course. People became attached to their agendas and ideas.
He took a deep breath trying to accept what his unconscious mind told him—he’d continue the investigation on his own. If he screwed up again, his career was over. But the chance to redeem himself pushed him forward.
Eight
Zehra dreaded going home to her beloved parents. She drove her ancient Audi. This old one was all she could afford on her government salary. Her mind swirled with plots to get out of the meeting she knew
her parents had set up—with some nice, boring Muslim guy. What could she do?
Her parents lived in the western suburb of Minnetonka. Everything in this state carried the names of Indians from long ago. At least, they were remembered in some fashion. Zehra’d come to learn that Minnesota was misunderstood by most of the country.
Thought to be populated by either stoic Scandinavians or Mary Tyler Moore wannabes, Zehra discovered the people surprisingly diverse. Along with a significant Native American population, the state also held the country’s second largest group of Hmong people from Laos and the largest Somali population. The Minneapolis and St. Paul schools reported over one hundred languages spoken in their classrooms.
After growing up in the heat and humidity of Texas, Zehra liked the change of seasons and the brittle winters. She wished for a large, middle-class Muslim community, born in America like her. Americanized, but still faithful to the teachings of Islam, she spent much of her time educating others about the similarities between Christianity and Islam. Zerha didn’t mind the effort because it was part of her larger desire to help the progress of American Muslim women.
Zerha curved into her parent’s drive. They owned a rambler on the edge of a small pond. She shut off the engine and looked over her shoulder at the gold Dodge parked in the street. Must be the dreaded guest.
Mother … she complained to herself … if I didn’t love you so much . Like many Muslims, family meant everything to the Hassans, Zehra included. She climbed out slowly with the bag of organic pita bread. Normally, she didn’t drink much, but tonight she brought a large bottle of Chardonnay. She’d probably need it.
Before entering, Zehra stopped to savor the best part of coming home—her mother’s gardens.
Zehra inherited this garden obsession, but since she lived in a condo, her garden consisted of potted plants. Considering the short growing season in Minnesota, she indulged in every opportunity to enjoy the colors, textures, and scents of her gardens.
Water splashed across the roses from a sprinkler, and Zehra could smell fragrant, damp black earth and freshly mowed grass.
Zehra loved the orderliness of her mother’s plans, even though it appeared as natural as Nature. It was as complicated as law school had been. When her pots weren’t challenging enough, Zehra came home to help her mother.
Unlike her work as a defense lawyer, where it was often difficult to find the truth or to reach a final, successful result, gardening offered both.
And the truth surfaced in that beauty of Nature’s work … along with Zehra’s help.
She walked up the stone path that led to the front. Wafting out through the screen door, spices met Zehra’s nose. She stopped at the door and looked sideways at the garden.
In the back stood the alliums—tall stalks with flower bursts that looked like fuzzy, purple tennis balls. In front of those were the bleeding hearts. Nodding white flowers hung from arching stems that resembled a row of nuns with white habits, leaning forward to give thanks for the rain.
Zehra smiled at the peaceful feeling, and then forced herself to open the door to walk into the house. The narcotic perfume smell of a hyacinth drew her inside in spite of the fate that awaited her.
Her mother, Martha Hassan, came out to meet her, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She wrapped Zehra in her small arms and hugged. “So
He took a deep breath trying to accept what his unconscious mind told him—he’d continue the investigation on his own. If he screwed up again, his career was over. But the chance to redeem himself pushed him forward.
Eight
Zehra dreaded going home to her beloved parents. She drove her ancient Audi. This old one was all she could afford on her government salary. Her mind swirled with plots to get out of the meeting she knew
her parents had set up—with some nice, boring Muslim guy. What could she do?
Her parents lived in the western suburb of Minnetonka. Everything in this state carried the names of Indians from long ago. At least, they were remembered in some fashion. Zehra’d come to learn that Minnesota was misunderstood by most of the country.
Thought to be populated by either stoic Scandinavians or Mary Tyler Moore wannabes, Zehra discovered the people surprisingly diverse. Along with a significant Native American population, the state also held the country’s second largest group of Hmong people from Laos and the largest Somali population. The Minneapolis and St. Paul schools reported over one hundred languages spoken in their classrooms.
After growing up in the heat and humidity of Texas, Zehra liked the change of seasons and the brittle winters. She wished for a large, middle-class Muslim community, born in America like her. Americanized, but still faithful to the teachings of Islam, she spent much of her time educating others about the similarities between Christianity and Islam. Zerha didn’t mind the effort because it was part of her larger desire to help the progress of American Muslim women.
Zerha curved into her parent’s drive. They owned a rambler on the edge of a small pond. She shut off the engine and looked over her shoulder at the gold Dodge parked in the street. Must be the dreaded guest.
Mother … she complained to herself … if I didn’t love you so much . Like many Muslims, family meant everything to the Hassans, Zehra included. She climbed out slowly with the bag of organic pita bread. Normally, she didn’t drink much, but tonight she brought a large bottle of Chardonnay. She’d probably need it.
Before entering, Zehra stopped to savor the best part of coming home—her mother’s gardens.
Zehra inherited this garden obsession, but since she lived in a condo, her garden consisted of potted plants. Considering the short growing season in Minnesota, she indulged in every opportunity to enjoy the colors, textures, and scents of her gardens.
Water splashed across the roses from a sprinkler, and Zehra could smell fragrant, damp black earth and freshly mowed grass.
Zehra loved the orderliness of her mother’s plans, even though it appeared as natural as Nature. It was as complicated as law school had been. When her pots weren’t challenging enough, Zehra came home to help her mother.
Unlike her work as a defense lawyer, where it was often difficult to find the truth or to reach a final, successful result, gardening offered both.
And the truth surfaced in that beauty of Nature’s work … along with Zehra’s help.
She walked up the stone path that led to the front. Wafting out through the screen door, spices met Zehra’s nose. She stopped at the door and looked sideways at the garden.
In the back stood the alliums—tall stalks with flower bursts that looked like fuzzy, purple tennis balls. In front of those were the bleeding hearts. Nodding white flowers hung from arching stems that resembled a row of nuns with white habits, leaning forward to give thanks for the rain.
Zehra smiled at the peaceful feeling, and then forced herself to open the door to walk into the house. The narcotic perfume smell of a hyacinth drew her inside in spite of the fate that awaited her.
Her mother, Martha Hassan, came out to meet her, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She wrapped Zehra in her small arms and hugged. “So
Similar Books
