightly. Leila almost winced.
“Ah!” Abdul said, sipping loudly at his tea. “You have finished the university?” He stared at Leila.
“Yes, I have finished my biomedical science course,” said Leila. She made sure to sound demure, but as proud as she still could.
“Biomedicine, yes,” said Abdul. “I say that it’s good for research. Research doctors are not so well regarded in the community, I think, but they serve their purpose.”
“Mmm.” Leila bit back a retort. If it were not for research, no drugs would be discovered, no new techniques invented. And biomedical science was a good general degree, for every kind of medicine! The points of retaliation rose in Leila’s mind, but she did not want to make a scene. If she said nothing to Abdul, he might say nothing further to her.
“She is not engaged?” Abdul asked Tamir, nodding at Leila.
“No,” Tamir sighed. “Not yet.”
Umm Naji cleared her throat.
“Suprising,” said Abdul, rubbing his chin with short fingers.
“When would you like dinner served?” Umm Naji asked. “There is mutton tonight, Leila’s specialty.”
Leila snorted and had to cover it up with a dainty cough. She had no hand in the mutton, aside from poking at it and setting out the large cooking pot.
“One hour, I think,” said Tamir. “Civilized people eat at seven-thirty. We are still civilized in Iraq.”
“Excuse me,” said Leila, standing up. She disagreed that civilization had a firm hold over her countrymen, despite what her father liked to believe, but it did no good to show her opinion. “I will begin preparing the trays,” she whispered to Umm Naji, who nodded in approval.
Ten minutes later, Fatima entered the kitchen with the silver tray and its load of empty glass teacups. “Abdul keeps looking at you,” she said, setting the glasses to be rinsed.
“I know it,” said Leila. She had avoided looking at Abdul, feeling his eyes upon her, and she hated the creepy-crawly feeling on the skin beneath her dress. She imagined he would talk to her father about a possible betrothal and Leila dreaded the inevitable clash. Umm Naji would approve, of course; it would be a one-up against her sister-in-law, Abdul’s mother, to whom she’d never warmed. “I haven’t been looking back at him,” Leila said.
“He’s not the one for you,” said Fatima. “Don’t worry. Mother and Father can’t force you to marry anyone.”
“But they can make my life more difficult.”
“You’re going to be a doctor, Leila! A great one! I know it. Don’t worry about anything else.”
For the millionth time, Leila felt gratitude to have her sister’s support.
Through the rest of the meal, Leila held true and refused to meet Abdul’s gaze. For once she was glad for societal boundaries. The sole indication of Abdul’s affection would be a formal proposal of marriage, which could be deferred. Leila hoped it would not come to that; men’s egos were so fragile and it might cause a rift in the family. However, her actions always contained the danger of familial tension: walking alone, going to the market, taking the job at the hospital, of which neither parent knew as yet.
After dinner, as she and Umm Naji and Fatima worked on cleaning the dishes from the day, Leila broached the subject of her morning schedule. “I need to be away again tomorrow,” she said.
“Why?” Umm Naji asked sharply.
“Well, Mother, I’ve taken a job at the Al-Razi Hospital,” she said. “My interview this morning went well, and they want me to start in the pharmacy at nine tomorrow morning.”
Umm Naji stopped the motions of cleaning the large pot, soapy water dripping from her fingers. “But you are needed here! Cousin Abdul! And with Fatima working tomorrow…”
“I don’t have to go to work tomorrow,” Fatima said.
“Still, Leila, nine! Until when?”
“Six.”
“Nine until six! That’s all day!”
“That’s work, Mama! It will help the family, and it is a good job, in one of the best hospitals. I already said yes, and I got my identification card and security pass.” Leila was prepared to run up to her room to show off the items.
Umm Naji sighed. “I don’t like it, Leila. What if the hospital is dangerous? What if there is a bombing?”