Just as I reached the steps, my cell phone chirped. It was a text message from Naddie. She was running twenty minutes late. I texted back – OK – then located an empty rocker between a beautiful Muslim woman and a slumbering, elaborately mustachioed grandpop wearing a red plaid lumberjack shirt, and sat down to wait.
To my left was the dual span of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, four-and-a-half miles long, the engineering marvel that connected Annapolis to Maryland’s eastern shore and to the towns and beaches of the Delmarva Peninsula. Kent Island at its far end was a gray-green swathe on the horizon. I counted five container ships and a car carrier anchored in the mid-distance, awaiting clearance to proceed under the bridge and up into Baltimore Harbor some twenty-five miles to the north, where they would unload and perhaps take on more cargo. Sailing in the opposite direction was Woodwind, a seventy-four-foot, three-masted schooner, crammed full of tourists out for an afternoon sail.
‘Relaxing, isn’t it?’ the Muslim woman said. She was dressed in a black skirt and a saffron-yellow, long-sleeved silk blouse. A white headscarf was draped loosely around her neck and completely covered her hair. If she wore the scarf out of modesty, it failed miserably. The hijab framed her face like the Madonna in a Renaissance painting, only serving to draw attention to the woman’s extraordinary beauty.
She removed the oversized Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses she wore and turned her violet eyes on me. ‘My name is Safa Abaza. Are you new here or just visiting?’
‘Just visiting,’ I told her. ‘I ran into a friend over at the spa and she’s promised me a tour. I’m Hannah Ives.’
Safa’s pale skin wore the blush of a few too many minutes in the sun, but other than plum-colored lip gloss and something to darken her gracefully arched eyebrows, I detected no trace of makeup.
‘Are you visiting, too?’ I asked. She looked so fresh, so young that I assumed she couldn’t be a resident.
‘No, my husband and I live here. In one of the town homes.’
I stared at her for a moment, temporarily speechless. Safa couldn’t possibly be as old as fifty-five! Had she discovered a Fountain of Youth somewhere on the property?
As if reading my mind, she said, ‘My husband is a good bit older than I, as you probably guessed. I’ve just turned fifty-one, but Masud is sixty-eight.’
I couldn’t believe Safa was as old as fifty-one, either, but decided to take her word for it. ‘My husband and I live in downtown Annapolis,’ I told her. ‘He teaches math at the Naval Academy, so we aren’t thinking about retirement just yet. When we do, though, I can think of a lot of worse places than Calvert Colony.’
Safa’s eyes sparkled with interest. ‘Masud is a professor, too! He’s just retired from George Washington University, where he taught for many years at the Institute for Middle East Studies. When my husband first heard about Calvert Colony, we were living in Crofton.’ She folded her hands in her lap, was silent for a moment. ‘He came for a tour and he liked what he saw, but I never thought we’d actually make the move. It’s very unusual for Muslims to go into nursing homes.’
‘Well, Calvert Colony isn’t exactly a nursing home, is it?’ I chuckled. After a couple of moments’ thought, I asked, ‘Why is that so unusual?’
‘The Quran teaches that we must care for our parents as they cared for us as infants. Our children – we have two, a boy and a girl, both grown with families of their own now – are naturally Muslim. When Masud began talking about moving into a retirement community, the children were upset. Our daughter was completely opposed to it. She said of course she’d take care of us! But I know my daughter. Her main concern was that if she didn’t look after us properly it would reflect badly on her. “Look at Laila!” our friends would say. “There she is shopping at Bloomingdale’s, and she’s dumped her poor mother and father in a nursing home.”’
‘Laila’s a beautiful name,’ I said.
Safa nodded, reached down for her handbag and rummaged about inside. ‘This is Laila,’ she said, handing me a laminated wallet-sized studio photograph of a woman flanked by two children, the older one standing stiffly at her side, the younger, a toddler, leaning casually into her lap. ‘Laila’s not wearing a hijab,’ I observed as I handed the photograph back to her.
‘She wears it for prayers,’ Safa explained. ‘But otherwise…’ She shrugged. ‘Laila tells her father she’s done the research and she believes that wearing the hijab comes from Arab culture and not from Islam. But she gave it up after September eleventh, so I’m certain that anti-Muslim harassment had a lot to do with it. Masud didn’t approve, of course,’ Safa continued. ‘Talking with my husband about the hijab is a lot like talking about abortion with a Tea Party wingnut. A lose-lose situation.’ She raised an elegant, beautifully manicured but polish-free finger. ‘Laila pointed out – quite correctly, too – that while the Quran requires modesty, it says nothing about keeping your hair covered.’ She smiled and was silent for a moment. ‘But when she started making trouble about the move to Calvert Colony, Masud turned that argument around on her. The Quran requires that we care for our parents in their old age, he told her, but it doesn’t say exactly how.’ She spread her arms, palms up, taking in the whole expanse of the complex that surrounded us. ‘This is how.’
‘My retirement plan involves booking round-the-world cruises on the Queen Mary Two,’ I joked, although I was half serious. ‘Back to back. A beautiful cabin, someone to clean and make it up fresh for you every day, fabulous food, champagne bar, spas and pools, not to mention movies, lectures and Broadway-quality entertainment.’ I sighed dramatically. ‘Now that’s assisted living!’
Safa giggled. ‘I like how you think, Hannah!’
After a moment, her face grew serious. ‘Masud realized that sometimes life sends you challenges that are beyond a child’s ability to help, and he didn’t want to burden Laila and Roshan.’ She leaned forward, inclined her head closer to mine and spoke softly. ‘Masud has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.’
I started to lay a comforting hand on hers then drew back, not knowing whether the gesture would be misinterpreted. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Safa shrugged. ‘Insha’Allah. What can one do? It is early days yet, and Masud has already started medication, so I’m hopeful. One can live a long time with Parkinson’s, as you probably know. Look at Michael J. Fox.’
I remembered reading that the youthful Back to the Future star had been diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s disease in 2001. Nevertheless, he had worked fairly steadily as an actor since then, and would be back on television in the fall with a semi-autobiographical sitcom. ‘He’s certainly done a lot to raise public awareness about the disease,’ I said.
‘Yes, and it’s generous support such as his that gives us hope for a cure.’
‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, Safa, but I think that you and your husband have made the right decision, both for you and for your children.’
Safa nodded in agreement. ‘Masud brought me here for a visit, we talked to Mr Bennett, the director, and Masud was happy with what we heard. We are fine for now in our town home, but later? Well, the concept of modesty is accepted here, that was of utmost importance to me.’
‘Do you mean the clothing you wear? The hijab?’
Safa blushed. ‘That is part of it, but more importantly, should I need one, I must have a woman doctor, and, when the time comes, women who tend to me.’