In this motel room I’m queen of all I survey, organizing the jumbled contents of my suitcase and backpack.  Clothes in nice neat little piles – pullovers and shirts and tops, pants and shorts, underwear.  Hijabs, most of the classic square style.  Shoes in a short matching row.  Makeup and toiletries, although no birth control pills.  Some jewelry, including a thick rubber band I used to wear for good luck in high school basketball and volleyball games.  Two watches, one for dress-up and one for all the exercising I never do.  My collected notebooks and a favorite purple swirly pen.  My photo album, a sad glimpse of life with Saman.  The antique Polaroid camera I got at the flea market.

But it’s what I don’t see that makes me dizzy with stress.  No credit cards or checkbook.  No car keys.  No mobile phone.  Just $673.87 in dollars and change, sitting on the bedspread where I count it and cry.

I rehearsed the scene with Nasrin all the way from Kansas City, everything I needed to do, everything I’d say.  Because I knew she’d be mad when I showed up on her doorstep with no wedding ring.  Our relationship would instantly go from bad to worse.  She’d probably lose whatever respect she had left for her little sister, and yell at me a lot, and even curse.  What was I doing back in San Diego?  Hadn’t I just come to my senses and returned to my husband?  Did I want to spit on God and the families joined by my marriage, had I completely lost my honor, was I on drugs?  But if I spilled out my heart, telling her everything I could never tell her before, about Saman and my marriage and most of all me, I knew it would be okay.  Nasrin wouldn’t forgive me, at least not right away.  But she would support me.  I’d be back in the guest bedroom surrounded by my family.

Except she didn’t do any of those things.  She just paced in circles on the driveway with stiff, angry movements.  The spectacle caused me to lapse into nervous silence.  Even the cab driver paused with his trunk lid half-closed, staring at her in curious alarm.  Aware of his scrutiny, she pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt to cover her hair.

“I’m calling Dad and Mom.  Then I’m calling Saman to come and get you.”  The words were stony and pitiless.  It was a tone of voice I’d never heard from Nasrin before.  “You can stay here until then.”

“But…”  My gaze fell to our shadows on the driveway.  Hers was a Coke bottle stretching toward the townhome.  Mine was a thicker version of the streetlight pole.  “I’m not going back.  I’m never going back.”

“Yes you are!” she almost screamed.

My shadow was startled into motion, an anguished retreat.  I only looked at her once, as the taxi was pulling away.  Our relationship was shattering in her face.

This time I’m not just fleeing from Saman, I’m fleeing from my own sister.  All the way to this Super 8 Motel in National City, right across the broad rushing lanes of I-5 from the San Diego Naval Station.  Standing on the balcony I can smell the paint shops and diesel fumes, and hear the buzzing of planes and power tools, and see the US Navy ships rising above the warehouse rooftops like outsize toys.  For $57 a night, this is home.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.  Or something like that.