Karma Unleashed: Chapter 3
Karma’s life took a turn when she started walking Baladi. Suddenly, she realized she’d become a member of an elite club of dog owners who stopped and chatted to each other about their dogs.
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So, without further ado, here is Chapter 3.
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Chapter 3
Karma’s life took a turn when she started walking Baladi. Suddenly, she realized she’d become a member of an elite club of dog owners who stopped and chatted to each other about their dogs.
“What a cute pup,” the blonde woman who lived around the corner gushed. “A lab?”
“Yes, a pure lab,” Karma responded. She was proud that Baladi was pureblood, that Jamal purchased him from a breeder, paying $4,000 just to make her happy. That he was from an upper-class breed meant he could compete in dog competitions, unlike mutts from the pound.
“Where did you have him trained? He’s very well-behaved,” asked the collie mix owner down the street.
“I trained him myself,” she said proudly.
The owner of a German Shepherd wanted them to walk their dogs together, while the owner of an Irish Terrier asked for a playdate.
And then there was the Dalmatian woman, as Karma referred to her, who lived on the street behind Jasmine Drive. She walked her dog, Sunny, at least three times a day while dressed in a long-sleeved shirt with a Dalmatian print and black pants. She had several of those Dalmatian shirts (with a slight variation in the dots’ sizes), and she would never walk her dog without wearing one. Maybe Karma needed to abandon all her colorful garments and stick to wearing black so she’d match Baladi. After all, Sunny and his owner always looked like a happy pair. She even had a stone statue of a Dalmatian dog in front of her house, positioned right underneath the main floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the street.
“El Amreekan are majaneen—crazy,” Karma’s mom told her over the phone when she mentioned the Dalmatian woman. “It’s hard for them to make human connections, so they focus on connections with animals. They are all majaneen.”
Whenever the Dalmatian woman would pass Karma and Baladi in the street, she would just nod and smile. No hellos or how-are-yous exchanged. Majaneen, indeed.
When Karma first met her neighbor, Veronica, and her dog Rex, Veronica commented on how beautiful Baladi was. They were both standing on the sidewalk in front of Veronica’s house, a tri-level, green abode at the corner of the street across from their house, with a manicured front yard and the greenest grass on their street.
“Rex doesn’t get along well with dogs he doesn’t know, but I’m surprised he and your dog get along really well,” said Veronica, smiling while petting her dog.
“Yeah, Baladi is very friendly. What kind of a dog is Rex?” she said, looking at the large black dog wearing a head collar.
Veronica put her hand in her jeans's side pocket, pulled out a treat, and gave it to her dog. “We’re not quite sure, maybe a mix of German Shepherd and bulldog.”
As she walked Baladi at least three times a day, Karma kept running into Veronica. One day, Veronica asked her to come over for a doggy playdate.
“A doggy playdate?” her mother scoffed. “Americans.”
“How great!” Jamal gushed, practically patting himself on the back for his genius move. “I knew he’d help you make new friends.”
He deserved the self-praise, she thought, as she had not cried in full two days over her fertility issues.
***
A few weeks after their first meeting in front of Veronica’s house, Karma and Veronica sat outside on the patio drinking a vodka seltzer on a mild summer day, a warm buzz creeping in after a few sips. It was her first time getting intoxicated, and she loved the feeling of letting go, of shedding her worries, of enjoying the moment.
She had hardly drank in Bilaq. She’d sometimes sipped on her dad’s homemade wine and found it too bitter, but in the American suburbs, it was different; cocktails were part of the bonding experience of assimilating.
“Drink up,” Veronica said, raising her glass. “God created alcohol for our own good, for our survival.”
“You think?” asked Karma, raising her eyebrows.
“Yes! Even Jesus turned water into wine. He knew we needed it for our sanity.”
Karma smiled, then took a sip, remembering the story of Jesus at the wedding in Cana of Galilee that she learned at her private Christian school in Bilaq, a school mostly attended by the Bilaqi Christian minority. She thought of how alcohol was mostly an accepted commodity for Bilaq’s Christian minority, who were the only ones allowed to open liquor stores and wouldn’t be frowned upon if they consumed it at social occasions or in the privacy of their homes.
Veronica was vocal and funny, outspoken and direct. Karma related to her in a way she hadn’t with others in the suburbs who measured every single word that came from their mouth.
From the corner of her eye, Karma noticed Veronica's vegetable garden tucked at the end of the yard with chicken wire surrounding it. “What are you growing?” she asked.
Veronica leaned back in her chair and lowered her baseball hat to protect her eyes from the sun. “Ah. This and that. Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, potatoes. Herbs.”
Karma felt a pang of jealousy. “Nice. I should do that too. I never had a vegetable garden. I have been trying to grow flowers but haven’t been that successful.”
“I can help you. Ask me anything. I love gardening,” said Veronica, twirling her glass of vodka seltzer.
The strong aroma of mint filled Karma’s nostrils, and she felt nostalgic for her life in Bilaq. She remembered her dad serving her mint tea as they watched Al Jazeera together in the living room, lounging on their worn-out leather sofa. She recalled sipping cold mint lemonade in a coffee shop that overlooked a hill dotted with white brick houses, enjoying a cold summer breeze while Arabic music played loudly through the café's stere.
“Is it easy to plant mint?” Karma asked in a dreamy voice, careful not to break her trance.
“Oh yeah, it’s the easiest thing,” said Veronica. “It’s like a weed. You plant it once, and it grows everywhere.”
Karma's thoughts then drifted to the sweet smell of jasmine. She remembered walking through the neighborhood streets of Bilaq, passing by the lavish houses of the wealthy, each adorned with jasmine plants in their front yards. In Bilaq, it seemed every house and apartment building boasted a jasmine tree, their fragrant blossoms perfuming the air. To her, jasmine was more than a scent; it was the smell of home.
“What about jasmine? Can you help me plant some?”
“Jasmine isn’t easy to grow here,” said Veronica. “I found a plant by chance at the Korean store down the street, but yeah, otherwise, most things are easy to plant. I’ll teach you some tricks, and since you live on Jasmine Drive, you have to grow some,” she said, letting out a tipsy laugh.
Karma and Veronica fell silent and watched Baladi and Rex chase each other around the yard.
After a few drinks, Karma started opening up to Veronica, telling her stories about her childhood and about how hard it was for her to date men freely because of cultural restrictions. She shared her fantasies. “I’ve always wanted to go out on a date to the movie theater and share popcorn and Skittles with a boyfriend, just like in American romcoms,” Karma said, slurring her words. “I wanted the boy to kiss me when he dropped me off in front of my house, just like in the movies.”
“Oh, how sweet,” said Veronica, smiling.
Karma rolled her eyes. “Of course, that never happened. The first and only guy who kissed me was Jamal, and that was after we got engaged.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” said Veronica, then took a big gulp from her drink. “That’s a big risk! What if he was bad in bed? What would you have done then?” Veronica glanced quickly at the dogs, who were both barking at a squirrel climbing the pine tree at the far end of the yard.
Karma got quiet, measuring her words. “I don’t know. I would’ve just sucked it up, I guess. Just like a good wife. But trust me, I don’t have that problem now. Jamal is amazing in bed, and he wants sex like every day, or maybe every hour.”
“Is that good or bad?” asked Veronica.
“I’m not sure,” said Karma.
They both laughed.
Karma caught herself staring at Veronica’s hands. Her skin was so fair, almost translucent. Was that normal to be so white? Had Veronica been born like that, or did she lose some pigmentation as she got older? Is that even healthy?
A distant sound of a lawn mower interrupted her thoughts. The lawn mower, the chirping of the cicadas, the blowing of the leaves—all these sounds were foreign to her until she moved to the American suburbs. All were normal to her ears now. Maybe she had assimilated after all.
“Marriage is not for me. I date them and leave them,” said Veronica, then let out a loud laugh. “Stop, Rex, Stop! Stop biting Baladi’s ear!” she shouted.
“Oh. What about your son’s dad?” asked Karma. Veronica had a son she had mentioned a few times as if he was just an accessory in her life, not the center of it as he might have been if they had been living in Bilaq.
Veronica crossed her arms, and let out a long sigh.“Oh. It was a one-night stand thing. We never got married.”
Karma blushed. Could she be friends with someone like that? What would her mother think? Maybe she should just leave Veronica’s house now and never talk to her again? She couldn’t wrap her head around women having kids out of wedlock and being so open about it. Apparently, in the States, nobody judged them. Nobody shunned them. Nobody killed them in the name of protecting the family’s honor.
Must be nice. Veronica probably hadn’t even tried to get pregnant, yet here she was, a mother when that was all Karma wanted in the world.
A sadness washed over her for the first time since getting her puppy. “I have to go,” said Karma abruptly as she stood up, wobbling a little with too much booze. “Baladi needs to nap. I can see he’s getting cranky.”
She stumbled back home, wiping tears from her face as Baladi led the way.
***
True to her promise, Veronica showed up the next day with gardening tools. She started with Karma’s front yard, weeding, digging, and planting some perennials she’d gotten for her from Home Depot.
“I also got you some mint,” she said, handing her a small pot. “I’m still looking for jasmine. The Korean store is out of them. You might have to order it online.”
Every once in a while, Veronica would bring her a new plant to add to her garden.
“Here you go,” Veronica said one morning when she showed up unannounced in front of Karma’s house. She handed her a long plant with green leaves. “This is called a Black-Eyed Susan. It’s native to our state. It requires little care. Just water it every day, and it’ll grow every summer. One of my favorite plants.”
Karma’s days were becoming busy and enjoyable. She hardly thought about her issues—the infertility, the loneliness, her visions. She felt normal, happy even. When Karma was not spending time with Veronica, she focused on learning about raising her dog. She read articles on the American Kennel Club website and rewatched one YouTube dog training video after the other. In addition to teaching him how to sit and play catch, she also taught him how to shake hands and give high fives. She put him on a rigid schedule, including three walks daily, three meals, and two snacks.
She spoiled her dog and spent a lot of money on toys and gear from Amazon. She loved the American notion of instant gratification, where anything she wished for would arrive at her doorstep in a day or two, and sometimes even overnight. Boxes and more boxes came to her house—leashes, collars, treats, dog water bottles, chew toys, dog beds, and a dog pool. Jamal didn’t seem to mind.
Baladi made a morning person out of her. She loved walking him early, watching the sunrise in the nearby woods, where she would listen to the music of Fairuz on her AirPods, and plan her day, which would usually include a dog playdate of some sort, making dinner, gardening, and doing the laundry.
The dog, the garden, and her new friendship with Veronica were giving her life.
One late summer day, Karma was sitting in Veronica’s yard, enjoying a cold breeze, listening to her tell a story about kitchen remodeling and the issues she had with the contractors.
“The counter was a completely different color from the one I ordered, and they insisted I pay for it. I was like, ‘no way,’ and threatened to sue them,” said Veronica, spilling her drink as she waved her arms. “Of course, they replaced it the next day. Just mention a lawsuit, and they will come to you with their tail between their legs.”
Karma nodded her head, feigning interest in the conversation. She was elsewhere, lost in a trance. The evening's gentle embrace and the tipsy warmth from the alcohol coursing through her veins made everything else seem distant and unimportant.
While Veronica went on and on about her kitchen remodeling, Karama found herself staring at Veronica’s face, her light skin, her black hair, and the freckles on her cheeks. Freckles were a rare sight in Bilaq, so she kept staring at the dots scattered below Veronica’s eyes and right about her cheeks. Small dots screaming for attention. What caused them? Why were they dominant in some races and not others?
Her trance was interrupted by the arrival of Dominic, Veronica’s teenage son.
“Come here, Dom,” said Veronica. “Say hi to our neighbor, Mrs. Ibrahim,” she said, slurring her words.
Mrs. Ibrahim! She was not used to being called that. A property of Jamal and his family. Why was this naming tradition still prevalent in the land of the free?
Karma stood up and said, “You can call me Karma.”
Dom was handsome and tall, maybe six feet. His long, black hair was tied up in a ponytail. His broad jaw and brown eyes were not from Veronica. Did he take after his mystery father? A tight Under Armour shirt emphasized his toned abs.
He was exactly the guy her younger self would have daydreamed about dating and kissing by his car in front of her house.
Stop this thought—stop it! He’s just a kid.
They shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.
As soon as their hands touched, a vision started forming, taking Karma by surprise, and she was too buzzed to suppress it.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Dom was hanging from a rope. Neck twisted. Eyes bulging. Blue lips. He was alone in the room, wearing the very same Under Amour shirt he had on now.
She felt nauseous. Dizzy. She placed her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes.
“Are you okay?” asked Veronica, tilting her head. “You don’t look well.”
“I think I had too much to drink,” said Karma, who was swaying and struggling to hold herself steady.
“Dom, honey, why don’t you go to your room?” said Veronica.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ibrahim,” he said, then disappeared inside the house.
No. Not Veronica’s perfect son. Karma wanted to throw up. She had to get out of there.
“Do you need coffee or water?” asked Veronica.
Karma shook her head. “No, thank you. I just need to head home.”
Veronica placed her hand on Karma’s shoulder. “Do you want me to walk with you?”
“No, thank you. I’m okay. I’ll text you when I get home. I promise.”
She leashed Baladi and hurried back home. She took a tumble a few feet from her house, but she quickly picked herself up and dashed inside.
She skipped dinner and went upstairs to bed, telling Jamal the fertility medicines the doctor had prescribed were making her tired.
She skipped through Netflix shows, trying to make herself forget about what she had seen earlier. That didn’t work, so she picked up one of her latest romance books.
It can’t be right. It was the alcohol causing me to imagine things. Terrible things. Maybe it is the mix of the fertility drugs with alcohol. Nothing bad would happen to that handsome boy. He seemed perfectly fine. Healthy and happy. Good mother. Nice home.
That night, as Jamal tenderly made love to her, Karma’s thoughts were of Dom.
Whatever he planned to do, she had to stop it.
*
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P.S: If you enjoyed this chapter, I think you'll love my novel They Called Me Wyatt—a speculative murder mystery set in Jordan and the U.S. You can grab your copy here. Thank you so much for your support!
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