At 8:30 a.m. I hear Tariq’s keys rattle in the door next to my office. Tariq is my boss. He’s twenty-nine years younger than me. He is slowly learning to trust the way I work. I don’t yell at people, and I rarely raise my voice. I’ve been criticized for lacking a sense of urgency.
From the time Tariq arrives, I have about fifteen minutes before he comes in with stuff for me to do. He’s usually on the phone before he even sits down. He calls the canteen to have coffee brought to his desk.
I’m ready for a second cup myself, so I go down the hall to the kitchen. There’s a rule that only supervisors can get coffee delivered to their desks.
I know that Tariq often holds back his criticism of me. I can tell by the look on his face, like now, a kind of anxious look. He’s afraid that my ‘lack of urgency’ will show up, somehow, in his performance review and consequently, his remuneration.
“Anna, did you do this report for HR?” he asks, waving a spreadsheet while looking at his mobile. He’s attached to the thing by an invisible umbilical cord. I never feel I have his full attention.
I know he thinks I’ve forgotten the report. There’s no doubt I do forget things now. On my next birthday I’ll be sixty-two.
“That work summary? Yeah, it’s right here. I’ll send you a soft copy.” I hand him the Excel sheet on which I’ve been asked to detail every single responsibility of the office. The example, from IT, had entries like “replace projector bulb.”
I keep lists now. I send myself reminders. I take fish pills that are supposed to boost memory. It’s only normal aging, the doctor says. But just in case, I practice counting backwards by sevens. I remind myself what day it is, and that Barack Hussein Obama is the President of the United States.
Tariq frowns slightly, his default expression. “Only two pages?” he asks.
“Well, I summarized a lot of it. I’m not going to list every little thing, like this example.” Then, as usual, I find myself backing off. “I can add to it if you want.”
Just then my desk phone rings. I glance at it. An international number.
Tariq is one of those people who can’t ignore a ringing phone. “Aren’t you going to get that?” he asks, reading the display and seeing all the numbers. I pick up the call. Tariq leaves, waving the spreadsheet and gesturing that he’ll talk to me later.
I notice the area code – 610. Pennsylvania.
I moved to Pennsylvania in August 2008 and I left one year later to come here. The end of my contract at the University there was a relief in many ways, although I desperately needed a job.
I never adjusted to Pennsylvania. My boss was a control freak – she had five years’ worth of old student documents sitting in boxes under her desk and was afraid to shred them. She read Tarot cards and burned sage in the office. Sometimes she’d leave her door closed all day and tell me she was meditating.
Many registrars are control freaks. It’s almost a job requirement. I used to be that way, too.
I hated everything about Pennsylvania: my job, my horrid student apartment, the only one I could afford, even though I was not a student; my overpriced used car. Then I lost the job, the apartment and the car.
Pennsylvania is also where I lost my sense of urgency, I guess.
“Anna?” the caller says. “It’s Lisa.”
“Hello.” I have no idea who this is. I don’t remember any Lisa. Forgetting things about Pennsylvania is in a different category from just having an aging memory. There are things too hurtful to recall.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I’m sorry, no, I don’t.”
“We met at the shelter,” she says.
When I came to live at the Red Cross Women’s Shelter in Allentown, Lisa was living there with her kids. They’d been there a year. Her son was about to graduate high school. Her daughter was fascinated with my nice jewelry, and I gave her some of it, what was left that I hadn’t pawned. Lisa was trying to get Social Security disability. She had bipolar disorder.
I always knew that my time at the shelter would be limited. Eventually, I would get back on my feet. I’d interviewed by videoconference for a job overseas, and an offer was pending. For Lisa and the others, this was their life.
“I wanted to tell you I got my disability. We’ve got an apartment now,” Lisa said.
I liked Lisa, and I admired her. But I hadn’t expected to hear from her again.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“On the Internet. I saw you were working at that engineering school.”
“It’s great to hear from you, but I can’t talk right now,” I said. “I could call you back, say 10 am your time?” I glance at my watch, which has two dials so that I always know what time it is back home.
“I just wanted to say, Jen and I are coming to Dubai! You remember Jen, my daughter?”
“Yes, of course. She must be almost grown by now.”
“She’s seventeen. She’s graduating this year and has a scholarship to KU! This trip is for her graduation,” Lisa said.
I saw that a call from Tariq was waiting. “Lisa, I have to go. By the way, I don’t live in Dubai.”
“We want to see that tall building, you know? And that indoor skiing place.”
“Everything ok?” Tariq asks, handing me the spreadsheet marked up with red ink.
“Yeah, that was a surprise. Somebody I knew in Pennsylvania. She’s coming to Dubai.”
To Lisa, Dubai and Abu Dhabi probably seem like the same place. Since moving here, I’ve noticed how ignorant Americans are about geography and geopolitics. Their knowledge of the Middle East is informed by coverage of Iraq and Afghanistan: deserts, wars, camels. I’d been no different.
“I need that report back by the end of the day, Anna,” Tariq says, scrolling through the e-mails on his mobile.
***
This isn’t the best time of year to visit. “It’ll be hot,” I warn Lisa.
In fact, I spend very little time in Dubai, and am scared to drive there. “There’s a bus to Dubai,” I tell Lisa.
“What’s the flight like?” she wants to know.
“You can fly direct from New York. It’s about twelve hours. And I don’t want to discourage you guys, but it’s very expensive.” I didn’t see how Lisa could afford even economy class tickets from NYC to Abu Dhabi on her disability payments.
“Oh, I know. But I want it to be a special trip, for Jen. We’ve been saving for it. And I thought we could stay with you?”
I hesitate. How well do I know this woman? If my life hadn’t fallen apart five years ago, we would never have met. But I think of the way she was with those kids – calling around to borrow a tux so her son could go to the prom; asking me to hem a dress for Jen’s confirmation.
“My apartment’s pretty small, but I have a rollaway you could use. Jen can sleep on the couch.”
***
I wasn’t sure I’d recognize Lisa, but right away I see her spiky red hair. I wouldn’t have known Jen. She’s taller than her mother, and very pretty. They both look a little dazed. The June evening is steamy, but inside the airport it’s cool. It takes an hour to get their visas and luggage. On the drive to my place, both Jen and Lisa are talking a mile a minute. I hope Lisa’s brought her meds.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Lisa says. “You’ve gained a little weight.”
I snort. “A little? I’ve gained forty pounds, Lisa. Putting it on was a lot easier than taking it off.”
“Well, you were too skinny then. I remember you never ate.”
“That’s because the food was inedible.” Though Lisa’s kids had scarfed down the bright-orange government cheese, the powdered milk, the canned peas readily enough. On Fridays, as a treat and because the food budget was nearly used up, the cook had made fried Spam, throwing in whatever else he could find – pineapple chunks or canned vegetables. It was vile.
Lisa’s kids ate whatever was put in front of them. They didn’t have the luxury of choice.
“Try to stay up a few more hours,” I advise my house guests. “It’s easier if you adapt to the time zone as soon as possible.” Lisa is wide awake, but Jen looks sleepy.
My cat, Scheherazade, walks in the through the cat flap and Jen recoils.
“Oh, my. I didn’t know you had a cat,” Lisa says. “Jen’s terribly allergic.” Jen’s eyes are already watering.
The cattery is closed for the evening, but a call to the after-hours emergency number and a hefty fee secure Scheherazade a place for the next ten days.
Jen seems ok after Lisa doses her with Benadryl. Lisa expresses doubts about sleeping on the rollaway. “I’ve got a bad back,” she says, eyeing my queen-size bed.
Oh no, I think to myself. You are not getting my bed. I decide to ignore her comment. For a minute, she looks miffed, but then she shrugs.
Like most people who live in a tourist area, the only time I do touristy things is when visitors come. I take Lisa and Jen to the usual places: Emirates Palace, Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque, where Lisa hesitates about covering up. She and Jen are both a little under-dressed for Abu Dhabi, wearing short denim skirts and sleeveless tops.
“Lisa, we can’t go inside unless you wear it,” I tell her, gesturing at the disposable black garment the mosque provides for women visitors. She puts it on.
“Isn’t it hard to live here, Anna?” Lisa asks over dinner at the Lebanese Flower.
“Pennsylvania was harder.” I take a bite of grilled chicken. “It’s fine here, once you get used to it. You just have to follow the rules. We’re guests in their country.”
“I suppose,” Lisa says.
“I can’t wait to go to Dubai,” Jen says.
I’ve taken one day off during the visit. I don’t have much vacation accrued yet, and I need to save it for my own trip home, later this summer. Tariq wasn’t too pleased to approve even one day. He seems to think the place will fall apart if either of us loses touch with the office.
“They’ve come all the way from Pennsylvania, Tariq,” I say, though I know he doesn’t care about that.
“Well, leave your mobile on,” he says.
On my day off, I drive us all to Dubai, because Jen gets carsick on buses – odd, considering that Lisa doesn’t have a car and Jen has been riding buses her entire life.
I park at the Ibn Battuta Mall and announce that we’ll take the Metro to the Mall of the Emirates. Lisa has her head stuck in a tourist map. “It’s only a little ways,” she protests as I park the car. Non-drivers always think they know best.
“The Metro is part of the Dubai experience,” I tell her, though in fact I’ve never taken it before.
By four o’clock, I’m drained. We’ve had lunch and visited the observation deck of the Burj Khalifa. Lisa and I watched as Jen tried Ski Dubai. I’ve paid for everything. “We should go,” I tell my guests. Rush hour is already under way. I should have insisted on the bus. We could’ve given Jen a Dramamine.
“I want to see this place at night!” Jen says.
“Yeah. Go clubbing,” Lisa agrees.
“Well, you could stay at a hotel, but the cheapest will be about $200 a night.”
After the briefest hesitation, Lisa says it’s ok. We get a taxi, and I drop them at the Holiday Inn Express.
“As to clubbing, remember where you are,” I warn Lisa. “And Jen’s underage. If she wanted to drink, you should have gone to France.” Though I’ve been sorely tempted, I haven’t got any alcohol in the house. I know Lisa isn’t supposed to have it with her meds, and I don’t need the empty calories myself.
***
“Anna, this e-mail is so abrupt,” Tariq says, referring to a draft I’ve sent him, reminding the faculty to enter their grades. “Can you soften it a bit?”
“Well, grades are due, we need them.”
“I know, but…”
I put in some more phrases like “we cordially remind you” and “we appreciate.”
“How’s the visit going?” Tariq asks. Whenever he gives me a mild reprimand or says ‘no’, he softens it with some conciliatory gesture.
“They love Dubai. They stayed there last night.” In fact, I’ve decided to give Lisa another two nights at the Holiday Inn Express. The peace and quiet at my place is great, and I know Scheherazade is being pampered at the cat hotel.
“Take a taxi back to my place on Wednesday,” I tell Lisa. “I’ll pay the driver when you get there.”
“You’re too generous, Anna. How can I ever repay you?” Lisa says.
“I’m glad to do it. As you said yourself, this is a once in a lifetime trip.” Thank goodness.
***
Lisa and Jen show me their Dubai pictures. They didn’t go clubbing after all, but they had a nice dinner. They took a Dhow cruise. I realize that in less than four years I’ve become a jaded expat. Now I feel a renewed enthusiasm for showing them my adopted country.
“It’s a bit hot, but we could go to Yas Water Park tomorrow evening,” I suggest. “And there’s Ferrari World…”
For the first time, I see a worried look on Lisa’s face, and I know she’s probably out of money. “My treat,” I add hastily. “But we’ll have dinner in tonight.”
“I’m a vegetarian now,” Lisa announces. This is the first I’ve heard of it.
It’s been years since I cooked a family meal. I surprise myself by enjoying it.
Yas Water Park is fun, until Lisa falls and hurts her back. Her Medicaid is useless here, and the hospital won’t treat her until I pay them a deposit. At 1:00 in the morning we leave, with pain pills I thought were unavailable here – they never seem to want to give you anything that works – and advice that Lisa should not sleep on a rollaway bed.
Tired as I am, I can’t sleep. My mind runs through Tariq’s list of demands and then all the inconveniences of this visit. The cattery. The argument over covering at the Grand Mosque. The drive to Dubai. The hospital. My bed. The money’s the least of it.
By the ninth day of their visit, my own back is so sore I can barely move. I decide to get a couple of bottles of wine for dinner. Lisa accompanies me to the liquor store, and we leave with the incriminating black plastic bags.
I fix a vegetarian feast. Lisa insists on making the salad. I never could cook with another person, even my husband – especially my husband. Usually I put off guests who want to help, pointing out how small my kitchen is. But Lisa just pulls up a stool and crowds in next to me.
“Jen! Set the table,” Lisa says, rousing her daughter from the couch.
“Anna, we’ve had a fabulous time. Thank you so much,” Lisa says.
“Yes, thank you!” Jen echoes.
“It was a pleasure,” I say. And in a way, it was. We pass the serving dishes around. I refill all our wineglasses, after making sure Lisa hasn’t taken any more pills.
“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” I ask Lisa over dessert.
Lisa glances at Jen and then begins, “About that…,” she says.