Authors: Alia Yunis
“Hi, sweetie.” Hala smiled. “What are you doing here?”
“We had an appointment over at Fairview. I thought I’d come up and say hi.” Decimal shrugged. “I don’t need money or anything.”
She sneezed again, and Hala moved the flowers.
“How is your new hay fever prescription working out?” Hala asked.
“I printed out my scholarship applications for Arizona State and Stanford,” Decimal said by way of answer. “I’m still counting on a school giving me a 50 percent scholarship.”
“That’s great, sweetie,” Hala said. “But if it doesn’t happen, look what I was reading in the
Minnesota Daily
.”
Hala showed Decimal an article she had clipped from the university’s newspaper. “See, 73.8 percent of the new freshmen this year were from the top 20 percent of their class,” Hala read. “I know you have your heart set on seeing the world, but there are summer internships you could do that would take you to other places.”
Hala wanted her to go to the university and keep living with her and Brenda. She also wanted Decimal to go to an Ivy League school to make up for Brenda. Decimal didn’t want to set Hala’s expectations up for either option, although the percentage of schools that would accept her was very high.
“I guess we’ll see who ends up giving me the best scholarship,” Decimal said.
“So smart.” Hala beamed.
“Could I get Mrs. Abdullah’s address from you?” Decimal asked.
“Whose address?”
“Your mother’s.”
“Why in the world would you want her address?”
Decimal explained her school project. “After our teacher grades it, I really do want to send it to her,” Decimal said. “That’d be cool.”
“But she doesn’t know about—” Hala stopped herself. “Well, she’s quite old.”
“That’s why I’m writing to her.”
“Well …”
“Well what, Gran?”
Hala looked at her file cabinet, where a black-and-white photo of Fatima in her wedding dress rested.
“She sure was pretty,” Decimal said.
“I’ve never heard anyone say that about her before,” Hala remarked. “I have her address at home. I’ll give it to you tonight.”
“You better put it on your list,” Decimal recommended, and Hala pulled out a notebook and wrote “mom’s address.”
“I got to get going before they call my name and I’m not there,” Decimal said, for once sweating in her wool.
Back on the second floor, the pervert told Decimal that her sister had come back up and then gone downstairs. Decimal was sure she had gone to see Dr. Wang. She sat back down and saw another Beanie Baby on the chair. After today, Decimal decided, she’d make stopping the shoplifting her top priority. She jiggled her leg for a few seconds and began writing again.
I just saw your photo in Gran’s office. I love your wedding dress. Did you look different before and after you were married? When I look in the mirror sometimes, I wonder what I would look like if I were married. Did you know that Brenda is setting up Gran on a date with a lawyer who took the PPO 250 plan? That’s a very low deductible, which is often a sign of wealth and good self-preservation. But I don’t think Gran will go for it. She has never actually divorced Dr. Wang. But Brenda thinks Gran should get married again. I do too, but married back to Dr. Wang, even though he doesn’t like me. And even though Dr. Wang doesn’t like me, I’d like to know more about China. And I’d like to know a little more about being Arab or Lebanese or Muslim and stuff. Maybe if I did, I would understand why people could be so angry that they would hijack planes and kill all those people. I mean I get to feeling pretty
bad about my life, waiting in doctors’ offices for most of it, but I’d be much more likely to kill myself—but only myself.
Brenda came back and handed Decimal a Toblerone and its receipt.
“Dr. Gupta said I shouldn’t eat chocolate, and the Beanie Babies are lame,” Decimal said. “You don’t even like cute things.”
She stuck the Toblerone in Brenda’s purse. Then she pulled it back out.
“You know what,” Decimal continued. “I’m going to return this and the Beanie Babies myself.”
“What are you going to tell them?” Brenda wondered. “You forgot to pay for them?”
“Why don’t you go tell them that?”
“I went over to immunology and showed Dr. Wang your SAT scores,” Brenda answered as she took the chocolate back. “My baby, my National Merit scholar, can just name any college she wants. You know what he said? ‘Well, at least the girl is going to college.’ Screw him.”
“I’m surprised you’ve waited this long to throw my scores in his face,” Decimal said.
“Oh, I’ve shown him before. I just wanted to show him again,” Brenda boasted. “They’re having a charity bazaar downstairs to raise money for the bloodmobiles. They got some cute pot holders.”
“You don’t even cook.”
“But I know people who do. Maybe I could buy Gran something,” Brenda said. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“You’re going to miss the appointment,” Decimal said, worried.
“I have never missed any of our appointments,” Brenda reminded her.
“Don’t forget your policy folder,” Decimal said, holding it up for Brenda. “You never know who you might meet looking for insurance in a place like this.”
Brenda sashayed back for the folder. “You’re so right. What in the world would I do without you?”
Brenda had come and gone so many times in the last seventy-four minutes that even the pissed-off pervert had lost interest in watching her
jiggle her leg as she waited for the elevator. Decimal rolled up the collar on her sweater and picked up her pen.
Did I tell you that I got a boyfriend? Imagine someone actually liking me. We were both working at the drive thru at Mc-Donald’s in Dinkytown because our teachers told us that it looked good on a college application to have tried making money. Paolo can’t eat anything with peanut oil, just like me, so I started bringing him lunch and then he’d bring me lunch and then sometimes we’d play Xbox together or go look at the animal dioramas at the Bell Museum and we fool around a little but only with each other. We hold hands and talk and stuff, too. Paolo is from Brazil. He came here with his mother like ten years ago. She’s an associate professor of psychology and stuff. Get this, his grandparents went to Brazil from Syria, which is right next to Lebanon. You know how Hala says that you wanted her to marry an Arab? Well, if I were to marry Paolo, that would be coming full circle for you because I’d be marrying an Arab. But I probably won’t marry Paolo, for many reasons. One of the important reasons is that I don’t want to be hit. Paolo has never hit me, but the reason his mother left his father in Brazil was because he used to hit her and Paolo and give them black eyes and everything, even though he was a professor and stuff just like her. He’d say he was sorry, too, but then he’d do it again. Anyway, boys who grow up around a man like that often become abusers themselves. That’s in all the magazines in all the doctor offices. You know physical abuse is not thoroughly covered in insurance policies, which is a shame Brenda says considering how much abuse is around.
Another thing is I don’t think Paolo and I are in love. I’ve taken love quizzes in Cosmo, Self, and Glamour at several doctors’ offices, but none came out definite. I think you have to have a comparison point. I’ll probably only know if I loved Paolo when
I get another boyfriend and can match up their good and bad qualities and see who comes out on top. I don’t know what married looks like, but I don’t think Paolo and I look married. He’s way too handsome to be married to someone like me. He’s handsome like if his mom were a supermodel and married a supermodel, not like those supermodels that have kids with old rock stars. And it’s not like we’re really inseparable, which Brenda says married people are supposed to be. But I’m very grateful to Paolo for liking me.
“Decimal, exactly what are you doing down here?” Hala stood over Decimal minus her white coat. Two nurses waved at her as they passed by.
“Stuff,” said Decimal. “Right now, I’m writing to your mother.”
“Is Brenda in with the doctor already?” Hala demanded to know.
“No, she went to help with the blood drive,” Decimal said. She wished she had a college acceptance letter or another scholarship application to distract her grandmother.
The elevator dinged open, and there was the distraction. Brenda exited the elevator escorted by Bob, a university security guard who had known Brenda and Decimal for years.
Bob looked at Hala and then at Brenda. “I thought you didn’t want me to let your mom know you were in the building,” he said. “And then you take me right to her.”
Brenda stared at the ceiling. Bob shook his head. “Brenda, I can’t ban you from the building, given your parents’ positions here and how often your daughter needs to be here, but please don’t come back to the bazaar until you can look without taking,” he cautioned. “It is a charity event, after all. You ladies have a nice day now.”
Bob left, and the pervert surveyed the three generations of women as they jiggled their legs and assessed one another.
“Mom, it’s a disease,” Brenda said. “I can’t help it.”
“Unlike your brothers, you are not a doctor. So I’ll be the one to decide what is a disease and what isn’t,” Hala said. “Let’s just diagnose shoplifting as another one of your screwups and add it to the list.”
Decimal sneezed, hoping that would work as a better distraction. Instead of a hug or Kleenex, Hala gave her a frown.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here, Decimal?” Hala said gently. “I went to your allergist, I went to your ophthalmologist, I went to your ENT specialist, and I couldn’t find you. Then I thought about you writing that letter to my mother and all the things I didn’t want you to tell her about … and that’s when I knew which floor to go to.”
Brenda put her arm around Decimal. “I didn’t think there was any reason to worry you about this,” she said. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Don’t hide behind your daughter,” Hala admonished her. “Are you keeping this one or not? Three unwanted pregnancies in one lifetime. I’m a gynecologist, and I have a daughter who is such a complete idiot. Idiot enough to come to the very medical center where her mother became a counselor on birth control education because of her mistakes.”
“Fine, Mom,” Brenda answered. “Just go and pretend you never knew this happened. Decimal will take care of me.”
“No, Decimal is going down to my office,” Hala ordered. “I’ll stay with you. That’s what moms are for, not daughters.”
“I don’t need you to do that,” Brenda said.
“I have to stay,” Decimal stated.
Brenda shook her head and motioned Decimal to the elevator.
“You know, in the village my parents came from you would have been shunned for this,” Hala said. “You’re lazy, you’re irresponsible, you’re selfish, you’re cheap, you’re promiscuous, you’re …”
Decimal hated it when Hala started her Brenda list, the only list she remembered without having to write it down.
“Gran, please stop,” she begged. “She didn’t do anything wrong. Honest. She really isn’t pregnant.”
“Decimal, stop defending her,” Hala said.
“Yeah, Decimal,” Brenda said. “I can handle this myself.”
“Decimal, go down to my office, now,” Hala ordered again. “Someone half your mother’s age would know how to not get pregnant.”
“Just go down to Gran’s office,” Brenda pleaded.
But fifty-five minutes had passed since Decimal had asked the nurse about how long the wait would be. “Decimal Jackson,” the nurse called out.
The pervert watched three generations of women glare at one another in confusion and fear.
“What’s going on, Decimal?” Hala steeled herself to ask at last.
“Nothing,” Brenda interjected. “Nothing.”
“But Mom—” Decimal began.
“I said ‘nothing,’ Decimal,” Brenda warned her just as the nurse returned.
“Are you ready, Miss Jackson?” The nurse smiled. “Nice to see you, Dr. Abdullah. We’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry.”
“Decimal?” Hala said, looking at her with the last traces of hope left in her.
“I didn’t mean to get pregnant, Gran,” Decimal told her.
“Oh, God, no,” Hala breathed. “Brenda, how could you let this happen to your own daughter?”
“The point is I’m being responsible, Mom,” Brenda said. “I brought her here because I told her she was getting a birth control and abortion consultation even before we went to the clinic because I didn’t want this happening ever again.”
Accusing pairs of eyes shifted around until Hala began to cry softly, followed by Brenda. Decimal reached into her Hello Kitty bag and handed them each a Kleenex. “Let someone else take my place,” she told the nurse. “I don’t need to see the doctor, after all.”
“What are you doing, baby?” Brenda said.
“Look at your mother,” Hala warned. “Don’t make the same mistake she did.”
“I’m not a mistake,” Decimal snapped. “You’re the one who always says I’m a gift from God. Were you just saying that to make me feel better?”
Hala sat down. “No,” she answered, not totally convincingly.
“I’ve been writing to your mother, Gran, and I’ve realized a lot of stuff doing that,” Decimal continued. “I was thinking about how she raised ten kids and she barely knew English. Still, she did a pretty good job, and
I already got a head start because I speak English. And none of Mrs. Abdullah’s kids seem so messed up.”
“That’s because you don’t know them,” Hala said. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“You’re a gyno; you should know,” Brenda said.
Brenda put an end to the discussion of how with that. Hala didn’t need Paolo and other stuff in her head, just as there was probably so much stuff Hala didn’t want Mrs. Abdullah to know. Just as Decimal was going to bond with this person inside her and tell her stuff that she would not want Brenda to know.
“Decimal, having this baby because of an eighty-five-year-old lady from a Podunk village in Lebanon is incredibly stupid,” Hala said. “For a highly intelligent teenager.”
“Mom, remember when we used to play Who’s the Worst Off in the Room?” Decimal ventured. “Well, you never picked you, and neither did I.”