“Jihad?”
“I—I—why?”
“Well, I couldn’t stop gushing about you, and I think she thinks we’re dating.”
Heat creeps up to the roots of my hair.
“I told her we’re not,” he rectifies quickly. “But she still wants us to have a meal together. Please? Trust me, she’s really cool, and I know you’ll love her.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I whisper. “I’m just worried she won’t likeme.”
He laughs loudly. “That’s impossible. Would you meet us at Chef Vuong’s?”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
“Three p.m.”
“Sure,” I say faintly.
From everything Jamie told me about his grandmother, she’s a force to be reckoned with. I didn’t have the opportunity to know my grandmothers, both of them long gone in Syria. I wonder how it would have been if they were alive.
I settle on hand-me-down jeans from Amal that have white daisies sewn on one leg and an oversize gray collared jumper that hangs loosely around my frame. It’s freezing outside with no chance of snow, like New York has solidified. I put on my boots and coat and leave, sending a message to Baba that I’m out. He replies with a thumbs-up when he sees it.
I pass by parts of my mural, filling my eyes with them. I’ve drawn everything about Mama, and now I’m coming to the final stage. For the reason she was gone and taken away.
A light flickers in my brain when I’m on the subway. I don’t have to give her the ending she got. I could give her a new one. I could make it better than what happened to her.
I get off at the station with a newfound fire burning in my heart. The streets are beautiful, all adorned with lights and ornaments, and I pass the Christmas tree in Washington Square Park.
When I reach Chef Vuong’s restaurant, I see Jamie is already there. He’s in deep conversation with the older woman sitting opposite him. Her hair is raven black, caressing her chin. Other than the wrinkles around her eyes, her skin is flawless and her lips bright red. She wears a white wool dress, and I wouldn’t have guessed that this is his bà ngo?i who runs a whole farm and has, as he told me, yanked birthing calves out of their mothers with her bare hands.
I heat up under my coat, and Jamie notices me standing outside before waving enthusiastically at me. I feel their eyes on me when I climb up the small steps and walk into the restaurant.
“Jihad!” Chef Vuong exclaims as the warmth of the restaurant engulfs me. “Happy holidays and welcome!”
“Thank you.” I nod warmly at him. “You too.”
Jamie stands abruptly when I come closer to the table. I can’t help but think this feels like meeting your boyfriend’s parents. Or in this case, his beloved grandmother.
“Hi, I mean, salam alaykum,” he says eagerly.
I smile. “Hi, I mean, wa alaykum elsalam.”
I turn to Bà Ngo?i, who’s watching me with an interested expression.
“Hello, Mrs. Bennet.” I extend my hand to shake hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She smiles widely, and I know now where Jamie got his smile from. She stands and holds out her arms. “Pleasure to meet you. May I hug you?”
I nod, thrown off kilter, and she wraps her arms around my shoulder. She smells like a flower bouquet in the middle of winter.
“Sit, sit.” She gestures to the seat beside her. She looks incredibly intimidating, but her smile is as disarming as can be.
Jamie sticks out his hands. “Can I take your coat?”
I give him a strange look. “You’ve never offered to take my coat before.”
“I’m offering now,” he quips. He’s taller than his grandmother, and the love in her eyes for him is unmistakable.
