Free Dreaming in English by Laura Fitzgerald

by delicate black lashes. On our wedding night—the one night we’ve spent together—I remained awake long after him, trying to memorize his face. He has a tiny scar at the corner of his eyebrow, left over from a childhood bout of chicken pox. I hadn’t noticed it before, hadn’t known about the chicken pox, either. They might ask you about that. I pushed the thought away, because my curiosity for him is pure. I want to know everything about him, even the smallest things. Paper or plastic? Whole wheat or rye toast?
    But it’s true—they might ask me about that scar. At our immigration interview, they’ll ask us lots of questions, some easy to answer and others not so easy. You didn’t move in together right away after your marriage—why not?
    That’s one we’d have trouble answering, and how stupid and selfish would it be to lose America because of some silly-brained idea that it might be fun to “date” my husband instead of to live with him right away? I imagine myself saying, I’m sorry, Baby Hope. I’d love to be there for you, to cuddle you and play with you and help your maman, but . . . well, I wanted to do things the American way when it came to getting married. Never mind that I lost my freedom as a result.
    Maybe I did have some secret desire to live alone, but that was before I married Ike. Before we made love. Before we sat together in front of his parents and endured their anger and made our pact to walk together on our path. We’re comrades now. Kindred spirits. United in a way we weren’t even a few days ago. I simply can’t get enough of him and his tender strength. Kissing him, giving myself over to him, is like a prayer; it affirms God.
    The person I want to talk with about this is my friend Rose. She’s been on my mind so often as the past week unfolded—first in all its horror and then in all its beauty. The last time I spoke to her, I was still engaged to Masoud, still intending to move to Chicago with him. Rose and I said our sad good-byes—and now, on this beautiful Tucson morning, I want to say hello again.
    I dress quickly. Usually, Maryam is the first to awake in the household, but I’m glad to learn from Ardishir, when I find him in the kitchen, that she’s still asleep. This saves me from having to explain why she’s never heard of Rose.
    Five, perhaps ten years older than my mother, Rose has never married. We became friends when she found me foolishly hiding a pair of shoes in her front-yard bushes. They were a gift from Ike, and at the time, my friendship with him was a secret from Maryam, and so I needed to hide my shoes. Rose was very kind, very accepting of me, even though it was such a silly thing, and as the weeks and months went by, I found myself confiding in her like she was my mother—not the quiet, sad mother I have, but the generous, happy mother for which I’ve always yearned.
    I take the same route to Rose’s house that I always take to English class, which winds through the large-lot homes in the historic El Encanto neighborhood. The houses, the yards, the cars in driveways—the street signs, the birds calling, the sounds of traffic from nearby boulevards—none of it is new to me, yet it all feels so different. But I think it’s me who’s different this morning. I’m no longer a guest in this neighborhood, in this town.
    I live here now. Tucson’s my home. It’s where I’ll raise my family.
    I cross Country Club Road at Sixth Street, then continue through a church parking lot on my way to Third Street. As I walk past the lively playground of an elementary school, I overhear two girls teasing a third: Jake and Ella sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
    Curious, I stop in midstride and turn my attention to Ella, the redheaded girl getting teased. She looks forward to falling in love; I can see it by the coyness in the smile on her freckled nine-year-old face. I shake my head in wonder, in openmouthed awe. I think, as I so often do: This would never