In the Language of Miracles (2 page)

ENGLISH
: The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.

Bible

ARABIC
: God gave; God took; God will provide compensation.

Saying

F
or almost a year, the Bradstreets and the Al-Menshawys practiced elaborate avoidance tactics, living next door to each other yet hardly crossing paths. Khaled noticed his parents' change of habits right away: Samir, after years of leaving for work at 8:00 a.m., started heading out a full half-hour earlier just so he would not run into Jim Bradstreet. Coming home, Samir no longer parked his car in the driveway and walked through the front door but squeezed his Avalon into the cluttered garage then slid through the barely open door and walked into the kitchen. Nagla abandoned her wicker armchair on the deck, moving her ashtray to a bench where she sat with her back to the living room wall, looking away from the Bradstreets' backyard and hidden from their view. Even Cynthia Bradstreet forsook her gardening and the backyard she had practically lived in for years. From his bedroom window, Khaled watched as her irises wilted and drooped and her herb garden succumbed to negligence, the tan spikes of dry dill and cilantro eventually covered by
snow, which, once it melted, revealed a rectangular bed of lifeless mud where the blooming garden once stood.

Then, just short of a year after the deaths, Khaled answered the door one evening and saw Cynthia Bradstreet standing on his parents' doorstep. One hand still holding the doorknob, Khaled stared at her, forgetting to step aside to let her in.

“Hey, Khaled,” Cynthia said, moving closer to grab his hand. Khaled had grown four inches since he turned sixteen a year earlier, and she had to look up to meet his eyes. Despite the warm weather, her hand was freezing cold.

“Hey, Aunt Cynthia,” Khaled said. Behind him, he heard his father's heavy step, followed by his mother's hurried one, and then Ehsan's shuffling feet and her voice, mumbling prayers.

 • • • 

Nagla served tea in gold-rimmed miniature glasses that wobbled on the silver tray in her unsteady hands. Khaled, terrified that his mother would drop the tray in Cynthia's lap, stared at Fatima until their eyes met and then nodded toward their mother.

“Here, Mama. Let me,” Fatima said, taking the tray and passing the tea around before walking into the kitchen to serve Ehsan, who had settled in at the breakfast table the moment everyone else was seated and had started softly reciting the Qur'an, her oversized copy of the book resting under her palms, the print large enough for her to see without glasses. In the background her voice rang in a constant hum that Khaled missed only whenever it was interrupted, just as he noticed the combined noises of air conditioner, refrigerator, and running dishwasher only when the power went out in the winter and the house was suddenly drenched in silence.

Khaled, sitting at the bottom of the stairway, watched as his father sipped his tea, legs crossed in his armchair. Neither Nagla nor Cynthia
tasted hers, though both women held on to the gold-rimmed tumblers, wrapping their fingers around them.

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Cynthia said, raising her eyes to look at Nagla. “We're planning something for next weekend—for the anniversary.”

Nagla nodded. “Yes. We saw the flyers.”

“I thought you might have.” Cynthia looked down. “Jim and Pat went a bit overboard with them, I'm afraid. They're everywhere.”

Khaled had seen the flyer that very morning. Standing on the platform of the Summerset train station, waiting for the Amtrak to take him to New York, Khaled had turned around and found himself facing Natalie, her image centered in the flyer thumbtacked to the green felt, safely tucked behind the glass of the display case. She was wearing her hair in the asymmetrical bob that she had debuted only a few weeks before her death and a blue sweater that Khaled remembered seeing her wear to school. Looking at the flyer behind the protective glass, all Khaled could think of was the blue morpho butterfly, and how he had once told Natalie he would one day travel to South America and photograph his own, not catch it to put it on display, but watch it, follow it around, guess at the span of its wings, maybe even attempt to measure it, but then let it fly away unharmed.

Khaled waited for Cynthia to resume talking, his heart sinking. He imagined her asking his parents to leave town for the weekend of the memorial with no need to explain why the Al-Menshawys would not be welcome. He hoped that she would not be so blunt, that she would spare his mother the humiliation.

“We'll be planting a tree,” Cynthia said. “At the park. A rosewood. They live very long, you know.” Khaled reached out for his teacup, which he had placed on the wooden steps, sipped some of the minted black tea, burned his tongue, and put the cup back down.

“That's an excellent idea,” Samir said, nodding. Fatima moved closer
to her mother and perched on the arm of Nagla's chair, one arm wrapped around her shoulder. Khaled, watching her, smiled.

“I wanted to come to tell you in person.” Cynthia addressed Nagla, but Nagla still kept her eyes down, intently examining the surface of her tea. Only one year ago, they would have both been sitting at the kitchen table, alone, the hot tea growing cold as they whispered and laughed.

“I knew for a long time now that I'd be holding some kind of service,” Cynthia went on. Khaled strained to make her words out. Her voice, so soft, made it seem as if she were whispering the words for Nagla's ears only. “I need this, Nagla. Some closure. I've also realized, a couple of days ago, that I would never get closure unless I spoke to you, too.” Nagla looked up, for the first time meeting Cynthia's eyes. “I want you to know that I don't blame you. I . . . not anymore.”

Nagla nodded, quick, repeated nods, letting her head fall down again and her gaze rest on the tumbler in her lap.

Cynthia sighed. “Also—that whole memorial thing; I never intended it to be that public. When I first thought of it, I was hoping for something private, just for the family. But then Pat thought we should let people come, too, if they wanted to.” Samir's eyes narrowed at the mention of Cynthia's sister. Cynthia went on, “Jim agreed, and now . . . Well, you've seen the flyers.”

“I saw a couple of flyers today,” Samir said, crossing his arms at his chest. “I'm sure everyone saw them. You'll have a good turnout.”

Cynthia nodded, placing her tumbler on the side table. She had not once looked Samir in the eyes. She turned to face Nagla again, reached one hand out and touched Nagla's. “I know this might make you uncomfortable, but that was not my intention. I'm not apologizing for the memorial,” she added quickly, “but I do want you to know that this is not meant for you. I also want you to know—I need you to know that I don't blame you for what happened,” she repeated. Nagla nodded again.

“Okay, then,” Cynthia said, getting up. Nagla and Samir followed her as she headed toward the door. Halfway there, Nagla's eyes froze on the door-side console with its assortment of framed photos. She hastened, overtaking Cynthia and Samir, and stood by the console, her back resting against its marble edge. Khaled's eyes met hers, and he understood. Of course. She was blocking Hosaam's picture, the one of him when he was twelve or thirteen, grinning in his blue-striped shirt, his expression infused with the discomfort typical of school pictures. Khaled held his mother's gaze, remained seated until Cynthia passed both of them on her way out. Only then did Nagla relinquish her spot, following her husband and standing by the door as Cynthia walked down the front path. Khaled followed, too, standing behind his parents and towering over both of them, watching as Cynthia turned to her own house, disappearing behind its front door.

Khaled let his parents walk back in and then slipped out. He looked around him at the quiet street where he grew up, familiar even in the darkness. Taking a deep breath in, he savored a comfort that daylight seemed to eradicate, a safe sense of belonging that had lately become people-shy, obliterated by the slightest glance of recognition from a stranger. Khaled walked up to the swing hanging from the white porch rafters, sat down quietly. The chains holding the swing up rattled. They would not creak if he did not push the swing. He stretched his legs in front of him, leaned his head back. Across from him and on top of the opposing row of houses, the cloudy sky hid all stars.

“Hey.” Fatima's head was sticking out of the doorway. “Come back in. They're fighting.”

“Why?”

Fatima did not answer but waved at him to hurry in before disappearing through the doorway.

“No, Samir. She was
not
inviting us.” Nagla was sitting back in her chair.

“It was as good as an invitation,” Samir said, hovering over her. “Why else do you think she came?”

“She was just being nice.” Nagla paused, raised one trembling hand to her forehead. “Because that's how she is.”

Samir sat on the sofa, crossed his legs. “Twenty years in the U.S. and you still don't understand Americans.”

“What's there to understand?”

“That she took the trouble to come to our house. That she mentioned closure. Sure, it's nice of her. But there is more to it than that. She wants to make peace, Nagla. How can she do so if we don't participate?”

“How are we supposed to participate? There is no way they want us at this service, Samir. Think of how awkward it would be,” Nagla pleaded.

“I'm not saying it won't be awkward; I'm saying it's necessary. If we don't go—especially after she came to our house to tell us about it—they will think we don't want to put this thing behind us.”

“Who will think so?”

“Everyone!” Samir's voice rose. Echoing him, Ehsan's voice rose, too, reciting verses from the Qur'an. She had moved from the kitchen to the living room, sat in a corner chair across the room from her daughter and son-in-law, but had kept the holy book open in her lap, her lips moving rapidly as she continued her reading, barely audible.

Samir sighed. “Think about it, Nagla. This is our chance to be part of this community again. This service is an opportunity for us to show that we are on the same side they are on. That we regret what happened as much as they do. That we are not—” He paused, searching for words. “That we are not what they think we are.”

“I don't know, Samir. We tried going public before, and that didn't go so well, did it?”

Samir stiffened up, blushing. “I was trying to help. To make things better for you and the kids. That's all I've ever done. What else would you have me do, huh? Just hide and wait it out? For how long?”

“We could always move, you know,” Khaled said. His father turned and glared at him.

“We're not starting this again. And who asked for your opinion, anyway?”

Fatima, moving closer to Khaled, grabbed his arm and squeezed it. He said nothing.

“Just think about it,” Samir resumed, leaning toward his wife again. “We could go together, as a family, showing our respect. Perhaps they would let me say a word or two, address them—”

“You want to speak, too?” Nagla interrupted him.

“The flyer said they'd welcome speakers!” Samir said.

“Yes, but not you! Not you!” Nagla got up, paced the living room. “I know you mean well, Samir, but I really think you're off, this time. I mean—can you imagine?” She paused, raised both hands to her face.
“Ya Allah.”
She sighed.

“Why not me? See, this is the mentality that's setting us back. You're acting like they are right; like we are not part of this community.”

“It's not about the community!” Nagla's voice rose. “It's about . . . about . . .” She choked up.

“It's about your refusal to support my decisions. Again.” Samir's voice grew hard. Fatima nudged Khaled, took a step toward her parents, but her brother held her back. She glanced at him and he shook his head.

“I'm always supportive. When have I not been supportive?” Nagla stepped closer to her husband. “Why do you have to turn everything into a criticism of me? Can't I even help you see the . . . the . . .” she stammered, and then, in a gush, added, “the stupidity of your plans?”

“Eh ellet eladab di?”
Samir protested. What kind of ill breeding is this?

Ehsan raised her voice again.
“Hal jazao alihsani illa alihsan.”

“Baba,”
Fatima said, stepping closer to her father.

“Watch your language, Samir,” Nagla said.

“Look who's talking!”

“Fine,” Nagla said, walking away from him.
“Mashi.”

She headed toward the stairs, started climbing up.

“Where are you going?” her husband yelled. “We're not through yet!”

“I am.” Nagla did not pause, nor did she turn around. “You know what you want to do, go do it. That's how it always is anyway.”

“I'll do what I want, yes. And I don't need your permission!”

Nagla slammed her bedroom door shut.

Samir, as if noticing his two children for the first time, looked at Khaled and then at Fatima. “And what about you two, huh? Do you have anything to say?”

Khaled shook his head.

“Good!” Samir walked to the kitchen, paced once around the breakfast table like a man on a pilgrimage, then walked out the kitchen door and onto the back deck. Khaled could see him through the bay window as he sat down on one of the armchairs, leaned forward, and ran his fingers through what remained of his hair.

“As stubborn as ever,” Khaled murmured.

“He's only trying to help, Khaled.” Fatima looked up the stairs. “You think she'll be okay?”

“She'll be fine. She's used to this.”

“
Psstt
,” Khaled heard. He and Fatima turned around to see their grandmother summoning them. She had closed the Qur'an and placed it on the table beside her, where Cynthia's untouched tea still stood. Khaled and Fatima walked up to her, Fatima sitting by her side while Khaled crouched down in front.