In the Language of Miracles (15 page)

ENGLISH
: Like father, like son / Like mother, like daughter.

ARABIC
: This cub is that lion's offspring / Turn the carafe upside down, and the daughter will resemble her mother.

S
o you'd rather hide?”

Samir's voice, calm as it was, had an edge that Nagla recognized. She paced her bedroom as she spoke to him on the phone, trying to keep her voice low so her mother would not hear. As a precaution, she closed her bedroom door.

“I'm not saying that. I just don't think going there would work out well.”

Samir sighed. “Of course it would. We can show them we're a family, still together despite what happened. We can show them we care enough to offer our condolences and are brave enough to do it
despite
their resistance. We'll look courageous. Americans like this kind of stuff. Trust me. I know them better than you do.”

“I've been living with them for as long as you have, remember?”

“Yes. But you're home alone all the time. I'm interacting with them every day. I know what I'm talking about. We need a public act of solidarity. It's the only way we can get them to forget what happened.”

“Can't we offer this public act of solidarity some other time?”

“Like when? Do you want me to call a town hall meeting just for our sake? When on earth will we have all those people gathered in the same place again?”

“There has to be another way to do this.”

“There is no other way.” He paused. “Why are you so bent against this? You're the only one who thinks it's a bad idea.”

“I'm not. The kids don't like it, either.”

“Since when do we listen to advice from children? They're just too self-conscious. They don't want that many eyes on them.”

“They're not children anymore.”

He sighed again. “Okay, so Khaled's seventeen years of existence make him see things clearer than I do.”

“I didn't say that.”

“I'm telling you, it's all in your head. Even your mom agrees with me.”

Nagla paused. “You spoke to my mom about this?”

“She's living with us, isn't she? She was here when Cynthia came visiting. What's wrong with discussing things with her?”

“And she agreed with you?”

“Yes.”

Of course. Why was she even surprised?

“You're making too big a deal out of this, Nagla. Trust me—it will work out.”

He waited. She paced the room and said nothing. She should tell him that Ameena thought it was a horrible idea, but he would only belittle her opinion, then be angry with Nagla for discussing family affairs with strangers. She would respond that he had discussed it with her mother, but he would argue that her mother was not a stranger and defy her to contradict that. The entire conversation was heading toward a dead end.

“I have patients waiting.” He hung up before she could protest. She stared at the phone in her hand and then flung it onto her bed.

 • • • 

Not until she was on her second cigarette did she realize she had forgotten to open the windows. She cranked them both then opened the door as well, hoping the draft would help disperse the smoke before it clung to her bed linens.

The rain had stopped and the day turned calm, with only a gentle breeze, not even enough to make the trees sway, a change in weather that contradicted earlier forecasts and seemed to banish—or, at least, postpone—the expected storm. She rested one arm on the side of the window, looking out, and inhaled the warm, moist air, surprisingly soothing, a reminder of spring days in Egypt when the air would blow from the sea, filling her lungs with the smell of salty iodine, so fresh and clean. Pulling the screen off and placing it on the floor, she wiped the windowsill dry and then leaned out, flicking cigarette ash on her deck below. In the distance, she traced the tops of the trees, a wavy line bordered by the sky. To her right, a cluster of trees formed a large hump that protruded from the mass forming Summerset Park—how had she never noticed that before? How could she have lived in this house for close to twenty years and yet never noticed the shape of the trees that greeted her every morning?

She cranked the casement window fully open. Holding on to the edge and biting on the cigarette to keep it in place, she carefully lifted one leg out the window and slowly raised herself until she sat straddling the windowsill, her back pushed against the frame, one foot in her room and the other dangling out of it. She held on to the frame with both hands before she looked down to see what her foot was hitting and realized that she could reach the roof of the living room's bay window. She let her foot rest on it and settled in place.

The windowsill did not make for comfortable seating. A small pillow would have probably spared her tailbone the nudging pain, and the
moisture that she had apparently not fully wiped away was already seeping through her pant leg, but she was reluctant to move after she had found her balance. She grabbed the cigarette, brushing off the ash that had fallen on her jeans. From where she was seated, she could see the trees clear ahead, and she examined them, feeling a strange satisfaction in knowing that she, in her late forties, could still wear skinny jeans and maneuver her way out a window—or, at least, halfway out. The breeze tickled her ankle, whisking her back to when she was nine, riding her bike along the Alexandria shore. She had to take a deep breath to steady herself again and to control the shiver that went through her.

She regretted having called Samir. Waiting until he came home would have been better, but, then again, she didn't want to risk having the kids overhear their conversation, which, considering Samir's tendency to yell, would have been inevitable. She wondered whether he had always been so loud; when they first got married, she used to like listening to his voice, especially with her eyes closed. He would be talking and she would simply close her eyes—that much she remembered. His voice, so deep it seemed suited to a man twice his breadth and a foot taller, had soothed her, and keeping her eyes closed allowed her to dissect its tone until she found the one layer that she knew affected her so, giving her a feeling of home that even the snow outside—so foreign, at first—could not disprove. When he asked why she did it and heard her explanation, he laughed, teasing her about her sharp hearing—an inside joke threading its way throughout their marriage. At least once, she was certain, he had stopped talking as her eyes were closed and tiptoed around her, then, coming up from behind, he had yelled in her ear, causing her to jump. He had doubled over in laughter in response. But that had been long ago. If she were to close her eyes while he talked now, he would probably ask whether he was boring her to sleep.

It hit her, now, that his voice had changed. She took another puff of her cigarette, blew the smoke into the air, and watched it dissipate. She
could not be certain, of course, but it seemed that his voice had gained another layer of impatient, dissatisfied edginess that she had not sensed before. Or perhaps it had always been there and she had failed to hear it. Whatever the reason, she could not remember the last time his voice had soothed her.

She heard a branch crack in the distance, and, behind her, her mother's slow step climbing the stairs. Her senses had become increasingly sharp—perhaps Samir was right and she
was
cursed with the hearing of a cat. But she was noticing things that she had never noticed before, like that hump of trees far ahead, or the words on Ameena's walls and the prayers that sprinkled her own talk as well as her friends'. She remembered her encounter with Ameena and winced. Why was she dissecting everything today? A few months ago, Khaled had tried to explain to her how evolution happened when animals were subjected to external stress: a new predator, perhaps, or an environmental threat to their existence. She had listened and nodded, grateful for what she had seen as an uncharacteristic attempt at intimacy on Khaled's part, but she had not really paid attention to what he was saying. She wondered whether her newfound perception was a sort of evolutionary leap, too; whether the stress of this past year, and now this past week, had made her see things she never recognized before.

“What are you doing?” Ehsan stood in the doorway, as she always did. Why did she have to pause at the door before she walked into any room? Was this, too, something Nagla should add to her list of new observations? She watched her mother, pondering when Samir had had time to talk to her in private. Nagla drew on the last puff of her cigarette and then flicked it away.

“I was smoking.”

“Like this?” Ehsan raised an arm as she walked toward her. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I needed the fresh air.”

“You're half naked!”

Nagla looked down at herself. She was in her camisole, the edge of her black bra showing under the camisole's lace. She stumbled into the room, got her foot caught on the windowsill, and fell down, headfirst. Both arms outstretched, she caught herself and jumped to her feet and then walked away from the window, her heart throbbing. When had she taken her top off? She had it on when she first called Samir, she was certain. She walked up and down her room, perplexed at how she had noticed the shape of the trees and the breeze brushing against her ankle but not her naked shoulders and arms, slightly moist—she now saw—from resting against the window.

“What were you doing dangling out the window like this anyway? You could have fallen!
And
people probably saw you, naked as you are.” Ehsan followed her into the bathroom, where Nagla found her top bunched up on the vanity. She grabbed it, pulling it over her head.

“And what would have been worse, do you think—falling off the window, or having people see me half naked?” she asked her mother. In the mirror, she could see Ehsan's pursed lips, her incredulous look.

“What kind of stupid question is this?”

“It's a question of priorities. Which is more important? My life or how people perceive my decency?”

“I don't know what's gotten into you, lately.” Ehsan walked out of the bathroom. Nagla looked at her own reflection. She had often heard of grief-stricken people who woke up one morning with grayed hair, the discoloring a testament to their shock at what life had thrown their way. Her hair, despite all that she had gone through, was still jet black. She ran her fingers through it, ruffling it, looking for any gray strands. Her hair's resistance to graying felt like a betrayal of her son.

Perhaps this was one more thing she had failed at.

She turned around and saw her mother sitting on the edge of the bed. Ehsan's hair was a dark salt and pepper, not the silvery gray that
most people of her age wear. She, too, had managed to go through life seemingly unfazed—at least as far as her hair color testified. Nagla walked back into her bedroom, stood across from her mother, examining her hair.

“What's wrong with you, girl?”

“I'm noticing the strangest things today. Like your hair color.” Nagla paused. “You know, I'm starting to think I'm more like you than I ever thought I was.”

Ehsan looked at her, her head tilted to the side, her brow knotted.

“My hair won't turn gray, just like yours.” Nagla walked closer to her mother, looking her in the eyes. “Another thing I've noticed: how much Samir likes to talk to you.”

“What—”

“I don't know how I never thought about that before. He used to call you in Egypt, didn't he? Whenever he and I had a fight over something, he would call to get you to convince me of his point of view.”

“Only once or twice—”

“And then, in the middle of our argument, he'd throw it at me:
even your mother agrees with me.
How come you always take his side? Did you ever think that this is a betrayal of me?”

“Betrayal?” Ehsan slid off the bed and stood in front of her daughter. “You truly are an ungrateful child. Is this the thanks I get for slaving in your house for the entire past year?”

“Didn't you tell me just yesterday that you thought going to that service was a bad idea? Distasteful, right? Why didn't you tell him so when he asked you? Or had he already spoken to you then?”

“It's his house and his family. I'm only a guest—”

“So you lied to him.”

“Nagla!”

“And you lied to me, saying he never spoke to you.”

“Bent!”

“Just like you used to lie to
Baba,
right?”

“Mind your manners,
ya bent
!”

“Don't think I don't know. Don't think I believe all those stories you tell about how great
Baba
was. You lie about him just like you lied
to
him. I know. Your sons told me.”

“Eh ellet eladab di?”

Nagla ignored the accusation of ill-breeding and yanked her bedside table's drawer open, rummaging through it, her heart pounding. If her feelings had layers similar to those of Samir's voice, only one deeply buried layer would house the thread of guilt she felt at calling her mother names to her face—another first. Twice in one day she had called those closest to her liars, she noticed as she found an empty cigarette pack and squished it, balling it up and tossing it back in the drawer. She could not claim the accusations felt good, but they felt necessary. Fair. Her recent attention to detail seemed to have clarified things for her, and she argued that this clarity led to a degree of honesty—because that was what her words must have been: honest—that was utterly justified. The only reason she was unable to feel good about her scrupulousness was that crack in her mother's voice as she spluttered something behind her. Nagla looked for cigarettes—there had to be another pack in one of those drawers—perfectly aware of her mother's manipulative attempt at making her feel guilty. She was not taking any more of this.