Several cross conversations took place at the same time, siblings and in-laws talking over each other, some engaging in heated political discussions, others sharing the latest gossip or the most recent streaming series they’d binged.
There were few mentions of Ali, but we all felt his absence. Talking about the dead makes almost everyone uncomfortable, so people rarely brought Ali up. A normal widow might find that painful, but, given the circumstances, for me it was a reprieve. I didn’t know if I’d be able to contain myself if the conversation turned to Ali and what a good person he was.
Ali’s three sisters and their families were there. So was Nasser, who was always included in Ali’s family’s gatherings since his own parents and siblings lived in Ohio. He said hello to me in his usual friendly manner before retreating to the opposite side of the table. There was a new awkwardness between us now.
Ayla and Adam were at the far end of the table with the cousins their age. Ayla didn’t seem to be talking much. My stomach knotted. She was already struggling. What would happen when my kids learned about their dad’s old girlfriend and the house he bought for her? The disillusionment would be devastating.
My mother-in-law cooked a huge spread includingkousa mehshee, the stuffed squash that was Adam’s favorite, andmalfoof, cabbage stuffed with rice and meat, which Ayla loved. The menu selection felt very intentional, a way to entice the kids to keep coming over to their grandparents’ house now that Ali wasn’t here to compel them to visit.
“Wainick?”Um Alihad said to me when I helped put the food out on the table before the meal. “Where’ve you been?”
“I mostly stay home,” I answered. “I don’t like to go out.” I braced myself, expecting recriminations.
But all my mother-in-law said was, “I know it’s not easy. But don’t forget us,” before moving away to flip themalfoofout of the pot. My bond with Ali’s family seemed more tenuous now that the person who connected us was gone. We were like opposite sides of a riverbank with a collapsed bridge between us. I marveled at how easily connections forged over twenty-three years threatened to slip away.
As everyone ate and talked, my gaze traveled over each one of Ali’s family members. Had any of them known about Ali’s secret? Had they purposely kept the truth from me in order to preserve Ali’s facade of respectability? The Arab community loved gossip, and news that Ali bought a house for a secret white girlfriend would easily fuel scandalous whispers for months.
I watched my mother-in-law fill another plate for someone. How far would she go to protect both her son and the family name?
When dinner finally ended, I escaped, excusing myself to go to the bathroom, but really just needing to sit quietly with myself for a few minutes. I ran into Nasser coming down the hall.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.” I was determined to get past the discomfort between us. And to also keep Nasser firmly in the friend zone.
“You OK?” he asked.
“There’s something I can’t get out of my head.”
Interest lit his eyes. “What is it?”
“If Lizzie Martins got the house, then who the hell is Samantha Price?”
What looked like disappointment flitted across his face before he quickly wiped it away. “According to Perkins, Lizzie’s full name is Samantha Elizabeth Martins Price,” he said in his normal approachable manner. “Price is her married name.”
“She’smarried?”
“Divorced.”
“How long has she been divorced?”
“I’m not sure, but I got the impression that it’s been several years.”
“I wonder if that’s when Ali reconnected with her,” I said more to myself than to Nasser. “Or maybe they had a thing this entire time, while both were married.”
Julia came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “What else have you two learned about the secret house?”
I briefly considered lying. My natural instinct was to protect my husband, even in death. Shielding Ali’s grieving family from the full extent of his duplicity was the noble thing to do. Unless they already knew everything. My bitterness overrode any fleeting notions of graciousness.
“He left it to Lizzie Martins, his old white girlfriend,” I told her. “Imagine robbing your own kids of their inheritance by leaving an entire house to your mistress.”
Julia paled. She looked to Nasser. “Is that true?”
“Do you think I’d lie about something like that?” I said too loudly.
Nasser dipped his chin. “He did leave the house to Lizzie Martins. We don’t know anything else about the nature of their relationship.”
“I think it’s pretty obvious, don’t you?” Hot tears pricked my eyes. “Ali wouldn’t leave a house to just anyone. You’d have to really care about a person to leave them a significant property like that. And who knows what else Ali gave her when he was alive.”
