She had come to carve out a space for herself and fill it up without apology.
What she didn’t realize then, but would come to realize many years later, is that she would spend the rest of her life making, searching for, and studying art that attempted to prove the very opposite—that it was not the hijab that had made her weak, but her willingness to so quickly shed an integral part of her identity. All the tiny write-ups in the New York Times and the New Yorker and the Village Voice that threw out words like “regret” and “nostalgia” would get close to understanding her purpose, but would never nail it. Her art would be and was an art of atonement. A reckoning of convenience versus belief. An exploration of the old immigrant adage of how much of yourself were you willing to destroy in order to melt into America.
But all of that would come later. For now, she was focused on the man who was openly studying her hair, which she’d admittedly spent a lot of time on that morning—brushing and then clipping back her bangs with a barrette. Her cousin, who still dutifully wore her hijab had watched her with interest, perhaps even judgment, not saying a word. As Lena studied this man, this strange man with the unnerving blue eyes, take in the soft waves of her brown mane, she felt an uncomfortable quickening in her pulse.
She instinctively reached out and touched her hair, tucking a few strands behind her ear.
“You sure you want the cheeseburger?” he said, and leaned in toward her in a conspiratorial manner. He lowered his voice and continued, “Between you and me, the cheeseburger here is not very good. Especially not if it’s fully cooked. Though it’s probably safer to eat that way, I’ll give you that.”
She turned away from his gaze as she felt her cheeks beginning to warm. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Really nothing is that great here.” His voice was still a hushed whisper. There was something intimate about that. “If you want a real solid cheeseburger, you should let me take you to Mickey’s down on Trout Road.”
She frowned at him and said the only thing that popped into her mind. “But I’m hungry now.”
“Then let’s go.” He held out his hand, and she stared at it for a moment before taking it. He pulled her out of the booth and they walked out of the diner, hand in hand.
He didn’t drop her hand once they exited the diner. This both terrified her and exhilarated her. They walked the hilly streets together, presumably headed toward Mickey’s, him still holding firmly onto her hand.
“I’ve never been to Mickey’s,” she said finally.
“I figured.”
She stopped walking and turned to look at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, “if you’d ever been to Mickey’s, you wouldn’t bother coming into the diner.”
“Are you from here?”
His grin widened. “Guilty as charged. Born and bred, unfortunately. A townie. And you?”
Despite herself, she smiled. “Where do you think?”
His eyes lit up with amusement. “That’s a dangerous game.”
“Are you afraid to play?” The words surprised her once she’d spoken them. It was unlike her to be so playful with a stranger. She was normally cautious, reserved. A cat of a person.
He dropped her hand, and she felt a panicked thud inside her chest. Here in the fading outside afternoon light, she was able to get a better look at his face. He was handsome for sure, but he was not by any means the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His skin showed damage from teenage acne and his nose hooked slightly to the right, but there was something about him. A magnetism. A fire. A charm that made him more handsome than he should’ve been.
“No,” he said. “Should I be?”
“Very,” she said.
And just then, she realized that she had been wrong before. His blue eyes didn’t remind her of home. Nothing about him felt like home.
He reminded her of America. Of her American dream.
VII.
“We’re here,” Julian said.
“You can’t stop there,” Harlow said, and I felt the same way, though I was in too much of a daze to really say anything. Imagining my mother at that age—only a few years older than me now—required as much of a suspension of disbelief as envisioning dragons. It was nearly impossible to picture her as anything other than the polished, put-together older person I knew her to be. “Seriously,” Harlow pushed. “It was just starting to get good. You apparently had some game.”
I squirmed at this comment, and Julian laughed lightly. Wearily. “Don’t worry, girls. I promise I’ll tell you more later.” He glanced at me. “But now it’s time to meet your grandma, Tal.”
We pulled up in front of a white farmhouse. It sat on the top of a gentle hill, and a large oak dominated the left side of the yard. It was surrounded by acres and acres of rolling grass. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out many details, but there was a low glow coming from the porch light that illuminated four well-worn rocking chairs.
Home, my mind instantly thought. And then, No, it quickly corrected.
It’s funny how some places just feel familiar in your bones, even if you’ve never been there before. I studied the rocking chairs—solid wood, solid craftsmanship—and wondered if Mom had ever been here. If she’d ever sat on that porch, legs up, chatting happily with Julian as the sun sank lower and lower into the sky. I wondered if Julian would tell Harlow and me about that later.
Thinking about that scene made something inside me ache in both a good and a bad way.
I was about to ask if we were just going to sit in the car all night when the front door of the white farmhouse flung open. A squat woman stepped out onto the porch. She was wrapped in a cream-colored terry-cloth robe and her sheet-white hair was piled high on her head.
“JP?” she called out. Her voice had a noticeable Southern drawl to it. “Is that you?”
“JP?” Harlow said. “Who the hell is JP?”
“Julian Parker Oliver,” I answered before he could say anything.
“Right,” he said softly. “That’s what my family calls me.”
“Oh,” said Harlow.
Julian took a deep breath. “All right. Here we go.” He stepped out of the car, and Harlow and I followed suit.
“Mama,” he called out as he walked toward the porch. Harlow and I followed behind him.
“You made it,” she said, and I detected something in her voice. Surprise? Bitterness, maybe. Or at least the hollow ring of sadness.
“Mama,” he repeated. “I told you I would come. And I’m here.”
Something like relief washed over her face. Her eyes lit up as she pulled Julian into a long embrace. As Harlow and I got closer, I could see that her eyes were the same glacier blue as mine.
“Oh my,” she breathed as we got closer. “Who are these girls, JP?” She grimaced. “They are much too young for you. Are you ladies even eighteen?”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. And then she gasped. “Oh my heavens.” She clasped her hand over her heart and turned to Julian. “JP, is she …?”
He nodded. “Lena’s.”