It’s a lush lobby meant to mimic nature in a very unorganized way, so there are tons of large plants, fake and real, as well as seating made to look like it was hewn from white birch tree trunks. In the dead center, right before you get to the elevators, there’s a tree that almost reaches the high ceiling, obviously fake, its branches sprouting big fluffy balls of red cotton amid the dark green leaves. I don’t know what that’s about, unless it links with the name of the hotel, the Orchard.
I’m scrolling through Instagram—Tats posted a picture of her prewedding look—when I see Mom enter through the automated double doors, wheeling a large suitcase behind her.
I jump and practically run over to hug her.
She looks so good, her smile, her eyes, her entire face. Like she’s rested—and like I’ve missed seeing her for almost three weeks. We texted and talked on the phone every day, but nothing beats being back in her presence.
“How are you, sweetums?” She strokes my face and kisses a cheek before ruffling in the pocket of her thin windbreaker to find and hold out a pack of halal gummy bears. The quality, imported-from-a-Muslim-country kind.
I seize it and am about to rip it open when I remember that I’ll be seeing Nuah tomorrow. Insha’Allah.
He appreciates real gummy bears.
I pocket the pack and give Mom another hug before following her to the front desk.
She has on a white sporty pull-on hijab, the kind she wears when she’s doing a long drive, and, under her light pink jacket, black track pants and an old gray T-shirt with faded words, I DID 10K FOR ALZHEIMER’S.
I’m kind of surprised she’s so slouchy-looking, as she’s really into being presentable. Not fashionable, but neat and ironed.
The opposite of me, in fact. Except for tomorrow, at the henna party, and at the wedding itself, when I’ll be in two of my favorite outfits ever. Mom and I spent a lot of time finding fancy clothes I actually liked.
“You brought my clothes, right?” I ask as she waits for the hotel personnel to activate her room key.
Mom turns to me and nods and then squints at something beyond me. “Isn’t that Sarah’s brother?”
Dawud is coming out of the hotel shop cradling six Gatorades in his arms. He spots us and bounds over while trying to balance the drinks. “These were almost thirty dollars!”
“What! WHY DID YOU BUY THEM HERE?” I’m incredulous. “That’s so irresponsible! I was going to stop at the grocery store! Where the whole thing would have been ten dollars at the most!”
Mom looks at me with her eyebrows raised, the edges of her mouth moving up slightly, before nodding, proud-like.
Wait, did she just give me a mom-to-mom-approval look?
I turn back to Dawud, who’s trying to push his glasses up while holding on to the Gatorade. I poke his glasses onto the bridge of his nose so I won’t have to pick up the bottles he’ll spill should he fix his own glasses. “I can’t believe you! Wait until I tell Sarah!”
“I just wanted to make sure we get back quickly! So we don’t miss movie night,” he whines, while tolerating Mom’s hand reaching over to tousle his hair, to say salaam. He responds to her with a peppy “walaikum musalam!” before lugging the Gatorade bottles to the chair he’d been sitting in before Mom entered the hotel.
That kid.
Just wasted Haytham’s money.
I’m done babysitting the twerp with a mind of his own.
The automated hotel doors open again at that moment, and a tall man in a dark suit, with hair graying at the temples and a beard similarly salt-and-peppered, steps inside and gives the hotel lobby a once-over. Behind him are two girls, twins, who almost reach his height. They appear to be around my age, and I can’t help staring, because they’re in hijab, one with breezy red fabric flung on her head casually and the other in a dark purple trim turban worn tight.
Which is a rare sight—two more hijabis—in a town that’s almost as small as a village.
My eyes trail the girls following the man, who’s now headed to the counter beside Mom. They don’t notice my stare, though, because they’re whispering to each other intently.
They look like they just stepped out of a fashion magazine. One is wearing loose and flowy light brown pants that go all the way up high on her waist to disappear under a short, white, squarish top with military-looking details on the shoulders and front pockets. The other girl, the one in a turban, has on a loud jungle-leaves-print jumpsuit that flares, with a matching cape attached at the shoulders that hangs behind her almost to the floor.
They walk confidently, like they’re on a runway, their clothes fluttering in sync with their strut, their luggage streaming behind them.
Who are these girls?
“Husna! Assalamu alaikum!” It’s the man. Talking to Mom. “Thought you were getting here earlier?”
Mom turns to him, and her entire face lights up.
Chapter Six
“Bilal! Walaikum musalam!” she says with gusto. “I stopped to check my car fluids on the way, so I just got in.”
“Well, I’m so glad. You’ll get to meet the girls earlier than dinner, then.” The man takes out his wallet and hands his credit card and ID to the front desk attendant before turning back to Mom, a smile taking over his previously pensive face. He notices me. “Oh, masha’Allah, is this Janna?”
Mom motions for me to come stand beside her. I move in, and she puts an arm around my waist. “Janna, this is Uncle Bilal. He and Dad and I went to college together a long time ago. He’s here for the wedding, and these are his daughters, who’re coming to the henna party tomorrow. Assalamu alaikum, girls!”
I straighten and nod at Bilal. Uncle Bilal, I mean. “Assalamu alaikum.”
Uncle Bilal smiles at me and says salaam back and introduces his daughters. “Dania and Lamya. They’ve heard so much about you, Husna. And you, Janna. And they’re good friends of Sarah’s from college, just like your mom and I were, Janna. Subhanallah.”
Dania (purple turban) and Lamya (red scarf) smile big and lean in for hugs with their salaams with me and Mom in turn, and I involuntarily stiffen.
I’m not a cuddly person in general. It’s only recently that I’ve learned to relax with Mom even, to let her hug me and show an affectionate touch. I don’t know why, but it definitely isn’t natural for me to just melt into hugs with people, especially people I just met. So I pull away from Lamya’s and Dania’s embraces quickly. They don’t seem to notice and go back to smiling benevolently at me, but not talking.
“This is perfect. Now we can all sit for dinner together.” Uncle Bilal beams at Mom. “I got my nephew to join us too, if that’s okay. He was driving through.”
Mom beams back at Uncle Bilal but suddenly looks nervous. “Janna, is that okay with you? Or do you have to go back to Dad’s? Because Dawud is with you? And you might be expected back?”
Wait.
Does she want me to?
Go back to Dad’s?
While she has dinner—that’s obviously been preplanned—with Uncle Bilal and his runway-model daughters? Who’ve heard so much about Mom and me, while I’ve never heard of them?
I need to check on something my gut is raising low-key alarm bells about.