In the Language of Miracles (21 page)

Hosaam shook his head. “You don't understand,” he said, his voice low, the words still coming out a bit too close together. “You won't have to go meet her. I will. I'll go talk to her. She won't listen to me here, but there she will. And then you can be the one who brought us together, right? You'd be the one who made it all happen, who made sure we'd be together forever, right?”

“I don't know, Hosaam. I don't want to get involved—”

“Just send her a text. Or give me your phone and I'll do it. Just don't
say you didn't send it if she sees you at school tomorrow and asks, okay?” Hosaam reached out to get Khaled's phone from his bedside table.

“No, I'll do it.” Khaled got to his phone first and held on to it. “Tomorrow morning, though. I can't text her now; it's almost midnight. She'll be asleep.”

Hosaam looked at him, his eyes narrow. He was not smiling anymore.

“Promise you'll do it?” he finally asked.

“Sure, I will.”

“You're a good boy, right? You won't go back on your promise, will you?”

“No, I won't, Hosaam. I'll tell her tomorrow.”

“Don't tell her. Text her.”

“I might see her at school and tell her instead.”

“No, don't tell her. Text her.” Hosaam held Khaled's arm as he looked him straight in the eyes. Khaled pulled back, hit the headboard. “Do it for me, will you?” Hosaam smiled again.

“Okay, okay. I'll text her.”

“Good.” Hosaam got up. “Good night, bro.” He leaned down and planted a kiss on Khaled's forehead. Khaled pulled away, and Hosaam laughed.

Heading to the door, Hosaam turned around one last time, looked at Khaled, and said, “You know what? Tomorrow evening, before you go to bed, I want you to remember one thing: I want you to remember that you're my little brother, that you'll always be my little brother, and that we're just alike, you and I. We're just alike. Remember how you used to copy all I did when we were young? Well, that's your fate, bro. To always follow in my footsteps.”

He had laughed as he turned around and walked away, and Khaled remembered feeling angry with him, not because he had scared him, but because he was, again, trying to manipulate him to do things he did not want to do.

He did not text Natalie. In the morning, before Khaled left for school, when his surprisingly still awake brother asked if he had texted her, Khaled lied and said he had. Lying to Hosaam had made him feel good. For once he had refused to do something Hosaam's way. For the entirety of the following year Khaled wondered, every day, what would have happened if he had left it at that, if he had not looked for Natalie between classes and told her what had happened.

“Why does he want to meet me?” Natalie had asked. They were both standing in front of her locker, where she had been looking in a mirror and adjusting a stray strand of hair when Khaled approached her.

“I don't know.” Khaled shrugged. “He didn't even want me to tell you that much. He wanted me to text you and pretend you'd be meeting me there, not him.”

“Your brother!” Natalie's eyes narrowed, as if this description encompassed all the obscenities she was thinking of, and as if Khaled would somehow know exactly what she meant. Which, in fact, he did.

“Listen, Natalie. I don't want to be a part of this, whatever he's doing. I just thought I'd let you know, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“In case you guys still had something going on.”

“Huh. You know what we have going on, now?” Natalie stepped closer to him so that no one else could hear. “You know why your crazy brother wanted
you
to text me?” Khaled shook his head. “Because he thinks you and I are together.” Khaled stared at her. He could feel his face get ready to blush, the blood running up his neck and to his ears. “Your idiot of a brother barged in on me at Friendly's the other day, just as I sat down with my friends, and totally freaked out on me. Told me I've been seeing you behind his back. He went on so much that Audrey had her cell phone out and was about to call the cops.”

“Where'd he get that idea from?”

“I don't know.” She turned to get her books out of the locker. “I guess he saw us talk that day when we walked home together.”

“But we walk home together all the time!” Khaled exclaimed. “Or, at least, we've done it a lot before.”

“Don't ask me.” She closed the locker and turned to head to class. “But you know what? I think I'm going to go meet him. I think I need to tell him to fuck off, once and for all. I mean, jeez! He used to be so sweet!” Natalie looked at Khaled as if it were his fault that Hosaam had changed.

“Do you want me to tell him I never told you? That way you don't have to go?” he called out to her as she turned around. She, without turning back, just raised one hand in the air and waved him off.

 • • • 

Sitting next to Brittany, Khaled remembered how he had spent that entire morning feeling a strange glee at having tricked Hosaam.

“I kept thinking how cool it was that I had told him I texted her when I had not, as if this one detail made all the difference.” He sighed. “Afterward, I kept thinking why he had insisted I text her. It sounds crazy, I know—but I couldn't help but think that perhaps he had wanted the cops to find my message and somehow think I was involved.” He had lain in bed one night, shivering, as he imagined his brother killing Natalie and then disappearing, leaving her with her phone lying by her side. His paranoia had gotten such a strong hold of him that he felt he was slowly turning into his father. “But then I think he just wanted me to feel guilty. Or—” He hesitated, searching for words. “He wanted to control me, like he always did. Either way, he succeeded.”

“No, he did not.” Brittany was sitting with both knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. On the path across from their bench, people were hurrying past, and Khaled wondered whether any of them could have guessed what he and Brittany were talking about.

“Think about it, Brit. This whole past year has been about him. Tomorrow, Natalie's family is holding a memorial service, and that, too, is because of him. My mom, my dad, my sister—everything we're doing is shaped by what he did. And how can I not feel guilty? If I had not given Natalie his message, she might be alive today.” He paused. “Every single day I wonder what could have happened if I had not gone looking for her.”

“You can't think that way, Khaled. You can't second-guess yourself after the fact. How could you have known?”

“I should have known better than to do anything he told me to do.”

“Monday morning quarterback.”

He stared at the ground, his brows knotted. “Wow.”

“What?”

“You just reminded me of my grandmother. Only she always tells me never to say
what if.
”

“She's right.”

“She often is, surprisingly.” Khaled smiled. In his pocket, he felt Ehsan's money nudge him.

Brittany looked around, her eyes resting on an older woman who walked toward them, hand in hand with a little girl. The woman was too old to be the girl's mother, but Khaled had trouble imagining her as the girl's grandmother. He remembered the first time he had seen Garrett's grandmother. “She can't be your grandma! She's—she's so young!” he had objected. She also did not wear long, flowing robes, was obviously fit, did not smell of homemade cakes and incense, and did not, for the entire duration of her visit to Garrett's house, insist on feeding the boys anything. To the then-ten-year-old Khaled, she could not have been a grandmother. Later, he would find out she was two years older than Ehsan.

“You know, my mom lost a brother when she was young. Vietnam,”
Brittany said as she watched the woman and the girl pass by them. “He was a good decade older than she was.” Khaled listened, curious. She had never mentioned her family before. “My grandmother, the poor soul—she became so religious. Some priest told her that it was God's will and that she had to accept it. Her whole life she pounded my mom with this stuff. I think that's why my mom never believed. She says it only made my grandmother superstitious, believing in angels and miracles, all to cope with the fact that her son was blown to pieces in some fucked-up war.”

Khaled looked away. Ehsan believed in miracles. His whole life he had believed, too: that the Zamzam water had healed him, that Moses had split the sea, that Jesus had raised the dead. He could still hear Ehsan's voice telling him the stories, could still remember verses from the Qur'an she had explained to him, telling of how Moses threw his cane and it turned into a serpent, how he took his hand out of his pocket and it shone a bright white, how Jesus had spoken as a newborn, defending his mother's honor. Even now, this whole past year, he had believed in the possibility of miracles: that he would wake up one day and find that his brother was still alive, that Natalie was still alive, or, if not that, that the town would somehow forget the entire fiasco, that people would not glance toward him in fear or loathing.

“You don't believe that miracles can happen?” He tried to sound casual, his tone dismissive of the question's naïveté.

She laughed. “Yeah, right.”

But he
knew
they could.

His certainty struck him, for the first time, as ridiculous. Considering how many things he did not know, how could he be that sure about this, of all things?

Again he remembered Ehsan's prayers of protection, the comfort he felt in evoking God's name before stepping out, the hope that he would
not have to face this world alone. He did not want to give this up. He did not want Hosaam to rob him of that, as well, of the hope that his grandmother had instilled in him since he was a little child. He would not let his brother gain even more control over him.

He reached into his pocket, grabbed Ehsan's money. “Let's go,” he said, getting up.

“Where to?”

He did not know. “Let's walk around for a while.”

They strolled down the street, he all the time scanning the still-open stores. He was looking for something, but did not know what. Then he remembered a store they had passed on their way there, and, leading her by the hand, he made his way through the streets and found it, still open, displays of silver jewelry hanging off decorative brass branches in its window.

“Wait here,” he said. Inside, he scanned the shelves and display cases, frantically looking for something, a sign, something to prove to him, and to her, that miracles still happened. On one of the hangers, he saw it waiting for him, and he reached out and grabbed it: a large, tear-shaped pendant, a turquoise stone mounted in antique silver. On the back of the mounting was etched a butterfly, its wings spread out.

He paid for it with Ehsan's money. Outside, he put it on Brittany's neck.

“What's that?” she asked, laughing.

“Proof that miracles do happen.”

She held the stone in her hand. “It's beautiful.”

“Look at the back,” he said.

She flipped it over and chuckled. He watched her, thinking that this moment was a miracle in itself, that, if nothing else ever worked his way, at least he could always remember her laugh, soft and tender, erasing the pain of the past hour, the past year.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

She smiled and, leaning forward, planted a kiss on his cheek. “You're a good guy, Khaled,” she said, and, because she said so, he felt it could very well be true.

ENGLISH
: We are sorry for your loss.

ARABIC
: Only God can remain.

I am here to tell you how truly sorry my family and I are
.

No. That won't do.

I am here, today, to share in your grief.

Neither will that, of course.
Share in your grief
will not do. It's not their grief alone, after all. It's his, as well, isn't it?

I am here today to offer my respects and to assure you that your grief and mine are one and the same.

That won't work, either. It would sound as if he were claiming to be on the same footing with them, as if he was as much of a victim as they were. Which he was, of course, but they wouldn't like that.

I am here today to offer my respects and to assure you that my heart has been heavy with grief, a grief that only the prospect of your forgiveness could alleviate.

Samir looked at this last line and smiled. That was starting to sound better. He had been in his office ever since he left home in the morning, only stepping out for a quick lunch at Shark's diner before locking himself in again. Though he had not planned to leave home before his scuffle with Nagla, he felt the privacy had been beneficial, helping him concentrate. He wondered how he could have written this speech at home, Nagla and her mother a constant distraction. Thinking of his wife made him wince; he had been too sharp with her, had undoubtedly hurt her. He would have to apologize. Perhaps. But this was not the time to think of that.

He sat back in his chair, reviewed what he had written so far. He would have to assure the Bradstreets that he would be willing to trade his own life for that of their daughter and his son. That he wished there was anything he could do to change this, anything he could have done. And he would have to let them in on how much he blamed himself for all of that, but this, he thought as he pulled the pen away from the paper, would have to be done tactfully. He felt they needed to know, yes, but he could not say it in a way that would be an invitation to lay further blame on him. Also, he didn't want to humiliate himself unnecessarily. God knows, he sighed as he put the pen back to paper, the entire affair was humiliating enough, without him adding to the embarrassment.

In this day of grief, in this day of remembrance, I would like to remind you of my family's history in Summerset. We have been a part of this community for almost two decades. I have taken upon myself the responsibility of treating many of you, and I believe I have done so to the utmost of my ability. My wife has served on school committees, and has volunteered, countless times, in community projects. My children . . .

He paused, lifting his pen again, and leaned back in his seat. He had to bring the children in, of course. Up till now he had been gaining in
confidence. He thought he expressed himself rather nicely. Doctors, he now remembered, were often literarily inclined. Many of the most famous authors in Egypt were doctors. Also, he felt the words he put on the page reflected how clear a vision he had for this speech, how confident he was in the message he wanted to convey. But including the children was tricky. Maybe if he mentioned them by name. He crossed out the two last words and went on:

My daughter, Fatima, has represented her school in many competitions, and has recently won first place on Math Marathon and has placed highly on the Spelling Bee finals, as well. You all know her; you all know how disciplined, kind, and dedicated she is.
He paused. Between
disciplined
and
kind
, he drew an arrow and wrote
well-bred
. He smiled. Fatima was the one who would always make him proud.
It is her dream to become a doctor, too, to live and practice in this community she calls home, in the only community she has ever known. Khaled, my son, is also . . .

He paused again, leaning away from the paper and looking at it, narrowing his eyes. What could he say about Khaled? He'd have to be careful, here. Of course Khaled was the one they'd all compare with Hosaam. No one would fear Fatima, he was certain. But Khaled was a different story. Samir sighed. If only Khaled had taken up sports. Wouldn't it have been wonderful if he could write something about that? This they would have appreciated: some athletic achievement, being a star pitcher for the high school, for instance, or a reliable quarterback. The Americans and their sports, he sighed. But Khaled, he was not interested in any of that stuff. Which really irritated Samir, because Khaled was the most American of all his kids, but why did he have to be so selective in his Americanism? Why couldn't he be good in sports?

Khaled, my son, has never known a home other than Summerset, either, and the events of this past year have been very hard on him, as well as on his sister and mother. My children have both been harassed at school. They do not tell me, but I know. They have been called names. They have been chased down streets. I saw it once with my own eyes, though I never told anyone about it before.

Samir's hand started shaking. He held the pen a bit harder, tried to maintain a legible handwriting. He could always copy it out clearer, later on.

I saw my son running down Maple Street, being chased by four boys. He is a fast runner, Khaled, and the boys did not catch up with him. But one of them stopped and pulled out a baseball, flung it at him. It hit my son in the lower back, and I saw him arch his back and fall down to his knees. I saw him pull himself up again and run, holding his side. I saw the tears streaming down his face. It is a sight I wish on no parent. Nor do I ever wish any of you to witness a day when your own child, your own flesh and blood, takes an innocent life as well as his own.

My neighbors, my friends: I come here today to implore you for your forgiveness. My son has committed a sin that God will certainly punish him for. And if my family or I have had any share of the blame, this past year has been punishment enough for all of us. I therefore implore you to forgive us the sins my son has committed. I implore you to remember that Fatima and Khaled are not to blame for what their brother has done. I implore you to remember that we, too, have been grieving, and that our grief is doubled by our shame and regret. And, more than
anything, I implore you to accept my personal, heartfelt, sincere apologies. May God bless us all, and help us through this difficult time.

Samir, putting his pen down, looked at the notepad. He had been thinking this over the entire morning, and was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to put his ideas on paper. Maybe he should write more, he told himself as he looked at his work, smiling. There were many venues for writing he could pursue. He might even write an editorial to the local newspaper, in observation of the anniversary of his son's death. He wondered if he could use some of this material in it.

Getting up from his desk, Samir held the notepad in his hand and, pacing, started reading out loud. He read the whole thing once, then again, and then a third time. With each reading he grew more pleased with his work. He felt it was sincere and genuine, and that his audience would certainly feel his pain, as well as that of his family. He could imagine Jim and Cynthia looking up at him, sad, of course, but not angry anymore. Certainly some of those in attendance would be touched by his words. Some might even be moved to tears. He looked over the part about Khaled's assault, wondered if he should elaborate, then changed his mind. This memory, just like many others, he did not want to dwell on.

Going back to his desk, Samir picked up the pen one more time. With a trembling hand he read over the first line, then crossed out the word
I,
replacing it with a
We.
He then edited the rest of the sentence, and read it over again.
We are here today to offer our respects and to assure you that our hearts have been heavy with grief, a grief that only the prospect of your forgiveness could alleviate.
This sounded much, much better. Of course. He had no doubt that Nagla would accompany him; he knew her too well. But, looking at this, he now saw the necessity of including the kids, as well. They would all go together, one family, united.