In the Language of Miracles (9 page)

There used to be two swing sets out there: one in her backyard, the other in the Bradstreets'. The day they first met the Bradstreets, Hosaam had chased Natalie all around her set, and a few months later Jim had helped Samir install a similar one in their backyard. Even in picking out the swing set Samir had been conscious of what others thought: he didn't want one much bigger than the Bradstreets', lest he offend them, or smaller, because he didn't want to appear inferior. Choosing the exact same set would suggest he was copying them, which he would never do. So he had gone with one roughly the same size: one slide, three swings, and one sand box—to match theirs—but with a seesaw on the side, just to give his “a little something extra,” as he put it.

The seesaw was a hit. Hosaam and Natalie put more hours on that thing than they did on both their sets combined. Hosaam, one year older and more heavily built, was almost always in control—pushing the ground to lift himself up and then squatting still, keeping Natalie up in the air as she giggled and kicked both legs, enjoying the breeze that ruffled her skirt. She always wore sundresses in the summer, even to the playground—spaghetti-strapped and floral. Natalie in her cute sundresses was the main reason Nagla and Samir decided to have one more child after Khaled, even though they had both thought two children were enough. Thinking back, Nagla also believed she wanted another child out of pity for Khaled, poor, lonesome Khaled, only two years younger than Natalie yet always left out, always alone in the sandbox while the two other kids played together. Whenever they did let him join in, trouble often ensued. Like that time on the seesaw when Natalie, trying to outweigh Hosaam, had yelled at Khaled to come join her side. She had let him sit in front of her, wrapping her arms around him to reach the handlebars, and they had both, for a few seconds, managed to lift Hosaam high up and keep him there, Natalie laughing, Khaled a bit scared but trying not to show it, and Hosaam—so angry, Nagla now realized. Later that day, he had kept Natalie up in the air until she screamed for help and then he had jumped off and let her crash, falling backward and hitting her head against the ground while he stood and watched, not even running to help her as Nagla and Cynthia did once she started crying. Why was she remembering all this now? Nagla sighed, flicked the cigarette ash on the deck, not bothering to reach for the ashtray. Everything seemed laden with meaning now, even a six-year-old's spiteful act. And Samir had overreacted, dismantling the seesaw that very day and leaving it out on the curb for the garbage collectors. Mortified, of course, that his son had done something that might make him, Samir, look bad.

Nagla got up, walked over to the wooden railing. Resting both elbows
on it, she took one more puff of her cigarette before flicking it away. The stub landed on the dry grass, a couple of feet away from all the other ones she had tossed out her bedroom window in the past few days. Nagla examined it, its end still glowing a faint orange. Why had she done so? The ashtray stood on the side table behind her. The grass, tall and yellowing after weeks of drought, could catch fire. She turned around, picked the ashtray up, and walked down the few steps and over to her garden of scattered cigarette stubs. One by one, she picked them up, starting with the one that was still lit and making sure it was fully extinguished. In the pit of her stomach she felt a disappointment with herself for her carelessness, a disappointment that called up other letdowns, reminding her of all she had failed to do, all the little signs she now knew she should have paid closer attention to. All the ways she had failed herself and her son.

“What's wrong,
habibti
?”

Ehsan had walked out to the deck. Nagla looked at her mother, placed the ashtray on the ground next to her, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“Nothing, Mama.”

“Don't nothing me. You're crying.”

Nagla shook her head. “I was just thinking—” She paused.

“What?”

“You'd be angry with me if I told you.”

“Why, may Allah bring nothing but good? I can never be angry with you.”

Of course she would be. For Nagla's entire life her mother had warned her against
what if?
The question that the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon his soul, said opened the door to let the devil in. The question clashed with all that Islam stood for, inviting thoughts that relinquished the total submission to God the religion encouraged and replaced it with doubt and, often, with anger.

“Tell me,
habibti.
You're worrying me,” Ehsan pleaded.

Nagla looked down at the stubs, sprouting in the ashtray like the back of a childproofed porcupine. “I was thinking that perhaps I should have paid closer attention to Hosaam in his last year or so. I should've actually done something about the way he was changing, rather than wait for him to snap out of it on his own,” Nagla said, carefully avoiding the use of
what if.

Ehsan sighed. “Again, Nagla? How many times have I told you that such thoughts will only make you miserable? It's God's will,
habibti.
Nothing you could have done would have changed this.”

Her mother's words, habitually tuned to help, only enhanced her feeling of guilt. Nagla bit on her lower lip, tried to hold back her tears. She longed to embrace her mother's total trust in fate, her assurance that all God did was for the good. She wished she had a fraction of Job's patience and strength, his story told in the Qur'an specifically for people cursed with unimaginable misfortunes. But, just as she could not utter the words
what if
in her mother's presence, she could not voice her thoughts in front of her. She had never told her mother that, for three months after her son's death, she had not once prayed any of the required five daily prayers. She was not only a bad mother but also a bad Muslim.

“Al-salaamu Aleikum!”

Nagla jumped, startled. Next to her mother, Ameena had materialized as if conjured by religious thoughts.

“Ahlan, ahlan,”
Ehsan exclaimed, opening her arms wide.

Ameena smiled, dimpled cheeks over a pointed chin, her face framed in a white scarf. “I rang the bell but no one answered. Salaam,
khalah
.” Ameena embraced Ehsan, planting a kiss on each of her cheeks. “So I thought I'd walk back here and check. I saw your car in the driveway, Nagla, and knew you had to be here somewhere.”

Up on her feet again, Nagla stumbled over to the deck, ashtray in
hand. She let Ameena hug her as she muttered something about washing her hands before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving her friend alone with her mother.

What was she doing here? Nagla thought as she scrubbed her fingernails under running water, peering at the two women through the kitchen window. Instantly she felt another pang of guilt. She had no reason to dislike Ameena's visits so much. The woman was an angel. Other than Ehsan, Ameena was the only one who did not leave Nagla's side for the entire previous year. After Hosaam's death, the other women from the mosque had offered prayers and support for the customary three days of mourning before retreating back into their lives, where they could resume an existence uncontaminated by bereavement. But Ameena had stayed. For the weeks prior to Ehsan's arrival, Ameena had practically taken over the care of Nagla's house, making sure her children were fed and had clean clothes to wear, even though both Khaled and Fatima were old enough to manage on their own. After Ehsan arrived and literally dragged Nagla out of the bed she had burrowed into in a weeks-long stupor, Ameena still called Nagla regularly, stopping by every couple of days to check on her, offering a shoulder for Nagla to cry on as well as the occasional dish of
basbousa
or
mehallabeyya—
Nagla's favorite desserts. Even now, a full year after what happened, Ameena still opened her house to Fatima, letting her spend more time with Maraam, Ameena's daughter, than she did at her own home. Nagla suspected that Ameena's kindness was performed more out of a love of God than out of any particular affection for Nagla herself—Ameena did have a bit of Mother Teresa in her, basking in the glory of offering help to the less fortunate, the bereaved, the sick both in body and in soul. But that suspicion was probably not fair. Nagla grabbed a towel to dry her hands and continued watching her mother and her friend, Ameena listening to Ehsan's chatter and nodding. Ameena had been her friend for a long time. Claiming that her support was motivated by religious zeal only did not
do justice to the years both women spent visiting, talking on the phone, sharing tea in the mornings, running errands together. Throughout the previous two decades, no other woman had been as close to Nagla as Ameena was—except, of course, Cynthia, but that, too, was now lost. Nagla sighed, tossed the towel back on the countertop. How ridiculous it was to feel anything other than gratitude toward the only friend she had left.

Yet there was something about Ameena's continuous presence that felt claustrophobic, Nagla thought as she headed toward the deck. Perhaps Nagla wouldn't mind her visits so much if only she called ahead and announced she would stop by.

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” Ameena said, reading Nagla's mind.

“No, of course not.”

“I'll go make some tea,” Ehsan said, heading inside.

“No need,
khalah.
I won't stay,” Ameena shouted, but Ehsan had already disappeared into the kitchen.

Nagla motioned for her friend to sit and then settled down across from her. She smiled at Ameena, feeling a rush of affability toward her now that she knew the visit would not last long.

“I wanted to stop by and make sure you're okay. Also, I wanted to give you this.” Fishing in her purse, Ameena pulled out a small booklet. “It's a new edition of the book of prayers I gave you a couple of months ago, remember? A friend of mine just came back from Qatar and brought some with her.”

She held the booklet out to Nagla, who took it and placed it on the table.

“Thank you,” Nagla said.

Ameena glanced at the table and then back at Nagla, and waited. Nagla picked up the booklet, flipped through its pages. The usual stuff, prayers that her mother knew by heart, divided by chapters: what to say when praying for forgiveness, for patience, to ward off evil, to counter
the evil eye, to ask for peacefulness, to beg for health, what to say before a long trip, before going to bed, after waking up, before and after eating, when facing a tough choice, when struggling under unexpected burdens, when fighting against one's own sinning soul. A prayer for every occasion. She wondered whether her mother and Ameena had conspired to remind her of her negligence of her religion, bombarding her with suggestions designed to help her utter the words they knew would bring about healing. Then again, they probably did not need to conspire. Both women consistently relied on such words, weaving them into everything from incantations uttered during cooking to bless the food to folded talismans inscribed with prayers and tucked in clothing to provide protection. Nagla tossed the booklet back on the table, sighed.

Ameena reached out and tapped her on the hand. “We haven't seen you at the mosque in ages; we all miss you, you know.”

“You're all kindness.”

Nagla looked out on the yard. Ameena had let her hand rest on Nagla's palm, and Nagla felt her hand sweat. She could feel Ameena's gaze fixated on her. She should look back at her and nod. Maybe smile and make small talk. Definitely not pull her hand away before her guest did. She knew the rules very well. She pulled her hand away.

Ameena, straightening up, looked away. Nagla could see her in her peripheral vision. She waited.

A pause. Ameena cleared her throat, murmured something that Nagla could not make out. Then she turned to face Nagla again.

“I also wanted to let you know,” Ameena continued, “that I'm having a lunch at my house tomorrow after Friday prayer. Just a few ladies from the mosque, and
khalah
Eishaa, the imam's wife. She's bringing a friend visiting from India who will conduct our
halakah
this week.” Ameena paused. Nagla swallowed, said nothing. “You haven't been to a
halakah
in a long time, Nagla. It would be good for you.”

“Thank you,” Nagla said.

“So you'll come?”

“I'll try.”

“Would you like me to come pick you up? Or send Ashraf?”

“I can drive, Ameena.” A bit too sharply. Ameena looked down at her fingertips.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so—”

“It's okay. I just wanted to help. I hate to see you like this, Nagla.”

“Like what?”

“Locked up by yourself all the time.”

“I'm not by myself. My mom is here.”

“You don't come to the mosque at all anymore.”

“I've been busy.”

“How about the day after tomorrow? I can try to reschedule the
halakah
for then.”

“I can't.”

“You can't or you won't?”

Ameena tilted her head to the side, an accusatory stance that Nagla knew well.

“I can't just take off on a Saturday and leave Samir and the kids!”

“Why not? It's only for a few hours. And it's a religious lesson.”

“Not even for a religious lesson.” Nagla paused. “And isn't it a bit strange that, religiously speaking, we should take care of our husbands and kids first, but you all don't mind spending hours each week on these lessons, even on weekends?”

“We never do it on weekends.” Ameena's face flushed. “We always hold them on weekday mornings, when the kids are at school. I only offered to try to move it to Saturday so that you could come.”

Nagla looked away.

“It's not a big deal, anyway,” Ameena said, getting up and grabbing her purse. “I just thought it wouldn't hurt to try. Can't make you do what you don't want to do.”