In the Language of Miracles (14 page)

“But wouldn't contradicting my husband be considered a sin?” Nagla asked, emphasizing the word
sin,
hoping her voice did not betray too much sarcasm as her eyes darted to the religious verses surrounding her.
“Al-rijaallu qawamoona ala al-nisai?”
she quoted the Qur'an.

Ameena turned to look at her. “
Bima anfaqoo.
It's really not authority men have as much as a responsibility to protect their women and maintain them financially. Besides, even if he has authority as a man, this doesn't mean you cannot tell him if he's about to plunge you all into disaster. I'm not asking you to be disrespectful of your husband. I'm just saying you need to point things out to him, if he's too blind to see them.”

“Samir would die before he'd let me push him to change his mind on something he is so bent on doing.”

“How do you know if you never try?”

“I do try! But when did I ever succeed?”

“So you'll just give up?” Ameena took her place opposite Nagla again,
speaking in a low, urgent whisper. “For years all you've done is complain about him. I'm not trying to turn you against him, I'm just saying that you should stand up to him.
Inna Allah la yughayyiru ma beqauwmin hatta yughayiroo ma bianfusihim
,” Ameena said, quoting the Qur'an again. Surely Allah changes not the condition of a people until they change their own condition.

Nagla sat back in her chair. Her hands, resting on the counter, had resumed their shaking despite the constant pressure she kept on them. Both her mother and Ameena had an uncanny ability to quote the Qur'an in support of their arguments, even if their views opposed each other, even, she now realized, using the same verse to support two different sides of an argument, their interpretations as flexible as Nagla's ignorance of such tactics was vexing. She rummaged through her brain for a religious retort but found none. More infuriating than Ameena's tactics was the implication of her words: she was blaming Nagla again, this time for Samir's stubbornness. As if all she needed to do was say the words and he would fall to his knees and start following her commands. Which is probably exactly what Zayd did.

“That's easy for you to say, considering how much Zayd lets you get away with,” Nagla said.

Ameena sat straight up. “He doesn't let me get away with anything—he listens to what I have to say. Nothing wrong with having your husband respect you.”

“So now my husband doesn't respect me?”

“Ease up, Nagla. I'm just trying to help.”

“Blaming me for what my husband does is not helping.”

“I'm not blaming you for what he does. I'm talking about what you don't do. Like how you never try to change things before they happen. Even when you can see that things will not turn out right, you just wait for disaster and then you're miserable about it. Just like—” Ameena stopped.

Nagla got up, backed away from her chair. She took a deep breath and asked, “Just like what?”

“Like now. When you were talking about prayer, that is. Maybe if you pray a bit more—”

“That's not what you meant.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Liar.”

Ameena shot up and stood staring at Nagla, mouth gaping. Nagla stayed put, lips pursed, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears. In the fifteen years they had known each other, Nagla had not once called her friend a name. Everything Nagla had ever learned about Egyptian notions of civility flashed in her mind. Ehsan would be mortified if she knew her daughter had been so impolite. She fought an instinctive urge to apologize, to run over and hug Ameena, to explain how stressed out, how depressed she was.

But she would not apologize.

“I'm sick and tired of all of you blaming me for everything,” Nagla hissed.

“I'm not blaming—”

“You, my mom, Samir. Why does everything have to be my fault?” Nagla's eyes teared up. “You don't think I blame myself enough? You have any idea what goes on in my mind every day?”

Ameena walked around the kitchen island and over toward her. “I know,
habibti.
But I swear to Allah I never meant to imply any of what happened was your fault.”

“You're lying again. Isn't that a sin, Ameena?”

Ameena took one step back, hesitated.

Nagla went on, “And what exactly do you think you know? I stay up every night wondering what I did wrong, why this has happened to me. Why God did this to me.”

“Astaghfiru Allah.”
Ameena put one hand up to her mouth. “Don't let
the devil get hold of you, Nagla. Such blasphemy.
La yukallifu Allah nafsan illa wusaaha.
” God burdens each soul with only as much as it can handle.

“Well, you know what? Perhaps He has miscalculated this time. Because He has certainly given me much more than I can handle.”

Ameena gasped.
“Astaghfiru Allah Al-Azim,”
she murmured, asking God for forgiveness on behalf of Nagla.
“Astaghfiru Allah Al-Azim.”

Nagla threw both hands up, squeezed her temples. Her words, true expressions of what had boiled up inside her for so long, sounded blasphemous even to her, and the sting of her own irreverence burned her. She groaned. Again she could see her mother's face and imagine what she would do if she knew her daughter had such thoughts lurking in her head. She would be just as shocked and disappointed in her as Ameena was. Right now, standing in Ameena's kitchen, her hands still pressed against her temples, her feet firm against the cold tile, Nagla felt that everyone judged her: her mother, her friend, her husband—and, after she uttered those words, even God.

She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Ameena there, her prayers a whisper that still reached Nagla's ears even as she ran up the stairs to Maraam's room. In the hallway, she slowed down, letting her breath steady and wiping her eyes before she went on. She would bid her daughter goodbye and then go, leave this house, stay away from everyone. A few feet ahead of her, Maraam's open door emanated soft words that oozed comfort, the whispers of young girls. Nagla stood transfixed, listening. The words were too low to comprehend, even for her. Softly, her bare feet sinking in the plush carpet—she had remembered to take her shoes off at the door, the way Ameena preferred—she walked up to the room, stood by the door watching both girls. Maraam was sitting Indian-style on her bed, already dressed for going out, her head covered in a blue scarf woven with occasional silver strings that complemented the embroidery on her jeans. On her bed lay a pile of scarves that she
was folding. At her dresser, Fatima stood, trying to tie a white scarf with penny-sized pink polka dots around her face.

“You're doing it wrong,” Maraam said, jumping up, pulling a pin out of her own head scarf and using it to fasten Fatima's in place.

“It's okay, Maraam, I was only trying it on anyway. I love how soft it is,” Fatima said, tracing both hands along the top of her head.

“You can keep it, if you want to.”

“Really?” Fatima said as Maraam plopped back on her bed.

“Sure. Mom brought a whole bunch home last time she went to Syria. I keep telling her she doesn't need to, there are perfectly good scarves here. They don't have to be labeled
head scarf
to work, you know. Here, this one is from Banana Republic,” she said, pulling a yellow oblong out of the pile.

But Fatima was not listening. Nagla watched her daughter look at herself in the mirror, patting the head scarf, pulling at its corners to adjust it around her face. Fatima's smile glowed with a serenity that Nagla had not witnessed in a long time.

“Oh, hi, Aunt Nagla,” Maraam said, finally glancing toward the door. Fatima turned around. Nagla's eyes met her daughter's, and the smile turned into an embarrassed one, as if Nagla had caught Fatima holding some boy's hand.

“Hi, Mama,” Fatima said. Swiftly, she tugged at the head scarf, but the pin caught on some of her hair, and the scarf dangled off one side of her head.

“Wait,” Maraam said, rushing toward her and finding the pin, pulling it and the scarf off.

“You could keep it on,
habibti,
” Nagla said.

“No, it's okay. I was just trying it on,” Fatima said, blushing. Nagla bit at her lips. She had never imagined Fatima would consider covering her hair. Samir would have a fit if he found out, would probably blame it all on Ameena and her family, and, by extension, on Nagla, for letting
Fatima spend so much time at Maraam's. Never an advocate of women's covering up, Samir's attitude toward the head scarf had changed from indifference to rejection after 9/11. “Who'd want to draw that kind of attention to herself anyway?” Nagla herself had never worn a head scarf, the sign of modesty, the symbol that unites all Muslim women, a group from which Nagla was, at least by appearance, excluded—one more deficiency, one more way Ameena was better than she was, one more reason God was probably angry with her.

“You can take it to the mosque; wear it there,” Maraam said, stuffing the rest of the scarves in the drawer, unfolded.

“You're leaving?” Fatima asked her mother, holding the scarf in both hands.

“Yes. So are you. Maraam's parents are getting ready to go, so you better hurry.”

The girls ran past her, Fatima stopping only to plant a quick peck on her mother's cheek. In the kitchen, Ameena sat with her arms crossed, her eyes cast down. She looked up just in time to catch Nagla's eyes before Nagla looked away.

“Ready, everyone?” Zayd's voice boomed before he dashed into the kitchen, followed by Ashraf.

“May I drive,
please
?” Ashraf begged his father.

“Not on your life. Not when we're late,” Ameena said.

“You can go start the car, though,” Zayd said. “Pull it out of the garage.” Ameena glared at him, and Zayd, smiling, leaned over Nagla, mock-whispering, “Now I'll probably not have any dinner.” Nagla attempted a smile and failed.

“That's all I get from you: mockery,” Ameena said.

Nagla watched Zayd smile at his wife, then saw his smile change to an inquisitive look that Ameena responded to with a subtle shake of the head and a downcast look.

“I'll go make sure Ashraf doesn't wreck that car,” Zayd said, still
smiling but avoiding Nagla's eyes. “Come with me, girls.” He motioned to Fatima and Maraam, who followed him, all three of them disappearing through the door to the garage, their chatter trailing behind them.

He had understood. Maybe not everything, but from one look at his wife he had understood enough to leave her alone with her friend. Nagla bit at her lip, fought back tears.

“Come, let's sit down for a few moments,” Ameena said, motioning toward the chair next to her. “Please?”

Nagla shook her head. “Not now.”

She walked out of the kitchen before Ameena could hold her back. Outside, the sky that had been cloudy when Nagla walked in was now overcast, a solid gray. She got in her car and watched Zayd get in the driver's seat of his Accord while Maraam squeezed in the back between her brother and Fatima. Ameena, the last one to walk out of the house, made her way slowly to the car, stopping once to glance toward Nagla before getting in the passenger seat. They had already started moving when Nagla jumped out of her car and ran toward them.

“Wait!” she yelled. Zayd stepped on the brake and the car jolted to a stop. She ran up to Fatima's side and waited for the window to roll down.

“What, Mama?”

Everyone in the car looked at Nagla. She hesitated for a moment and then rested one hand on the Accord, and a drop of rain fell on her forearm.

“Will . . . will you need me to pick you up?” she asked Fatima.

“No, Mama. Khaled will.”

“Okay. Just checking.” She backed up, let her daughter roll the window halfway up before stepping back up and tapping on it.

“
What,
Mama?”

“La ilaha illa Allah,”
Nagla whispered, leaning close to her daughter.

“Muhammad rasool Allah.”

Stepping back, Nagla saw Ameena look at her. Again she felt the accusation of being superstitious, the ridiculousness of the ritual, of the hope that words would ensure reuniting. For weeks after Hosaam's death she had obsessed, trying to remember whether or not she had used the testimony to bid him goodbye on that last morning, but she never could remember. Still, she had to do it, and she watched the car roll away, enduring Ameena's gaze. In the backseat, she saw Fatima tugging the polka-dot scarf from her pocket and draping it loosely over her head. She looked like the Virgin Mary.

ENGLISH
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K
haled watched Brittany walk down Bleecker Street and waited till she joined him, her hand casually touching his for a greeting before they both headed toward the park. He walked next to her in silence. She, keeping her head low, did not glance his way but walked, hands in the pockets of her jeans, one arm covered with bangles that, surprisingly, looked similar to the ones Ehsan always wore, only Ehsan's were gold and Brittany's were a mixture of silver and green hues. For months now he and Brittany had followed the same routine every time they met: they walked up to the park and strolled down a path or sat on a bench, watching people and talking. Their meetings were never long—he always showed up after her shifts; she always hung around with him before going home. He was her interlude, he knew, a way for her to transition from the hectic coffee shop to her busy nights. Still, he was flattered, because not only did she never refuse to meet him, she also sought him out, sometimes. He hoped she felt as close to him as he did to her, that he, perhaps, provided her with a degree of comfort, as she did him. He feared she hung around with him only out of pity.

“How come you're here this early on a Friday?” she asked as they headed into the park.

“School got called off,” he said, resenting the need to refer to school and remind her that he was still a high school junior while she was a college senior. Quickly, he added, “I saw the link you sent me.”

She smiled. “Did you like that?”

“Sure!” A trip to observe monarch nesting grounds in Mexico sounded perfect. He had imagined they would one day take the trip together, but he did not tell her that.

“I thought you would.”

“How about you? Would you ever want to go on a trip like that?”

She shook her head. “I'd never be able to afford it.”

“How do you know? You're graduating in less than a year!”

“And then what?” They had reached a bench and she flung herself on it, looking up at him as he stood, puzzled. “What happens after I graduate?”

“You work?”

She laughed. Khaled felt his face blush so quickly that he had to turn away from her to hide it.

“I'm sorry, Khaled.” She reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him to sit next to her. “That was cruel.”

They stayed silent, watching people pass them by. He did not want to risk another comment.

“I've been thinking about college a lot, lately. About what's next, that is.”

He waited for her to continue. Instead, she turned to him and, her eyes flashing, asked, “You know what? Why don't you tell me about
your
plans?”

“What plans?”

“Anything! I just want to hear you talk.”

Again he looked down and said nothing. She was making him self-
conscious, which she never did. She sighed. “I can't do anything right today, can I?”

“Bad day?”

“Bad year. I really don't know what I was thinking, studying art.”

“But you're so good at it!”

“Good doesn't pay. Business pays.”

“You can't study business! I have a better chance becoming a doctor than you do going into business.”

She laughed. “Does your father know you're not applying to any of his top five picks?”

He shook his head. “He hasn't asked, and I didn't say anything.”

“Good for you.” She looked away, and he watched her, wondering how he had managed to tell her everything about his life except for the most important event.

“That's what I meant, when I asked you to tell me about your plans. You know what you want, all the time. I really like that.”

“Not all the time.”

“The times that matter, at least. The big stuff.”

“I make plans, yes. But that doesn't mean they will all come true.” The image of Hosaam tearing up the college applications flashed before his eyes and he had to look up to see something else, a bird flying from one tree to the next or the glaring sun shining through the branches overhead. Ehsan, of course, would know what he meant. All her prayers and rituals, the swirling incense and the pats on the head accompanied by incantations, everything she did was aimed at making the real future match the imagined one as closely as possible.

“My grandmother tried to predict my future today,” he said.

“How?”

“Reading coffee grounds.”

“Very appropriate. I should tell Claire about that, maybe she'd like to
add a coffee grounds reading service. This would definitely lure people in. Here's a business idea for you.”

“Would not work with regular coffee, though. She reads Turkish coffee. Thicker grounds. They leave traces on the inside of the cups.”

“So what did she see?”

“Nothing important, I guess.”

She sighed. “I'd like to see my future.” She turned to him. “Has she ever predicted something that came true?”

“Kind of. Once, I guess. I don't know.” His heart raced as he remembered Hosaam's broken cup. He stared at his feet but could feel Brittany look at him, waiting. All she needed to do was ask one more question, and he would blurt it all out.
She predicted something bad would happen to my brother. He shot himself and his girlfriend. I saw the bloodstained grass.

She waited, and when he said nothing, she looked away. He could see her in his peripheral vision, her head turning from him, respecting his privacy, perhaps, or giving him the same freedom she did when she had not pushed him to reveal what his initials stood for. He wished he could let it all spill. Instead, he said, “It's all nonsense, anyway.”

She nodded. “I know.”

She folded her arms and slid down in her seat, letting her head rest on the back of the bench. Seeing her stare up at the tree branches above, he knew he had missed his chance. He wanted to reach out and hold her arm, say
listen,
and then tell her everything about Hosaam
and
confess that he did, perhaps, believe in Ehsan's fortune-telling capabilities. Instead, he looked up as well and, watching the birds hop from branch to branch, remembered Ehsan's stories about how Arabs of old used to watch bird movements for divinations. Beside him, he could feel Brittany fidget. He feared she might be getting ready to get up and go home already.

“So what would you like to see?” he blurted out.

“What?” she asked.

“Your future, I mean. What would you like to see, if you could see your future?”

She sighed, still looking up in the trees, her arms crossed. Then, slowly, she started, “An art gallery. Something small, not garish like those huge empty ones that make you feel like you're visiting the dentist. I'd like to work with painters no one knows, the people I know spend days locked up in a tiny room drawing. I'd make just enough money to take a whole week off every month. Then I'd go out to the woods, somewhere new every time, camp out somewhere, and paint. In the winter, I'd stay home; I'd have a small loft in the village—that'd be cool; or I'd go down somewhere warm. Georgia, maybe. I'd like to go to Georgia. I saw a picture of a canyon there once,” she said, turning to face him. “Providence Canyon. The picture showed this big cliff with sides that went from snow white to yellow to orange to a dark rusty ocher to Tuscan brown—all in one cliff. And the top of the cliff was covered with trees—not all bare like the Grand Canyon, but green.” She leaned back again. “I'd like to paint that.”

The colors of the monarch, he thought, imagining the cliff like a color chart of the wings of a butterfly. “Sounds beautiful. I'd like to see this painting, one day.”

She laughed. “Sure. I'll even dedicate it to you. I'll also give you shares of my nonexisting studio and my never-to-exist loft.”

“You're not in a very good mood today, are you?” She had never been sarcastic before. Straightforward, yes. But not sarcastic.

She lifted one hand to her face. “No. No, I'm not.”

He waited. Her fingers, nails painted a dark violet, touched her brow so he could not see her eyes. He focused on her eyebrow ring, two bright yellow dots that accented the sharp point of her brow. “Yellow contrasts with purple,” she had once explained to him, showing him a color wheel. “See?” He had thought only of how the piercing must have hurt, which
reminded him of Natalie. Now, whenever he looked at the eyebrow ring, he tried not to think of Natalie.

“Sebastian dropped in at work, today,” she went on, slowly. She let her hand fall down to her lap, and he saw she had been crying.

“What did he want?” He spoke softly so she would not hear the quiver in his voice.

“I don't know,” she groaned, her shoulders drooping. “I really don't know. He says he wants to get back with me, but I
know
he doesn't.”

“Why not?” He could never imagine how Sebastian had let her go, even though he knew she'd dumped him, not vice versa. Still, he had blamed the rich boyfriend for breaking her heart. He should have been able to keep her.

“Because I know it would never work out, and he does, too. His parents would kill him, for one thing. I should show you his apartment, one day. The rent his father pays for that thing is more than what I make in six months at the coffee shop.” She sniffed, snickering. “Maybe that's where I got the loft wish from. Bad influence, hanging around with him for so long.”

Khaled had seen Sebastian only once, during one of his and Brittany's on-again periods. He had looked like a Polo ad, complete with side-parted blond hair. Based on race alone, Khaled felt he would have no chance competing with Sebastian; age and wealth drove the point further in. Still, Khaled had seen Sebastian kiss her goodbye. He had seen him grab her hand as he walked away, letting go only when he was too far from her to keep holding on.

“But he does love you, Brit. And if he keeps asking you to come back—”

“He doesn't love me,” she spat. “He loves
the idea
of being with me. It makes him feel special, different from his friends. I'm just one more show-and-tell thing.”

She lifted both hands to her face, letting one sob escape before she
held herself still, her entire body rigid. Khaled waited. If he had Garrett's courage, he would have hugged her now.

“Miracles don't happen, Khaled,” she murmured through her fingers. “Rich boys don't sweep poor girls off their feet and take them to live happily ever after in their castles.”

Khaled knotted his brows, looking away from her. He could not contest the idea—if miracles did happen, Hosaam and Natalie would have been alive and happy. His family would have been intact. The town would have embraced them, like he had believed they did his whole life, up to last year. If miracles did happen, he would have had a chance with Brittany.

Again Ehsan forced herself into his thoughts. She would disagree, of course.
Eldoaa yarodd al-qkadar
, she always said
.
Prayer thwarts fate. He had heard the phrase so often, it had become one of her staples, like her prayers for his safe return whenever he left home, or her mumblings during the day, asking God for forgiveness and blessings. Never before had he truly contemplated what her words meant. Now, looking away from Brittany but still hearing her occasional faint sob, he considered what Ehsan had told him, how her obsession with foretelling the future was a manifestation of her constant search for the right prayer. If she knew what fate had in store, she could pray for a reversal of misfortunes, and if she prayed long enough and sincerely enough, God would intervene. Perhaps she saw Hosaam's end as a failure of prayer on her part.

He wished he could truly believe in that, as well. He felt he once did, but could not recall when. At some point, he remembered prostrating himself and praying fervently for something—what? A good grade on a test he had not prepared for? A new butterfly habitat that his father would not buy him? A day without being bullied at school? The prayer escaped him, but the sensation did not—he could feel it now, overcoming him like it must have years ago, the desperation gingerly kept from crushing him by a hope of being heard, of being noticed, of being
deemed good enough to deserve divine intervention. He almost groaned. Not once this past year had he asked God for anything, even though he had dutifully performed his five prayers every day. Almost every day. Now he wished he could still pray with the belief of a ten-year-old or that of his aging grandmother. If he could, he would ask God for happiness for Brittany, for peace of mind for him, for a coming weekend devoid of humiliation for his family. He would ask God to intervene and thwart whatever other misfortunes fate had in store for him. He would, at the very least, ask God to let him stay seated here, next to Brittany, for the rest of the day.

“I'm sorry, Khaled. I didn't mean to be such a bore,” Brittany said.

“You're not. You never are.” He looked at her and saw her smile at him. Her eyes, though still red, were dry.

“You're so sweet, you know that?” she asked. He blushed, tried to mumble something, and she laughed. Pulling closer to him, she put one arm around him and placed her head on his shoulder. He stayed perfectly still. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arm around her waist. She was looking up, away from the crowds of runners and stroller-pushing mothers that passed them, and he lifted his head up, too, toward the trees, and, closing his eyes, prayed that she would remain like this for as long as possible.