Sunday, 7:30pm
Jamila stands before a full length mirror trying to fathom why she's here. She's been trying on dress after dress despite the fact that she doesn't need one. Yet her mother insisted that buying a gown was highly necessary for reasons only God is aware of.
Sighing, she tries on the last dress her mother commanded her to wear. The long black gown that has black beads intricately designed on the chest trailing down the sleeves. This one is better than the others her mother forced her into because this isn't tight.
Jamila smiles at the mirror for the first time this evening. This is the one. Although she's very subservient towards her parents she isn't the kind of girl you want to mess with, her olive skin, big brown eyes, sharp cheekbones and pretty lips- that smirk mischievously almost always- may fool you but know that she's anything but foolish.
"Jami, hurry up! Baba is coming to pick us up."
"Coming." She gazes at the gown one last time, patting it around the stomach area in admiration and finally takes it off. "No more shopping for an entire year now," she mumbles to herself as she puts on her floral printed summer dress and fixes her hijab. She pulls the curtain aside and walks out of the fitting room with a smile on her face.
"Which one do you like?" Her mother asks eagerly with a twinkle in her eye.
"The black one, it's a perfect fit." She hands the dress to her mother.
"What about the red one?"
"That was too tight." Jamila shudders as she recalls trying to bend down while wearing it. It was hideous.
"Ay Jamila!" Her mother huffs in annoyance. "You always fuss when we go shopping." Her mother takes the black dress and hastens to the counter to pay for the item. Jamila walks behind her mother, shaking her head. I thought weddings are a joyous occasion, she thinks to herself. "Your own cousin is getting married and you're not bothered." Jamila grimaces as the lady at the cashier raises an eyebrow at her and gives her a pitiful look. Oh do you have an Arab mom who lectures you in public too?
"Mom can we please not do this here." She mutters under her breath.
"Do what? What am I doing? I'm buying a dress and I'm talking to my daughter." Jamila takes the Forever 21 bag and sighs. Talking? Well this is a one sided talk.
Jamila feels like people spend more time on their wedding than on their marriage. Her cousin Aaliya is getting married in two weeks and between applying for jobs at different clinics, attending interviews and responding to her cousin's frantic messages about getting prepared for the big day- it's safe to say that Jamila is scarred for life. Intimidated even.
Her mother- Aminah- on the other hand is a force to be reckoned with. Having been born and raised in Gaza, Palestine she knows what it's like to be tested. To leave the one place you call home and start from scratch in a foreign land where you have to adapt and learn new things, to assimilate and grow. To build a life for yourself and for your future children. Jamila was raised with strong figures like her and Ahmad-her father- to face the world head on.
If you feel daunted and afraid at the thought of anything, you face it head on. It could be college, bullies, a driving exam, racists, bigots, marriage and the list goes on, you face it. You don't put your head down. You never put your head down. You look the challenge in the eye and deal with it. This is what was drilled into her as a child and now as an adult.
This was the gist of the lecture she received the night before by her beloved mother when she made a comment about being afraid of committing to a stranger for a husband. Oh what a lecture that was. Jamila has a sour look on her face at the thought of it.
They walk out of the store and wait in a corner. Jamila eyes her mother who's currently scanning the crowd and the oncoming vehicles to see if her husband is in any of them. Jamila takes a moment to appreciate the breeze and decides to whip out her phone to take a picture of the evening sky. Los Angeles never fails to amaze her.
"Where is your father? I told him to be back in two hours."
"Shall I call him?"
"No don't. I want a drink."
"Mom where are you going?" Jamila follows her mother who looks like she's on a mission.
"I saw a coffee shop on the way here. I want that drink Zaid was having the other day. What was it? Blending ice?" Her mother walks briskly and turns to Jamila with a questioning look.
"Ice blend."
"Ah, that." She enters The Coffee Bean and places an order for two Ice Blends. Jamila finds a table and sits down with a sigh. She welcomes the aroma of coffee and cake and looks around the shop to see a few people lounging on couches and bean bags. It's definitely the perfect place to be if you want a different ambiance to get work done. "Jamila!" Her mother calls.
She glances at her mother who's waving at her whilst pointing at a random man beside her. What in the world is she doing?
"Mom?" She frowns and walks towards her. "What is it?" She carefully avoids the stranger's gaze but from her peripheral vision- she takes in his significant height. He is tall, oh God. What is it with tall men? It's like they demand your attention without even trying.
"I didn't know the name of the cheesecake you liked because I couldn't read it and someone," she glares at the teenager at the counter, "couldn't figure out what I was talking about and this kind man," she gestures to the tall guy beside her, "helped me."
"Oh," Jamila is at a loss for words. "Well, thank you." She turns to him and what a mistake that is. She's drawn to his strong physique and her mouth dries up at the sight. He wears a light blue button up shirt which covers his muscular arms and torso nicely and dark jeans paired with sneakers. One hand is tucked in his pocket while the other holds a medium size styrofoam cup. His beard is neat, his eyes are brown just like hers and they twinkle with interest and a smile sits on his moist lips. She blinks harshly and takes a deep breath.
"You're welcome." His deep voice sends chills down her spine. Jamila get a grip. What is wrong with me? She keeps her gaze on her mother.
"Mom shall we go sit down." She clears her throat and offers a tight smile.
"Wait Habibti Harun was just telling me the name of his drink." Harun? That's his name. Wow. Just wow.
"Oh yes, it's the Caramel Macchiato." He converses easily. Jamila notes that this man clearly doesn't mind standing here talking to an old woman about the best drinks this place has to offer. She would laugh but she doesn't want her mother's infamous pinches. Yes, even at 22 she pinches me. "It's delicious. Be sure to try it some time." He tilts the cup at Jamila grabbing her attention again.
"Maybe next time."
"Do you live around here?" Her mother persists in her questionnaire.
"Yes Woodland Hills."
"Oh we stay in Oakwood, Ya Rabbi what a small world." (Oh my Lord) Jamila's eyes pop out of her skull. Did she just tell a complete stranger where we live?!
"Mom-" She puts a hand on her mother's forearm but she doesn't budge.
"Do you go to University? My Jamila attended the UCLA." The UCLA? Jamila mentally groans. This is nothing short of humiliating but the stranger seems to be enjoying himself because he laughs. Jamila has the urge to glare at him but chooses to clench her teeth and stare at the menu board instead.
She just told him my name, the university I went to and where we live. How amazing is this? Could this get worse? Yes, it could. This is my mother we're talking about.
"Really?" He looks at Jamila and grins. She peeks at him and nods slowly. His expression is warm and alluring. "I'm a doctor. I came here to meet a friend." Talk about a coincidence. Jamila can't help but feel impressed. She wants to detest him but he's so well mannered, it's hard to. And he's smart. A doctor Jami!
"Ma Sha Allah!" (God has willed it). Jamila's phone rings loudly and she couldn't be more grateful for the interruption.
"Baba is here. We should go."
"Ay wait Jamila. So what kind of doctor are you?"
"A general physician."
"Ah that is good. Jamila, baba was having that knee pain remember?"
"Yes..." Where are you going with this mom?
"Here's my card." Harun quickly slips it out of his wallet and hands it to her mother. His gesture surprises even her mother. What? Why did he do that?! No. No. Does he realize what he just did? Jamila locks eyes with him again. "I'd like to see him." He takes a sip of his drink. "Maybe I could be of help." He says all this while looking directly at Jamila. She can't help but feel that there's more to his statement than he let's on but she chooses not to dwell on it.
For now.
"Alhamdulillah." (All Praise and Thanks is for Allah) Her mother gives him a wide smile and stares at the card like it's a lost treasure. "You have made me very happy. Thank you so much Ibni." (My son). He chuckles at her reaction. Jamila cannot believe the words of endearment she's hearing her mother use. He doesn't even know you but look at how nice you are to him.
"It's not a problem."
"Mom we should go."
"Ah yes. It was nice meeting you Harun."
"You too." Jamila drags her mother away while gripping her shopping bag tightly. Her mother carries the drinks in her hand with a huge smile on her face. God, it's like she won a trip to go on Umrah. Jamila looks around for her father when an old man with a walking stick approaches her.
"Excuse me young lady, do you know where security is?" An old man squints at her through his round glasses. Despite the long day she's had, Jamila instantly feels the need to help him.
'Sure he's that way.' She points.
'I don't see him.'
'Well if you go straight down...' For the next two minutes she explains to the stranger which way he can find security. Her phone is buzzing and the caller ID reads Baba. Oh he's going to be mad. Well this day just keeps getting better.
'Thank you my dear. You've been of great help.'
'You're welcome.' She bites back a tired sigh.
"Jamila, baba is here." Her mother calls out. They finally make their way to the jeep in silence. Jamila feels the exhaustion seep into her veins as she leans into the leather seat and tries to forget everything.
Especially a pair of sharp brown eyes that funnily enough remind her of caramel...
---
I want a caramel macchiato now. Why do I do this to myself? Lol.